The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River #1)(50)

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked. He looked around. “Maybe over here,” he said, pointing with one hand toward nearest edge of the temporary dance floor, away from Andy.

“Okay,” Alice said. She was supposed to be watching for BWK, but it would probably only take a moment. He led her to the little row of trees at the side of the stage and they stepped off into the grass. It was much quieter now that they weren’t directly in front of the speakers. The twinkle lights wrapped in the tree branches gave everything a festive, cheerful feeling.

“I wanted to tell you something the day I came into your shop.” Paul looked down at their hands linked together.

Alice tried to ignore the way her heart was beating in her ears. She watched his face, saying nothing. He’d said a lot of things that day and she couldn’t imagine what else he’d missed. It wasn’t a conversation she wanted to revisit.

“I know it seems as if we’re really different, but we’re not.”

Her eyebrows went up. To be fair, before tonight she would have said they were night and day. Now she could see they had their Creole culture in common so maybe they were more like daybreak and twilight.

“You think I’m some rich New York City businessman who’s come here to Natchitoches to show off his big, flashy store.” His face was tight.

“And you’re not? Because seems a pretty fair description to me, although it left out being arrogant and running roughshod over the entire city.” She knew following him to this little private spot under the trees was a mistake. A few lines of Louisiana Creole and one perfect dance couldn’t erase the facts. Alice shook her head and started to pull away. “Paul, maybe I should go. Thank you for the dance.”

He held on to her hand, gently bringing her back. “I don’t know how to explain, but we’re alike, you and me.”

She could have tugged herself free and kept walking but she stopped, feeling the truth of his words. She knew he was right, but wasn’t sure how. “Because we’re Creole? Because you come from here?” She heard the disbelief in her own voice and hated it. If she had to name something that made a person “like her,” being Creole would certainly be one. But loving this place with an undying passion would be another, and that is where they were different. Paul may have come from Natchitoches, but he didn’t love it the way she did. She was willing to fight to preserve the culture in her little town, all the way up to and including engaging in a legal battle against the man who stood before her.

“Books,” he said, almost desperately. “We both love books.”

Alice searched his face. “So we’re similar because you like to read? Or because you bought your friend a rare portfolio?” She sighed. “Paul, I do love books. And I like to read. But the way I love books is hard to explain―”

“They’re like your friends.” He spoke quickly. “You re-read favorite passages and even though you’ve read the words a hundred times before, it’s all new again. Walking by and touching the covers is like reaching out and shaking hands. You wouldn’t travel without your favorites. You read a great book and you get this weird missionary zeal, where you have to tell everybody about it until they all agree to read it, too. You want to keep your books safe, protect them from slipping into oblivion. You wonder how you’ll ever share shelf space with another person.” He took a deep breath. “You feel them beat underneath your pillow, in the morning’s dark, an hour before the sun will let you read.”

Alice stood still, eyes fixed on his. Had he just quoted a line from Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poem “Aurora Leigh”? That stanza hung in a little gilt frame near her bed, right above her towering pile of books. It was one of the last things she saw at night, and one of the first things she saw in the morning.

“Yes,” she whispered. “It’s just like that.”

“Now, do you understand?” he asked. He stepped closer, his expression intent.

She nodded. They weren’t so different after all. Everything she had felt for him, from the first moment he’d walked into her shop, made a little more sense.

“Thank God,” he said. In the next moment, he put an arm around her waist and pulled her in close. Her right hand was tight against his chest and she could feel his heart pumping under his shirt. She didn’t look up, just closed her eyes and breathed in, letting the moment stretch between them. His arm tightened and he shifted, bringing his lips to her ear.

The next song burst into the moment and the dancers on the stage began to whirl and step to the beat. Paul didn’t move a muscle, as if he hadn’t heard a sound, his arm strong against her waist. They were perfectly still, just the two of them, like the eye of a hurricane in the middle of the festival. She never wanted to move from that spot, tucked against his chest, held tight against the world. It had been so, so long since she had felt like there was anyone to hold on to, anyone who truly understood her.

“Alice,” he whispered. “I meant to tell you the truth before.” His voice was rough.

Slowly his words filtered through the swirl of emotion and Alice felt a shadow cross her heart. Loving books wasn’t exactly a terrible secret. She said she understood, but maybe there was more to this than she was catching. She moved back, trying to gather her thoughts enough to form a question.