The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River #1)(4)
She didn’t realize until years later that the books were secondary to all the other things she’d learned. The Perraults gave her what had been lost when her parents died. Alice straightened up and blinked back tears. It had been eight years since Mrs. Perrault had passed, and five years since Alice and Mr. Perrault last shared a cup of tea. No use crying over them now. He would never want that. He would want her to work hard and keep By the Book a success, like it had always been. No matter how many people turned to other entertainment, he’d been sure that bookstores would never become extinct. It was all that separated the civilized and sophisticated from the unwashed, ignorant hordes. As long as there were enlightened people in the world, the rising tide of frivolous technology would not prevail. He’d believed it with his whole heart.
As for Alice, she had a healthy streak of pessimism to remind her that surviving and thriving were two very different things. The last Monday of every month told her clearly the bookstore was not thriving. It became even more apparent when the renter in the second apartment above the store moved out. The historic district was the chic place to live and the hefty rent helped By the Book break even. Without it, she was in real trouble.
She opened the laptop and waited for it to warm up. Although she hated Excel with everything in her, the day she’d driven off with the ledger on top of the car and lost several years’ worth of records, Alice had to concede that there might be a better way than pencil and paper.
She took a sip of coffee and squared her shoulders. No more dragging fanny. First, balance the books. Then, notify the realtor the apartment was available again. Better to get it done than to put it off. Her friends called her a “go getter,” others called her “impulsive,” but Alice considered herself a practical woman, simply doing what needed to be done. Reaching for the first receipt, her hand paused in mid-air, hovering like a Frisbee before descent, as she spied a large, black cat on the top of a bookshelf.
She brought up the accounting sheets as a long-haired tabby wandered across the store and settled at her feet. She reached down and gave him a scratch, whispering, “Mr. Rochester, everyone has it wrong. I’m not against all technology. I just prefer to keep things simple.”
Mr. Rochester sat silent, as he always did. He wasn’t much of a talker and his temper was legendary. He tolerated a pat or two, but if you rubbed him the wrong way, you’d feel his claws. The others cats walked out of their way rather than cross Mr. Rochester. But he did like the females. Before he became a resident of By The Book, he sat in the alleyway and yowled at all hours. His tattered left ear was a souvenir of those tomcat years. Alice felt a little guilty for luring him into a friendship when she fully intended to take away his masculinity, but when Mr. Rochester returned from the vet, he seemed calmer and happier. His shaggy fur even seemed a little more groomed and the wildness in his eyes faded. And Alice slept better, so the guilt didn’t weigh too heavily.
She peeked at Bix to make sure he wasn’t looking, then clicked onto the Internet. She needed to work, but she was curious. A quick search the Browning Wordsworth Keats blog. She expected to see book covers and links, but the site seemed designed as a meeting place for literature enthusiasts. Alice glanced at her desk clock. She’d give herself three minutes. Then, back to work.
Thirty minutes later, Alice closed the page. She’d registered an account, joined four different groups, left fifteen comments, and entered into two rather fierce debates over whether or not typewriters changed writing for the better. Sitting back in her chair, she let out a long breath. BWK, as she now thought of him, was brilliant. He knew books, loved books, and probably owned a bookstore. She’d wasted several minutes staring at his profile, but not because of the strong, stubbled jaw just visible under a lowered black fedora. There was an out-of-focus glimpse of his bookshelf. Alice zoomed in and tried to read the titles on the spines.
She had almost puzzled out the first row when the brass bell sounded and a short, teenaged girl burst through. “Miss Alice, I need you for a sec,” she called.
“Hi Charlie,” Alice said. “You’re not scheduled until this afternoon.” Charlene Soule wouldn’t answer to anything except Charlie since she’d turned eighteen and decided it wasn’t cool. When Alice or Bix spoke French to her, Charlie answered in English. It wasn’t really worth making a fuss over, but it hurt a little bit.
“I know,” she said, rushing up to the desk. “But you gotta see this.” She was wearing black jeans and T-shirt with NERD written on it in bright pink.
Alice blinked up at her. “What, outside?” The teen’s empty hands didn’t give Alice any clues. Her face flushed with excitement as she moved back toward the door. “You know that lot at the corner where they’ve been buildin’?”
Alice stood up, wishing Charlie would just tell her what was so interesting. “Sure. I heard it was going to be a museum on the history of music, from the earliest zydeco to current artists. Or something more general for the city’s three-hundredth anniversary celebrations, except the year’s almost over. Eric said he thought it looked like a modern retail store, but that can’t be right, because the parish would never approve something like that in the District.”
She reached the glass door and stepped outside. She loved the smell of the river, the way the sun reflected off the water and threw shimmers of light into her store. The humidity had risen in the hour she’d been inside and the air felt thick and muggy. The middle of August was a great time for fishing tours, but not so great for the tourists who lightly populated the walkway along the length of her building, and wilted in the heat.