The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River #1)(57)

He stared down at his bare feet. He’d considered it a victory to get permission to build in the historic district, right in the middle of all the fancy buildings. It was his way of sticking it to everyone who looked down on him in high school, every person who ignored his mother when she went into one of those old stores, clearly not the kind of person who could shop there every week.

Paul stood and walked to the window, looking out at the river. The moonlight shone in the ripples of the water and the trees were like dark sentries, unmoving and ominous. He’d told Andy that his epiphany was about revenge and how it would eat him up from the inside, making him weak and doomed to failure. But maybe there was more to it. He needed to let go of the need for revenge, put his energy into helping the city, and then further. Not just in this town, but everywhere. Christmas donations to The Red Cross were fine, but throwing money at a charity corporation once a year didn’t mean he was making a real difference.

A plan began to take shape in the back of his mind and he opened his laptop, searching out contact information from several sites. As he clicked into his email, he saw another message from Alice. Paul forced himself to send the short note to the recipients he’d chosen before he opened her letter.

Dear BWK,

I hope you had a good Sunday. I spent the day thinking of that line of poetry from Gerard Manley Hopkins:

I have asked to be

where no storms come,

where the green swell

is in the havens dumb

and out of the swing of the sea.

Do you ever feel this way? As if you need a place “out of the swing of the sea”? I never have until now.

Did you enjoy the zydeco festival? I’m sorry again that we weren’t able to meet. I hope you practice Alexander Pope’s ninth beatitude. It’s the safest way to live.

I’d like to be peaceful, I think I’m doomed to follow Louisa May Alcott’s path of resolving “to take Fate by the throat and shake a living out of her”.

Your friend,

Alice



Paul let out a chuckle. But his heart dropped as he read the note again and let the poetry sink in deep. Alice felt like she was being tossed around, a piece of flotsam on the ocean of life.



Dear Alice,

I enjoy imagining you with your hands at Fate’s throat. She has been kind to me, overall, but I’ve heard she can be an uncompromising, vengeful slacker, reluctant to give what is due. I whole-heartedly approve of your current plan of action.

The zydeco festival was pure excitement, from start to finish. I didn’t stay long. I’m afraid Pope’s ninth beatitude of expecting nothing and never being disappointed didn’t apply to me, though.

I, too, long for a place out of the swing of the sea, but... Do you know how Walt Whitman said that we should let our soul stand cool and composed before a million universes? I’ve never been that type. On the outside, perhaps. But inside I’ve never been able to stand unmoved before any beauty or deep emotion. And so we end up like Goethe, who said the soul who sees beauty may sometimes walk alone. Or live out in the swing of the sea, in our case.

Your friend,

BWK



Paul sent the email and closed the laptop, setting it on his desk. He crossed to the bed and dropped onto the covers, staring up at the ceiling. That probably made no sense at all. He was exhausted and his brain seemed to be tied up in knots. He wished he could shelter Alice, give her the peaceful life she wanted.

He leaned back against his pillows and shut his eyes. Maybe this was all he would ever get, late night email with poetry sprinkled over it like bitter chocolate shavings. He should just accept that reality.

His phone dinged and he rolled over, picking it up from his nightstand. A touch of the screen and Alice’s response popped up.



Dear BWK,

Are you back home now? You must live on the West Coast. It’s very late here. I can’t sleep. There are so many worries tonight that I didn’t have a week ago. Some are personal, some have to do with my store. All of them (except one) are probably silly in comparison to most problems. Like the fact that I need to get an alarm system installed and I don’t know anything about them. I hate high tech things and I’m afraid I’m going to lock myself out of my own house.

As for the one problem that’s not so silly, you know that I inherited this bookstore. Well, the previous owner’s niece has filed a lawsuit against me, in hopes of receiving half the estate.



Paul bolted upright in bed. Alice was being sued?



We both know you can’t split a bookstore. (I don’t even share shelf space.) If Mr. Perrault had wanted to give her the store, I think he would have. But he’s not here so he can’t tell them that. There’s nothing to be done, really. Just waiting and wondering if the judge will decide this stranger deserves half of the store she’s never seen.

I’m trying to be “like barley bending in low fields by the sea” as Sara Teasdale wrote, but I’m afraid I’ve never learned how. It’s always served me better to be unyielding, hard as stone. But under all this pressure, I feel as if I’m flint, ready to splinter into a thousand sharp blades.

Your friend,

Alice



Paul sat still, resisting the urge to slip on his shoes and walk down the hallway to Alice’s apartment. He knew she was awake and he knew she would answer. But unfortunately, Alice hadn’t told Paul about the lawsuit. She told BWK. So, even though he felt close to her, she had chosen to share this trial with someone she’d never met.