The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River #1)(41)
“Nice to meet you, Tater. I’ll be in town for a while,” Paul said. “If you’re ever interested in joining our team of beta testers, we have a small group that runs through the very first versions of a game.”
“Wow,” Tater breathed. “The very first people to try it out?”
“Just to work out the bugs. Sometimes the final version is pretty different.”
“Absolutely. Really. I would.” Tater was nodding and grinning.
“Cool. Here’s my card.” Paul scribbled his cell phone on the back. “And now, I have to get some breakfast before I start eating my own hand.”
“Sure,” Tater said. He stepped out of the way, still grinning. “See you around.”
Paul managed to make it the rest of the block without anyone else stopping him, although he did hear a few whispers and the quiet click of people taking pictures. Any other time, he’d have stopped, or at least flashed a smile. But he was focused on getting breakfast and getting back to the privacy of his apartment, where he could take a few minutes to process what he’d just realized about himself.
Babet’s Diner was packed to the gills with hungry customers. Paul hovered near the door, breathing in the smell of bacon and eggs. The conversation ebbed for a moment when he walked in, but then picked back up to a respectable level. Although he felt more than a few pairs of eyes on him, he didn’t feel as uncomfortable as he did walking around big tech conventions. You knew your fame had passed the comfort level when you needed a security detail to go to the bathroom.
He leaned against the wall and pulled out his phone, sending Andy a quick text. Looking around at the crowd, he wasn’t sure take out was an option. A lot of these old tourist places were sit down only. While he waited to see if Andy was awake, he clicked on the Browning Wordsworth Keats site, then to his email. Scrolling through the mail, his heart rate started to rise. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter, but as soon as he saw Alice’s name, he almost stopped breathing.
It took several seconds to decide whether to open it. If she didn’t want to meet him, this awkward double life would continue. Things were happening faster than he could predict and who knew what tomorrow would bring? He hoped not another fistfight. He took a steadying breath and opened the note. Red boots. He’d never been a great dancer, but he was more than willing to dance with Alice.
He hit reply and pecked out a short reply.
Dear Miss Alice,
I’ll be there. Looking forward to hearing the story of EBB and your youthful outrage.
Your BWK
“Paul? Is that you?” A woman’s voice cut into his thoughts.
He turned. “Mrs. Joubert?” He started laughing. He couldn’t believe his eyes. “I haven’t seen you since sixth grade.”
She looked the same, except for the streaks of silver in her curly dark hair, and she looked thinner, more fragile. Memories washed over him. He used to pepper Mrs. Joubert with questions that she couldn’t answer during their science classes. She never got angry, and would return the next day with everything she’d discovered. Now she reached out, pulling him close, wrapping her arms around him. “Oh, Paul,” she breathed. “Gimme a Yankee dime.” She turned her cheek and he kissed her. He felt her shoulders shaking under his hands.
Were those tears in her eyes? “Mrs. Joubert, is everything okay?” He hadn’t kept up on the local gossip. Maybe she was dying. Maybe she had lost a spouse. Or a child. The thought made his heart drop in his chest.
“Sorry, sorry, it’s just a surprise seeing you,” she said, wiping her eyes. She stepped back. “Look at you, so handsome. And I always knew you’d do real well just soon as you got turned loose. I knew it, Paul.”
He nodded. He heard that kind of thing all the time. People who couldn’t be bothered to give him the time of day when he was younger liked to tell him how they’d always been his most ardent supporters. But Mrs. Joubert was different. “I remember you telling me that. Sometimes more than once a day.”
“You took a lot of convincing.” She was still blinking back tears. She held onto his hands and leaned close. “Tell me the truth, son. Beyond all the money and the fame, are you doing well? Are you happy? When I see you in the news, I’m right worried about you. I want you to be happy, Paul.”
Her words touched him deep inside, in a place he kept hidden from the rest of the world. Standing in an old diner, surrounded by chattering tourists enjoying their enormous platters of bacon and grits, Paul felt as if he were being asked to review the last ten years of his life. And he found it wanting.
“I’m doing fine. My mother has a nice farmhouse out of town. My company has branches in every major city and offers some of the best benefits around,” he said. She cocked her head and said nothing. He went on, “I have a good friend. I’m not completely alone.” He realized how pathetic it sounded.
She smiled. “One good friend is better than a hundred admirers.”
“You’ve got that right,” he said, not returning her smile.
“So what are you doing in here? Didn’t you bring your own cook to make you grits? I know you have a jet. We all saw pictures of it on the front page of paper this morning.”
“Nope, no cook. We just got in yesterday.”
“Oh, not even enough time to get make groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. You and your friend come to dinner tomorrow after church. You still go to church, right?” She turned and gave him the eye.