The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River #1)(49)

“My mama made me practice these dances with her every Friday night. She was sure that it would help me when I found the right girl.”

“Because women like dancing?”

“No, because she thought there was a girl for me out there, right then, being taught by her mama. She didn’t want me to look bad in front of her future in-laws.”

Alice couldn’t help laughing. “Mothers are kind of all the same. They all want to do the choosing.” She wanted to tell him how she loved to hear him speak Louisiana Creole. He sounded like her family, like everything she’d lost when she was young and then found again as a woman.

“And what did your mama think of Eric?” He gave the tiniest wink.

“If she were alive, I probably wouldn’t have dated him. I think she probably would have set me straight before we got past the first date.” She tried to say it lightly.

“I’m sorry.” He looked pained. “And your papa?”

“Gone in the same accident. I was young.” She looked around, wishing the band would start. This wasn’t the conversation she wanted to have tonight.

“So that’s why you have their rings.” He reached out, slipping a finger under the chain against her neck, gently bringing forward until the rings dangled between them. He held them both, looking closely. “Your mama had tiny hands.”

Nobody knew that except her family. In fact, nobody but Alice had touched those rings for years and years. She couldn’t seem to tear her eyes from them now, held gently in Paul’s fingers. She cleared her throat. “She really did. I have a pair of her gloves. They’re just so little. I must take after my daddy’s side because mine are huge.” She held up a hand for inspection.

“You’re right. Gigantic man hands.”

“I mean, in comparison,” Alice said. She turned her hand palm up and he dropped the rings into it. “What about your parents?”

“I was raised by my mama. Just her. We lived in a little shack outside the city limits. It’s probably been condemned and burned by now.” He smiled. “Here’s to surviving childhood, eh?”

She had to grin. “Yes. I think we should both get a medal.” It felt so strange to talk about her parents and not feel sad or awkward. Most of the time she felt like people either asked too many questions or acted like they’d never existed.

A few more dancers arrived and there was a lot of quick practicing around the floor. The band seemed to be arguing about the choice of a song. Alice knew the zydeco festival was serious business and she loved how the musicians wanted to get it just right.

“Aren’t you sad to let go of your culture?” she asked.

“What? You mean because I live in New York City?”

She nodded. “I think you just can’t raise Creole kids outside of the area. It’s hard enough keeping the traditions alive with everybody plugged into cable and their iPods and everything.” She felt her cheeks go pink. “Not that I have kids, but you know…”

Paul laughed. “Just because I live in New York doesn’t mean I’ve rejected my roots.” His expression turned serious. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently. I know we can’t have everything, all at the same time. Choices have to be made. I do understand that.”

Alice didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t meant to start such a serious conversation out there on the dance floor but she and Paul didn’t seem to be able to keep the topics light.

The band finally launched into a waltzy number and the singer stepped to the microphone, the words coming too fast for her to understand. She remembered the song, “Zydeco Gris Gris,” from when she was younger. Her mama had loved this song but she’d never learned it. Paul took a moment, then matched her step for step. He sang along as easily as if he still went to house dances every Saturday night.

Alice swallowed back her surprise a second time in just a few minutes. He really could dance, no matter what he’d just claimed. He was better than she was, effortlessly bringing her close and swinging her around, then bringing her close again. The sound of his voice in her ear made a shiver go up her spine, and for a moment she forgot they were on opposite sides of a fight. She wasn’t Alice the bookstore owner and he wasn’t Paul the video game mogul. She was a woman and he was a man, simply enjoying the late summer night, moving to a music that was deep in their blood.

For the first time in a long while, Alice didn’t worry about what was going to happen tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. She felt like everything was right with the world. More than all right. It was perfect.

Zydeco music isn’t known for its short, easy tunes. Jazz musicians borrowed their idea of long, complicated riffs on a repeating melody. Blues singers borrowed the melancholy words and some of the beats. And the dances are meant to give as much pleasure, for as long as possible, until the dancers are worn down and tuckered out. Alice was glad it was only the third dance of the night because Paul moved with an energy that was hard to match. This wasn’t the dancing of an awkward teen boy. He was confident and smooth, as if he’d had years of practice like she had, in backyard barbeques and summer festivals.

When the last notes finally faded away and the dancers all came to a stop, Paul didn’t let go of her hand. He looked happier than she’d ever seen him, but there was something like worry in his eyes.