Acclaim for Sweet Olive
“Judy Christie writes small town fiction with big time charm! Sweet Olive is a tender, romantic tale loaded with faith, hope, and heart.”
—LISA WINGATE, NATIONAL BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF THE PRAYER BOX AND FIREFLY ISLAND
“In Sweet Olive, Judy Christie invites us into a community of people who value beauty and prize authenticity, in life and in art. Her story draws readers into this community and makes us want—like the main character Camille—to put down roots.”
—MARYBETH WHALEN, AUTHOR OF THE MAILBOX, THE GUEST BOOK, AND THE WISHING TREE AND DIRECTOR OF SHE READS, WWW.SHEREADS.ORG
“When Camille Gardner is sent to Sweet Olive, Louisiana, to wrap up an oil deal, she plans to get in, get it done, and get out. Distractions prevail—first the captivating and whimsical art of local craftsmen, and then the flying sparks from the handsome attorney who opposes her business plans. Soon Camille’s assignment in Sweet Olive is completely, wonderfully derailed in the most unexpected way. Talented author Judy Christie delivers a page-turning tale of endearing characters set in charming small Louisiana towns.”
—SUZANNE WOODS FISHER, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF THE SEARCH AND THE WAITING
“Louisiana charm! With an endearing cast of characters, Sweet Olive is a heartfelt story with so many twists and turns I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough. I can’t wait to see what Judy Christie does next with the Trumpet and Vine series!”
—CARLA STEWART, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF CHASING LILACS AND SWEET DREAMS
“I enjoyed Judy Christie’s Sweet Olive so much. We all loved her Green series, of course. But in Sweet Olive she turns up the heat and goes deep into the pain of the past then brings us into the hope of the future. Having lived in Louisiana for close to thirty years, I understood these characters and loved visiting with them. The story made me homesick but it also made me smile and cheer and sigh. I loved it from the first page and I think you will too. If you’re looking for a good David vs. Goliath story with a little bit of Louisiana lagniappe, this is the book for you!”
—LENORA WORTH, AUTHOR OF SWEETHEART BRIDE
ZONDERVAN
Magnolia Market
Copyright © 2014 by Judy Christie
ePub ISBN: 978-0-310-33058-5 Copyright © July 2014
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Christie, Judy Pace, 1956-
Magnolia market / Judy Christie.
pages cm.
ISBN 978-0-310-33057-8 (trade paper)
I. Title.
PS3603.H7525M35 2014
813’.6--dc23
2014011398
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover design & illustration: Wayne Brezinka
Cover photography or: IstockPhoto
Interior design: Mallory Perkins
For Paul
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Discussion Questions
With Gratitude
About the Author
Chapter 1
Avery Broussard rearranged a stack of cashmere sweaters on the antique cypress table and straightened the lamp shade. The cozy glow settled her nerves on the gloomy Louisiana afternoon.
She moved behind the counter, then shuffled a stack of credit-card receipts, a small smile visiting her face. Devoted customers, undeterred by a steady January rain, had swooped in for the shipment of Mardi Gras gowns, extra profit flying through the stained-glass door. Only a couple of women had whispered loud enough for her to overhear, but today their snide words did not sting.
Last year had been tough, but the store was at its peak. Everything was in order.
She savored her long-buried happiness.
The tinkling of the bell on the front door snuffed her optimism, though, and she glanced down for a quick assessment of her appearance. The form-fitting knit dress and leather boots whispered style and competence. Her white-gold bracelet reminded her of what was at stake.
Prepared, she plastered on a smile—but balked before the practiced words of welcome escaped.
The guest was not who she expected.
A man, more than six feet tall, stood under the blue awning, just beyond the threshold. His khaki canvas jacket was soaked, and his short, dark hair—brown or black, it was hard to tell—glistened with rain.
Despite the blast of frigid air, warmth washed through Avery at his easy grin. When he stepped to the threshold, his presence infused the space with a dose of male energy that caused Avery’s heart to thud.
He was as unlike the rare males who dashed in for a gift certificate as the boutique was from a Dollar Store.
The attraction fizzled when he stomped his boots, leaving a pile of mud at the entrance.
“Sorry for the mess.” His attention didn’t leave her as his deep voice, with a trace of southern drawl, preceded him into the store. “Your intercom out back isn’t working.”
He carried an olive-drab tool bag and looked vaguely familiar. He wasn’t their regular deliveryman—and surely not a customer.
She straightened her shoulders.
Whoever he was, she wanted him on his way before Evangeline arrived.
He set his tools down and stood on the terra-cotta tile inside the door. “I’m here to start on the repairs. I’ll add that intercom to the list.”
She shook her head, hoping her smile would soften the words. “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong address. This is Evangeline’s Boutique.”
His dark brown eyes narrowed, forming a tiny furrow between his brows.
“I’d be happy to take one of your business
cards,” she added. “I’ll need to have a few repairs done in the spring.”
The furrow deepened, and he glanced at his black sports watch. “I was sure we agreed on five.” The grandfather clock in the corner punctuated his remark.
The five somber chimes caused Avery to draw in a breath. “I hate to send you back out into this weather, but I have a business meeting. Would you like to use the phone to—?”
The creak of the back entrance interrupted her, and she scurried past the sweaters to grab the guy by the arm. “I need to lock up now.”
He looked at her hand on his arm, his eyes lingering before moving back to her face.
“Please,” she whispered, trying to tug him toward the door.
But his work boots didn’t budge as Evangeline glided around the corner. Despite the messy weather, she wore a white wool suit that cost more than most people spend on rent. She propped her umbrella against the counter, a puddle dripping onto the heart-of-pine floor Avery had spent most of Sunday afternoon hand-polishing.
Perfect coral lipstick accentuated the smile Evangeline bestowed upon the man. A glimpse of what looked like relief ran through his eyes.
“You’re early!” she chirped. “What a doll you are for working me in.” Her words bore the saccharine tone usually reserved for social occasions and never bequeathed to employees. And doll? Rugged, handsome, appealing perhaps. Definitely not doll.
Evangeline’s stare went to Avery’s hand, still resting on the muscular arm. A familiar look of disapproval returned.
Snatching her fingers away, Avery took a step back, then fidgeted with her heavy bracelet. His smile slight, the man looked from her to Evangeline. “I’m afraid I caught Avery off guard. We finished our last job ahead of schedule.”
He knew her name? Evangeline had expected him? Avery scrolled through her memory. Was he a new handyman for the family’s rental property?
“I’m sorry.” Avery’s gaze locked with those dark eyes, which surprisingly calmed her. “I didn’t have an appointment on my calendar.”
Evangeline swooped between them and placed her hand on the man’s back in a movement so unlike her that Avery caught her breath. “You can wait in the workroom while I finish up with Avery. It won’t take long.”
“Don’t rush on my account.” His eyes met Avery’s again, reflecting something she feared was pity. Evangeline’s eyes, on the other hand, were as cold as the temperature outside.
Avery didn’t blink. She had learned early on that Evangeline seized upon any sign of weakness, and Avery would show none. “You didn’t mention you’d scheduled repairs,” she said as the man picked up his tool bag and headed to the back. “I didn’t budget for that.”
Evangeline responded with a royal wave of a hand. “Our property manager suggested we take care of a few things.”
“We agreed to wait until the closing.” Avery’s stomach churned. “The bank needs the final paperwork from your lawyer. Didn’t you get my messages?”
“Avery, Avery.” Evangeline made her name sound like a criticism. “There’s been a change in plans.”
“We don’t have time for a change in plans. The closing is next week.” The man had begun hammering in the back room, and the noise mirrored the pounding in her head.
Evangeline stared at the back door, her face impassive. “Creswell’s attorney advised us to go in a different direction. Another buyer approached us.”
“But . . . what . . .” A moment passed before Avery regained control. “I held up my end of our deal. The shop had its best year ever.”
Evangeline stroked a scarf draped around a vintage dress form. “I’ll admit you’ve got a good eye, but that is not sufficient.”
“The details are set!” Avery gestured around the showroom. “I made this profitable.”
“That you have.” Evangeline took the scarf from the display and draped it around her neck. “You increased the value of my little shop quite a bit.”
Avery closed her eyes for a second, then nodded. “I’ll pay more. Amend the contract. I’ll sign. Let’s get this over with.”
“That doesn’t suit Creswell and me.”
Avery shook her head so hard that a few whisps of blond hair escaped her updo and fell around her face. “Cash flow is good, and I have a little in savings. I can handle the note.” It wouldn’t be easy, but she would do whatever it took to make the boutique hers, to get her life back.
“Without our assistance, the bank doesn’t find you the caliber of customer they want. Everyone agrees it’s time for you to leave Samford.” Evangeline’s mouth was pinched, as though someone had taken a key and tightened her lips.
“My future depends on this!” Avery shouted over the hammering. “And I am not leaving Samford. It’s my home.”
“Must you make everything difficult? Creswell should have seen to this a year ago. The house, the car, the job—all of it.”
Avery gripped the bracelet so tightly its ridges stung her hand. “I worked hard for all of that. Without me, this shop would have gone under five years ago.”
Evangeline, moving from behind the counter, reminded Avery of a water moccasin about to strike. “Our name has been raked through the mud far too long. This is over.” She brushed at her skirt as she said the word mud, as though a speck could have landed on her outfit. “You don’t belong here.” One more swipe. “You never did.”
Anger and betrayal erupted within Avery, and she stepped toe-to-toe with Evangeline. “I’m not the one who tarnished the perfect family. I’ve done everything you asked. Everything.” The hammering stopped, causing the words to reverberate through the store.
Gripping the counter, Avery met Evangeline’s gaze, holding it until she looked away. A small victory, at least.
As the quiet grew, the handyman stepped from the rear of the store. He exchanged a quick look with Evangeline, who distanced herself from Avery. “Everything all right?”
“It will be,” Avery said. It has to be. Focusing on an upholstered chair near the dressing room, she willed the tears not to gather. She had not cried before, and she would not cry now.
The carpenter shrugged. As he strode into the back, his steps and the ticking of the clock accentuated the heavy silence between Avery and Evangeline.
“I lost far more than you did,” Evangeline said after a moment. For an instant, she looked less like a shrew and more like a grieving mother. Maybe somehow they could heal together. Then she spoke again. “You must go.”
“Whoa.” The handyman reappeared with two bottles of water and took a step backward at the comment. He looked from one to the other, as though weighing what to say next. “Do you think you should sit down? Maybe calm down a little?”
Avery whirled, accidentally bumping his arm. The man didn’t flinch when one bottle flew out of his hand, splashing onto his faded chambray shirt.
“Honestly, Avery,” Evangeline snapped, “have some dignity. And I do not need to calm down. What gives you the right to come in here and give me advice?”
“My bad.” He headed toward the back but, after a couple of steps, stopped and swiveled to face them. “Would you like me to give Ross a call?”
So he knew Ross too. But then almost everyone knows Ross.
“Absolutely not. He’s out of town, and I won’t have him bothered.” Evangeline snatched up the designer handbag she had given Avery two Christmases ago. “Give me the keys, Avery. Now. This debacle is over.”
“Just a minute.” The carpenter’s voice was calm. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“This is not your concern,” Evangeline hissed. “Get your own life straightened out before you interfere with ours.” She marched to the front door and yanked it open.
The bells mocked Avery with their happy sound, and she looked through the rain-splashed windows. Streetlights had already come on, and the rain sputtered into sleet. “Without this shop, I have nothing,” she whispered, as much to herself as to Evangeline.
The guy moved clos
er. “Let me drive y’all home.”
“That’s not necessary,” Avery said.
“I told you to stay out of this.”
Back straight, Avery headed toward a wrought-iron coatrack at the rear exit and threw a glance at the man. She wasn’t certain what his part in this was, but he was no casual handyman. Their eyes fixed on each other for another moment before she spoke. “I apologize for drawing you into our . . . negotiations.”
Evangeline made a production of locking the front door, then twirled Avery’s key on her index finger. The man shook his head and followed Avery to the door, where she was putting on her jacket. “You shouldn’t be driving.” His gaze was full of a look she knew too well.
Pure pity.
She had recoiled from that look for months. But on this day, from this stranger, it gave her the strength she needed.
With Broussard support or not, she had to make a change.
“I’ll be fine. But thanks.” She walked through the door.
“This is for the best,” Evangeline said before the door clicked shut.
Sleet hit Avery’s face, its sting almost welcome.
The house was dark when Avery pulled into the driveway.
The pale yellow cottage, once welcoming, looked forlorn. Most of the trees and bushes were bare. The giant live oak, which Avery had dreamed would hold a swing for their children, loomed over her, tiny icicles forming on its branches.
She slipped on the steps but regained her balance, stumbling again when she saw the overstuffed envelope with its familiar scrawl peeking out of her mailbox. Thankfully her dad wasn’t here to see the mess her life had become.
Sticking the package under her arm, she jiggled the brass lock, stubborn in the icy dampness. A small click sounded as the key snapped off in her hand.
Clutching the package and her purse, she slid onto the porch and stared out into the night. All those self-help books she’d read had lied. Fresh starts weren’t as glamorous as promised.
Chapter 2
T. J. Aillet stood under the back awning at Evangeline’s Boutique, sleet hitting his head. He should have listened to Bud and worn a cap. And Bud should have listened to him and turned down this job.
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