Free The Pepper In The Gumbo: A Cane River Romance by Mary Jane Hathaway

O’Connor short stories, Fahrenheit
451 ,
Wordsworth’s poetry, a lot of Jules Verne, Peter Pan in
Kensington Gardens .
But at the end, a history book about the Creole people of Cane River and a fat video
game programming manual were side by side. He’d written the manual with two
other programmers and his name was clear as day on the spine. If anyone had any
right to suspect that Browning Wordsworth Keats was Paul Olivier, video game
programmer raised in Natchitoches, that was pretty strong evidence.
                No
one had asked Paul about the books in the picture before. Not the thousands of
visitors who came for the message boards, not the hundreds who emailed. He
frowned, considering, then decided it didn’t matter much. No one had any reason
to link him to the site. Paul Olivier was a man who spent his waking hours
shaping the online gaming world. Browning Wordsworth Keats dedicated his life
to giving new life to obscure classic literature. Not even Sherlock could piece
that puzzle together.
     
                Dear
Miss Augustine,
                Indeed,
that is Browning Wordsworth Keats in the fedora and my books on the shelf. It
must strike horror in you to see such disorganization. I wish I had kept all
the books I’ve ever loved, but for some reason, there are only a few hundred
that have followed me through college to my adult life. I only have three from
my own childhood, and they were my grandfather’s. Zane Gray had a baseball
series and I have The Shortstop, The
Redheaded Outfielder , and The Young Pitcher .
With dust jackets. Just holding them in my hands makes me happy.
                Your
bookish friend
                The
air pressure made his ears ache and Paul reached for a pack of gum. After a few
seconds of chewing, he felt his ears pop and he settled back in his chair. Andy
was focused so intently on his work he didn’t even glance up.
                Paul
opened a few more emails, sent a note back about Hardy Boys books being under
copyright, and searched for a website for By the Book. There was nothing, not
even a holding place for a website someday. Other mentions came up under her
name, though. Pictures of fundraisers, a tax levy protest, a charity drive for
the historical district. Paul blinked at the photos. Alice Augustine was about
forty-five years younger than he’d figured. And pretty. Very pretty in that way
that women are when they don’t try to change too much about their hair and
face. She looked slightly uncomfortable in most pictures, but there were a few
that made him lean forward and look closely. In one, she was handing a sandbag
to a pair of hands belonging to a person outside the frame. Her hair was pulled
back, long curls flying around her face, rain soaking her jeans, both feet
planted in several inches of mud. She looked intense, focused. He would not
have pegged this woman for a bookstore owner. She looked like she would be more
at home as a karate instructor. No, something outdoors. Landscaper? He could
see her creating beauty and change from the boggy river land.
                Paul
caught himself at those last vague images and grimaced. He’d always been a
sucker for the brainy girls. Especially the pretty, brainy girls. But he wasn’t
a kid anymore. He had enough on his plate without crushing on a bookstore
owner. Plus, as part of the Natchitoches elite, she was one of those people
that wouldn’t have spared a glance for him or his mama, way back when. He
closed the page and went back to his email. There was another message from
Alice.
                Dear
Mr. Keats,
                I
don’t come from a book-loving family so there are no special literary treasures
from my grandparents, but I did inherit a whole store from my dearest friend
Mr. Perrault. I stomped into his store, an angry teen know-it-all, and demanded
he rearrange a whole section. He answered me with smile, gave me