The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River #1)(35)
He could tell himself it was all about smoothing over the problem with the building plans, but Paul wanted Alice’s approval in a way that had nothing to do with his business. The clever book store owner seemed to stand for everything he’d ever wanted in Cane River. He wanted her approval and her support. He just had to figure out how he was going to make that happen.
Chapter Eleven
The machine does not isolate man from the great problems of nature but plunges him more deeply in them. ― Antoine de Saint Exupery
Saturday morning arrived after a full night of tossing and turning. The zydeco festival had kicked off the evening before and the party raged outside Alice’s bedroom window until long past midnight. Even after all was quiet, her dreams were threaded through with images of legal papers and steel girders and stacks of Alexander Pope poetry. She’d dreamed of Paul’s smile and missing books, then a full inbox and a man who wore a fedora who waltzed her across a dance floor. She crawled out of bed at dawn, grateful the night was over. After a long, hot shower, she slipped on a vintage shirtdress, hoping the bright green pattern would cheer her up. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and swiped on a bit of mascara. She kissed the rings and tucked her necklace inside her shirt. Because of the festival, there could be scores of customers. Or it could be completely deserted. Either way, the day would be a long one.
On a normal Saturday, she made a simple breakfast, but Alice decided to take advantage of being up early. She pulled maple bacon, shredded a potato for hash browns, and fried it all up with a sunny-side-up egg. Beau Monde coffee brought it all together. She sat at her little kitchen table, looked out over the river, and reminded herself how very blessed she was. She heard the cat door. The kitties wandered in, one after another, as the scent of fresh bacon reached them. Well, everyone except Darcy, who expected her to deliver his slice, and Van Winkle, who didn’t move for anything.
Grabbing a second cup of coffee, she tip-toed down the hallway, hoping that Paul and Andy weren’t morning people. The shop was dark and quiet, the smell of old books like a balm to her anxious state. She settled at her desk, letting Van Winkle eat his bacon off a piece of paper on her desk. She didn’t bother to turn on the little lamp. She held her mug in both hands, letting warmth seep into her fingers as the scent of the dark roast filled the little space.
A whisper-soft touch against her bare ankle made Alice pause. “I put your bacon in your bowl by the door.” Darcy drifted out from under the desk and gave her a cold look before wandering toward the back door. He came and went as he pleased, and today was no different.
Darcy had been Mr. Perrault’s favorite and Alice wondered if the cat was still mourning him. They all missed the man who spent most of his life in this little store, but managed to make friends with almost every person in Natchitoches. Alice closed her eyes. For a moment she could see his bright white mustache and clear blue eyes, could hear his measured tones and big belly laugh. Somehow she’d thought he’d live forever. Most days she still expected him to walk right back through the front door and sit down in his chair, the chair she occupied at the moment.
Tears burned her eyes and she felt them gather under her lids. Alice wished she could talk to him one more time. If he’d meant to include his niece, then Alice would honor his wishes. If not, then she had a legal fight on her hands and she hadn’t even started looking for lawyers. She knew nothing about court battles except they cost lots of money.
The store had plenty of valuable inventory that could be used to fund a legal defense, but selling it was the problem. She had the Rackham sale in the bank account, but had no idea how fast the legal fees would mount up. Alice leaned forward, hunching against the pain of loneliness. She never really noticed how alone she was until moments like this. Her brothers were scattered all over the South, busy with their own families, her mamere gone before Mr. Perrault.
Turning, she reached for a little book that always gave her comfort. Her head had been stuffed with Alexander Pope the last few days but his wit was never soothing. He spoke truth but it didn’t bring her comfort. The Seraphim and Other Poems was well loved and some pages were fragile and worn. Elizabeth Barrett Browning was Alice’s own personal cheerleader. Maybe it was because she was mostly self -educated, or that she defied everyone’s ideas of who she had to be and what she must do, but to Alice, her poetry felt like drinking espresso with just the right amount of sweetness.
She opened to a favorite spot and read aloud, letting the words wrap around her worries. “The Cry of the Children” was a terribly sad poem, but Alice didn’t use it to wallow in her problems. It gave her courage, because Elizabeth had written it to condemn child labor in a time when all the great poets were writing about Greek tragedies. Alice loved her for it, this poet who declared that her own people, in her own cities, were worthy of her time, energy, and talent.
Alice took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. She was going to do what she could in Natchitoches, for her people. Whatever she had to offer, she hoped it was enough to turn the city from the overwhelming tide of technology and industry that was swamping the Creole culture.
Feeling a little more centered, Alice opened the laptop to check her email. There was an email asking about a set of first edition Heinlein paperbacks they’d seen on a previous visit to the store, but hadn’t bought. They wanted them now and requested shipping to their Florida address. Alice scribbled down the titles and headed for the science fiction section. This was when she missed Charlie. Alice had to hunt around for a little while. Charlie would have been able to find the books with her eyes closed. She brought the books back to the desk and replied, letting them know they were still here, and attached an invoice.