The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River #1)(47)
She sighed. She was excited to meet BWK and couldn’t stop imagining this mysterious book lover. But at the same time, Paul crept into every thought. She wondered what he was doing tonight. Probably having a party. She’d never know because of the noise level of the festival right outside. Or maybe he was going out with friends. He was from Natchitoches and must have loads of friends here.
Alice glanced up, catching a glimpse of her reflection. “Green-eyed girl,” she whispered. It was a mystery why she even cared. She hardly knew the guy. It wasn’t like her to crush on a man just because he was handsome. Of course, he was smart and interesting and generous to his friends, too. But Charlie said Paul was a partier, that she’d seen pictures of women hanging all over him. Really, it made sense when she tried thinking logically about it. Famous people were famous for a reason. They were good at making strangers feel connected to them in a personal way.
She straightened her shoulders and flashed her brightest smile. She wasn’t famous and she didn’t have any fans. She would do what she did best, which was to be real. What people saw is what they got, no media spin required.
***
Alice looked around the crowd, examining every man under forty, looking for the jawline that appeared under the fedora in the picture. It was hard to see by the dim illumination of the stage lights. She could see the glimmer of the river in the distance. The warm summer air was still except for a small breeze every so often.
Dancers crowded the stage, milling around, looking for partners. There were women in jeans, dresses, shorts, and a few fantastical costumes that really had nothing to do with Creole culture but were certainly fun to see. The men stayed pretty close to boots, jeans, and T-shirts, but there were a few in fancy suits, mostly older folks who used any occasion to put on seersucker and a bowtie.
“Allons danser!” The lead singer of the zydeco band called out. The crowd answered with a wave of hollering and stomping that made the stage shake under Alice’s feet. She felt a huge smile spread over her face. She belonged with these people.
“Manzell, danser vous?” She turned to find a teen holding out a hand. It was Julien Burel’s little brother, Xavier. He had to be nearly ten years younger than her, and clearly nervous. He spoke the Creole of her mamere, not the European French that kids learn in school.
“Mais, oui,” she answered with a smile. As they moved to the center of the stage, she gave one last glance around. Her gaze caught a familiar face and her heart jumped into her throat.
Paul stood at the edge of the stage, Andy at his side. He was dressed in a light blue shirt and jeans. His gaze was fixed on her and her heart seemed to stop in her chest as their eyes met. He didn’t smile, but simply lifted a hand in greeting.
Alice turned her head back to the band, swallowing back a wave of sudden nerves. It didn’t matter if Paul was there, watching. Sure he was handsome, but he was just like any other tourist to the festival. People would stand and watch the dancers, tap their toes to the music, then go back home without ever thinking about it again until next year.
The accordion player took the spotlight and started with the song “I Done Got Over.” A five-person band with just a few guitars, a drummer, and the singer, radiated energy. Her teen friend was a surprisingly good dancer, and Alice tried to put Paul out of her thoughts and focus on the complicated steps. Their hands were linked but their feet were moving at high speeds and Alice started to laugh. The dance brought everything back. Her family used to hold informal Saturday house dances in the summer, and the neighbors would come at dusk and stay until dawn. The women would bring biscuits and pots of gumbo to share. When it got late, Alice’s mama would send her inside to lie down, but she would sneak out of bed to sit by the window and watch the dancing. Now, as her feet moved to the music, she felt the years slip away. Joy pulsed through her, unbidden, lifting her heart.
Before she knew it, the dance came to a ringing finish and she stood still, out of breath, with a huge smile on her face. “Merci, misye,” she said, and shook Xavier’s hand.
“Merci, manzell,” he responded with a grin, and rejoined a group of teens near the edge of the floor. A few of the boys clapped him on the back in congratulations, and Alice wondered if she had been part of a good-natured dare.
The singer adjusted his cowboy hat and took a sip of water. “Encore?” he called out to the crowd and the dancers around her yelled back an enthusiastic response. Alice scanned the people around her, wondering if she should move off the stage to be more visible. BWK might be here, but outside the group, and not able to find her. Or maybe even approaching another woman with red cowboy boots. She frowned, wishing she’d been more specific.
“Evenin’.” A man’s low voice to her right made her catch her breath. She turned, wondering what BWK would look like without the fedora. Instead, it was the lead singer of one of the night’s bands. For just a moment, she considered the possibility that BWK was also fronting a local zydeco group, but then she pushed the thought away. About as likely as him being the president, really.
“Good evenin’,” she returned. “You play with Creole Kings, right?”
He nodded, his dark eyes reflecting the lights of the stage. He was the type that Charlie would admiringly describe as “tall, dark, and Creole.” The man sang in front of hundreds of people and he looked perfectly at ease approaching a stranger. Alice admired that kind of extroverted personality. “My name’s Alphonse DeCote, but everybody calls me Al.” He held out his hands. “I was wonderin’ if you’d like to dance.”