The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River #1)(84)

Paul shook his head. “She never would have done that.”

“The girl sued you. I don’t think a pizza prank would be below her.” Andy typed a quick celebratory update and published it on the blog. He refreshed the page and watched the page views start climbing. He reached out and gave Paul a high five. “We’re in business again, my friend.”

***



Alice stirred the gumbo and inhaled the spicy scent. Monday meant washday gumbo. She smiled at the thought, remembering how Mrs. Perrault would sing as she cooked. Alice had always been in such a hurry when she was a teenager. If she’d tried to speed things up, Mrs. Perrault would say, “Slow down, honey! You try to stir too many pots and you'll end up putting vinegar in the pudding and vanilla extract in the turnip greens.”

When Alice told Bix what she had planned, he’d shooed her upstairs. “Nobody likes to eat at bedtime, sha,” he said. He’d refused to let her work that afternoon, declaring that she was taking a sick day, or a cooking day. It was for a good cause. She figured that if Paul didn’t want to open the door for, he just might if he knew there was gumbo for dinner.

Alice took a taste of the rice and frowned. It needed a bit more pep. She grabbed the Louisiana hot sauce and gave the gumbo a few more dashes. She wasn’t a very convincing speaker, but a pot of hot gumbo and a book of good poetry might go a long way toward making amends. Rochester wandered through the kitchen and gave her a solemn look. He usually preferred to stay in the dim corners of the room and watch, but he stopped near the stove. His one tattered ear and scarred forehead looked startling in the harsh light.

“Wish me luck, Rochester.” Alice leaned down and fed him a bit of shrimp. She could only hope Paul would as merciful as Jane Eyre, but nothing was for certain.

She changed into a deep green, sleeveless shirtdress with a white cardigan. Staring at her reflection, she realized she looked like a 1950’s housewife. All she needed was a kerchief and some horn-rimmed glasses. Alice sighed, stripped it all off and started over. Her closet was packed with cute clothes, but for some reason she couldn’t find anything to wear.

Twenty minutes later, she put the green dress back on and muttered to herself, “He’s not going to notice your dress. You’re bringing gumbo.” She slipped on some heels and, tucking the little book of poetry under her arm, and picking up the pot of gumbo, she made her way to the door. It took a little bit of balancing but she got the door shut behind her and started down the hallway. Her heart was pounding out of her chest and she focused on breathing slowly.

At the door, she poked the doorbell and listened to the old-fashioned jangle inside. She wondered if Paul and Andy thought it was ugly. They were probably used to a video intercom or something. She wasn’t really sure how the New York apartments were. Probably a lot nicer than this place.

There wasn’t any answer. Alice felt her throat go tight. What if they knew she was here and just didn’t want to answer? Her stomach curled in on itself. She reached out and hit the bell again, letting it ring a little longer. After a few seconds, she put her ear to the door. She couldn’t hear anything from inside. Their rental car was out front, but maybe they’d walked down to dinner at one of the cafes.

Alice looked at her little blue pot of gumbo. She should have called, but she was afraid she wouldn’t get the words out. Showing up in person with a big pot of steaming dinner sounded like a good idea at the time. She sighed, leaned forward, and rang the bell one more time. After a few seconds, she felt the vibration of footsteps and straightened up.

The door swung open. “Did you forget your key or―” Paul said. He stopped short when he saw her. He clutched a tiny towel around his waist. Soap bubbles clung to his chest. “I thought you were Andy.” He blinked at the pot. His hair was plastered to his head and water was dripping down his face. A small puddle formed at his feet.

Alice didn’t know where to look. She held out the gumbo a little then realized he couldn’t take it. “I made some gumbo for you. Because of the, you know, reporters.” She stared up at the ceiling.

He didn’t say anything, just stood there silently. The only sound in the room was water drops hitting the floor.

“I’ll just go.” Alice backed away.

“Thank you,” he said suddenly. “I wish I…” He shrugged, both hands still holding his towel.

“No, I understand.” Alice turned and walked back down the hallway, hearing the door of his apartment close with a thud. She made it back into her apartment and set the pot on the counter. Miss Elizabeth wandered over, tail twitching.

Reconciliation fail. She flopped onto the couch and threw an arm over her face. A note would have been fine. She must look like some kind of nut case. She groaned, grabbing a pillow and tossing it across the room. After a few minutes of jaw clenching and eye rolling, Alice sat up. Okay, that hadn’t gone well but it was a minor setback. At least he hadn’t called security and had her thrown out of his doorway.

There was a knock at her door and Alice froze. Looking around, she saw piles of books and cushions strewn over the floor, Mrs. Gaskell napping on the coffee table, cat toys, Jane Eyre lounging on the end of the couch, papers, and the dishes she’d left on the table. There was no way she could clean it all and still make it to the door before he turned around and left.

Alice opened the door and peeked out. “That was fast.”