The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River #1)(17)

Dear Miss Augustine,

Indeed, that is Browning Wordsworth Keats in the fedora and my books on the shelf. It must strike horror in you to see such disorganization. I wish I had kept all the books I’ve ever loved, but for some reason, there are only a few hundred that have followed me through college to my adult life. I only have three from my own childhood, and they were my grandfather’s. Zane Gray had a baseball series and I have The Shortstop, The Redheaded Outfielder, and The Young Pitcher. With dust jackets. Just holding them in my hands makes me happy.

Your bookish friend

The air pressure made his ears ache and Paul reached for a pack of gum. After a few seconds of chewing, he felt his ears pop and he settled back in his chair. Andy was focused so intently on his work he didn’t even glance up.

Paul opened a few more emails, sent a note back about Hardy Boys books being under copyright, and searched for a website for By the Book. There was nothing, not even a holding place for a website someday. Other mentions came up under her name, though. Pictures of fundraisers, a tax levy protest, a charity drive for the historical district. Paul blinked at the photos. Alice Augustine was about forty-five years younger than he’d figured. And pretty. Very pretty in that way that women are when they don’t try to change too much about their hair and face. She looked slightly uncomfortable in most pictures, but there were a few that made him lean forward and look closely. In one, she was handing a sandbag to a pair of hands belonging to a person outside the frame. Her hair was pulled back, long curls flying around her face, rain soaking her jeans, both feet planted in several inches of mud. She looked intense, focused. He would not have pegged this woman for a bookstore owner. She looked like she would be more at home as a karate instructor. No, something outdoors. Landscaper? He could see her creating beauty and change from the boggy river land.

Paul caught himself at those last vague images and grimaced. He’d always been a sucker for the brainy girls. Especially the pretty, brainy girls. But he wasn’t a kid anymore. He had enough on his plate without crushing on a bookstore owner. Plus, as part of the Natchitoches elite, she was one of those people that wouldn’t have spared a glance for him or his mama, way back when. He closed the page and went back to his email. There was another message from Alice.

Dear Mr. Keats,

I don’t come from a book-loving family so there are no special literary treasures from my grandparents, but I did inherit a whole store from my dearest friend Mr. Perrault. I stomped into his store, an angry teen know-it-all, and demanded he rearrange a whole section. He answered me with smile, gave me free reign to rearrange as I saw fit, and offered me a beanbag in a sunlit corner for as many hours as I needed.

When I was in college, I asked Mr. Perrault why he didn’t tell me to get on out of his store. He said, “Anyone who is that passionate about books should be welcomed. I knew I had found a kindred spirit.”

He was a wonderful man, Mr. Perrault.

Your friend,

Alice

P.S. I know what you’re going to ask. What did I find so offensive about his poetry section? I’ll just say… it’s related to the leather volume of poetry between The Graveyard Book (you know Gaiman wrote that as a modern day Jungle Book?) and the Flannery O’Connor stories (I’ve never understood her, I’m sorry, I’ve tried). I’m assuming the Browning in your name is not for the Mr., but rather the Mrs.

P.P.S. We have a few book friends in common but your shelf is much heavier on the science fiction. Also, I’m confused by the video game programming manual. Do you share shelf space with another person? That would be the true test of a friendship. I wonder what that’s like, to be able to intimately mix your books so casually. I find my shelves to be very personal property.



In two years, no one had come close to discovering anything about him. But in three short letters, Alice figured out more than his most dedicated fan club member.

The plane hummed along, the top of the clouds bright beyond the windows of the cabin. Andy was in the zone, not bothering to look up from his work. The steward sat reading at the entry to the cockpit. Paul looked around, unsure of whether to trust what he was reading. Could Alice have figured this out from a picture? Or she was someone he had once known in Natchitoches but didn’t remember. Maybe she was teasing him, stringing him along. Maybe she wanted to draw him into a friendship with her tender tales of inheriting a bookstore from an old man, inviting confidences until she trapped him into exposing his identity to the world.

Paul raked his hands through his hair. Some days he hated his life. Everyone wanted money and power but it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. You never know whether you’re making a friend or an enemy. He stared at the words on the screen, then flipped back to Alice’s photo. She looked like a woman who didn’t care about power. But pictures were deceiving. There was no way to find out whether someone was lying to you, not really. Online, his intuition was non-existent. Not that he was much better in real life. He’d been taken too many times, fallen for so many sob stories, and believed what turned out to be blatant lies, until finally, he’d learned. Be cautious. Slow down. Expect the worst.

The jet went through a large cloud and for a moment the sunlight in the cabin dimmed. Paul looked back at the screen. He didn’t want to see everyone as a threat. He understood why Mr. Perrault had reacted that way. He wanted to believe there were kindred spirits waiting to stomp into his life and demand that he rearrange something he’d already figured out.