Evangeline peeled out of the parking lot, her Mercedes fishtailing on Vine Avenue, and he blew out his breath.
After a brief hesitation, he drew out his phone—and then stuck it back into his pocket. This was the kind of mess he had vowed to stay out of when he came back to Samford. He had more important things to deal with than a couple of rich women arguing about money.
But Avery, with those sad blue eyes—and, okay, that clingy knit dress that hugged her curves—had punched him in the gut.
He looked down Vine Avenue, neither woman’s taillights anywhere in sight. He’d never seen anyone—male or female—do battle with Evangeline with such vigor. “Negotiations,” Avery had called it. A big mess was more like it, but she hadn’t seemed cowed.
With that long blond hair piled in a knot and those high-heeled boots, she looked every bit fancy society—but had shown a kind side. Instead of shoving him back out into the cold, she had asked for one of his business cards. Classy.
No one had mentioned how pretty she was, nor how much spunk she had.
T. J. gave his head a quick shake. He needed to stay as far away from this situation as possible.
He walked toward the parking lot, his boots crunching on the growing carpet of ice, his hands freezing as he opened the truck door. His phone buzzed before he could start the engine, and he looked at the number, tempted to let it roll to voice mail.
But he couldn’t.
He jabbed at the button with a thumb that had gone numb. “I figured I might hear from you.”
“Are you at the dress shop?” Ross Broussard sounded nothing like his usual upbeat self.
“Afraid so.”
“How bad was it?”
“Pretty ugly.” He cranked his engine. “Where are you?”
“Baton Rouge.” Ross sighed. “I don’t know what to do. My mother called from your parents’ house, huffing and puffing about Avery attacking her. Said you witnessed it.”
“Not exactly. I was there for a few repairs.” Just what he needed. His mother involved. “They were fighting about the store.”
Ross cleared his throat. “Today’s the one-year anniversary of Cres’s death.”
“Man, I’m sorry.” T. J. looked at the ice gathering on the street, annoyed at Ross for reasons he didn’t understand. “No wonder they were on edge.”
“Mother says Avery backed out of the deal and is moving back to Lafayette. Too many bad memories.”
“That’s not what it sounded like to me.” Despite hammering as hard as he could, T. J. had overheard plenty of the conversation. He had packed up his tools to leave—but when he rounded the corner, Avery looked like someone had jabbed her in a tender spot, and he decided to intervene.
Which hadn’t worked out particularly well.
“I want her to stay in Samford, put the past behind her.” Ross’s voice was hoarse. “She and my mother have never been close, but I hoped they’d work out some sort of peace.” He exhaled. “We all could use that.”
T. J. wasn’t a betting man—not anymore—but he would never put money on peace between those two. “Avery thinks your mother tricked her, but I didn’t catch the details.” He gave a small cough. “I was doing my best not to eavesdrop.”
“Is Avery still at the shop?”
“She took off before your mom. I offered to drive her home, but she wouldn’t listen.” He adjusted the heater. “It’s a lousy night to be out, especially as upset as she was.”
“I hate to ask, T. J., but could you check on her? Maybe go by her house?”
T. J. rubbed his neck. The alarm had gone off early that morning, the weather sending him and Bud out for a handful of emergency repairs. He was tired. Besides, Avery was the kind of Samford woman he wanted to avoid. “I don’t think she’s in the mood for company.”
“I’ll owe you one. If you check on her, I’ll make sure Atilla the Mom got home. My father should be there by now, but Avery . . . she doesn’t have anyone.”
Avery alone. Uncertain. Mourning. T. J. could fix a broken intercom or piece of furniture. But working on a broken heart? Not going to happen. “How about I call Marsh? He’s better at this sort of thing.”
“He’s down here, handling the legal work on my new office.”
“Camille?”
“That’d be awkward. I don’t think they’ve met. At least Avery knows who you are.”
T. J. didn’t mention that Avery hadn’t a clue who he was. Her confusion had been written all over her face as she attempted to figure out how he fit into the Broussard picture. “Your father maybe?”
“That’d be worse than my mother.”
“Where does she live?” He couldn’t believe the question had come from his mouth.
“On Division Avenue, a couple of blocks from your place. So you’ll check on her?”
“I’ll drive by and make sure she got home.” He paused. “Tell me again why you’re in Baton Rouge?”
“It’s your brother’s fault. He cornered me one Friday night at the Sweet Olive Art Gallery and gave me quite a lecture.”
“That’s Marsh,” T. J. muttered.
“Told me I should quit acting like nothing had happened. Kicked me in the butt and told me to move on with my life.”
T. J. couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Sounds like the same speech he gave me when he and Bud lassoed me in Seattle.”
“You got double-teamed. You were a bigger mess.”
“And this from a man asking me to do him a favor?”
Ross snorted. “I’m glad you’re back. Maybe between us we can keep Marsh under control.”
“Fat chance. Since Camille appeared, he’s over the top. Says he wants everyone to be as happy as he is.” By now a sheet of ice covered the street. “I’d better get going.”
“So you’ll look after Avery?”
“I’ll drive by her house.”
“She’s great. You’ll like her.”
“I’m driving by, not moving in.”
“I owe you one,” Ross repeated and then exhaled, long and loud. “Will things ever get back to normal?”
“For all of our sakes, I hope so.”
No lights were on in the house when T. J. pulled up to the curb, but Avery’s late-model SUV sat in the driveway.
Should I go to the door?
His cell phone buzzed, and he grabbed it, ready for another call from Ross. But it was his parents’ number. It all rushed back. He had stayed away from Samford for a reason.
“Is it true, Thomas?” his mother demanded before he had a chance to say hello. “Evangeline told me how awful that witch was to her. On today of all days.” She drew a breath. “I wish you wouldn’t get involved in things like this.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m not involved in anything. Evangeline hired Bud and me to do a carpentry project.”
His mother let out her trademark sigh, a long, slow inhale followed by a gust of breath. “Twenty-eight years old and doing manual labor. How demeaning, Thomas.” Another sigh. “You could have gone into medicine like your father. Or law, like your brother.”
“I like my work.” He hated his defensive tone but could rarely ignore his mother’s carping. “Bud’s taught me more about design in the past year than I learned in four years of college. The business is growing faster than we can keep up with.”
“I don’t want to talk about how talented my ex-husband is.” His mother’s tone was brittle. “At least you won’t be working with that Avery woman at the boutique anymore.” Her voice lowered as though telling a secret. “She acts sweet, but she’s awful. She hasn’t accepted one social invitation since Cres died. Can you even imagine how difficult that is for Evangeline?”
He knew he would regret asking but . . . “Why does Evangeline care what parties Avery goes to?”
There came the sigh again. “The same reason it hurts me when you avoid obligations. Thomas, our station requires a standard of behavior that goes beyond whittling and picking up stray dogs.”
“Mother, this is not a good time—”
“Working with Bud is a slap in the face to our entire family.” She was working herself into a familiar frenzy. “Everyone in town is talking about it.”
“Okay, so it’s not ordinary, but does anyone seriously care? Dad’s fine with it, and Marsh is half jealous he didn’t think of it. I wouldn’t have gone into business with Bud otherwise.” Granted, not many sons worked with their mothers’ ex-husbands. He wouldn’t mention that his father had sent a dozen big customers their way.
“My feelings count for nothing?”
Maybe moving back had been a prodigal son fantasy. But he enjoyed working with Bud, loved spending time with Marsh and Camille, admired his father.
“You told me for years it was time to grow up.” He’d spent years dodging her ideas for what he should do with his life. How he should dress. What kind of car he should drive. Hint: not a pickup truck. “I’m a man now.”
“You’re still my youngest son, Thomas.”
He looked at the dark house. Apparently plenty of folks had opinions on what Avery should be doing too. At least they had that in common.
A movement in the side yard caught his eye. “Mom, I’ve gotta run. I’ll check in later. Love you.”
“I love you too, Thomas. I just wish—”
“Talk to you tomorrow.” He hung up, watching the shadowy figure walk around the house. Avery, her back to him with both arms extended, was trying to keep her balance in those impractical high-heeled boots.
Jumping out of the truck, he planted his feet on the icy ground, then strode toward her. She turned as he neared, her feet moving back and forth like a novice ice-skater, and T. J. put his arm around her waist to steady her. The faint scent of flowers clung to her hair, a contrast to the smell of wood smoke drifting from a neighbor’s fireplace.
“Easy. You’re going to break your neck.”
“That’d be on par with the kind of day I’m having.” She tried to move away from him but clutched his arm when she nearly fell. “Did Evangeline send you to beat me up? Or are you here to evict me?”
He winked. “I try not to assault people during inclement weather. I live a couple of streets over, and Ross asked me to make sure you got home okay. I’m T. J., by the way.”
“Well, T. J., you’ve done your duty.” She saluted. “You can report to Ross that I’m safe and let Evangeline know I haven’t run off with the family silver.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Yet.”
“Listen, Avery.” He sensed this turf was more treacherous than the icy sidewalk. “Ross would appreciate a call.”
She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “He’s a sweetheart, but he doesn’t need to get dragged into this.”
“He’s your brother-in-law. He wants to help.”
“Former brother-in-law.” She sniffed. “And my cell phone’s dead. This storm’s knocked everything out.”
“You’re welcome to use mine.” He prayed she wasn’t about to get hysterical on him. “Let me help you into the house. You’re freezing.”
“I’m locked out.”
He smiled with relief. “Now that’s something I can help you with. I’ll get my tools.”
Chapter 3
Avery’s champagne-colored Tahoe fishtailed as she turned at the corner of Trumpet and Vine, and for once she was thankful for the oversize vehicle. Tapping the brake, she held her breath as she spun through the empty intersection.
Sane people had stayed home today, but despite the winter-weather advisory, she had been frantic to get out of the house, the walls confining after the fight with Evangeline and the mysterious T. J.’s unexpected visit.
A vacant church sat on one corner, and an overgrown vacant lot occupied another. A bright spot was the Sweet Olive Folk Art Gallery, a renovated two-story house on the southwest corner. A motley group of folk artists had opened it at the end of the year, but Avery hadn’t worked up the nerve to visit.
Nor had she met the woman who developed it, a newcomer named Camille Gardner whom Evangeline disapproved of on principle. From Samford scuttlebutt, Camille sounded like the kind of woman Avery would like, a person who didn’t let roadblocks keep her from her dreams.
Trumpet Street took residents to the interstate and the Red River. Vine Avenue took them to downtown Samford, past the boutique, or to the artist’s colony at Sweet Olive. The latter route was dotted with new oil wells, the catalyst for the birth of the gallery.
Avery looked at the bright-colored bottle tree on the gallery lawn and regretted avoiding the Christmas grand opening, one of a dozen invitations that had gone into the trash.
Even going to the grocery store had become a chore, making Magnolia Market—with its couldn’t-care-less personality—a daily stop.
The year ahead was going to be different, however.
She would visit the gallery. Return to the trendy market where Cres had picked up gourmet meats for parties and ordered smoked turkeys for Evangeline’s Thanksgiving feasts. Perhaps she would even venture back to church.
Clutching the steering wheel, Avery pulled into the parking lot and slid up to the curb. A small hand-lettered Open sign was crammed behind a metal bread advertisement on the old-fashioned screen door.
The metal building, with its peeling white paint, looked like a country store on a deserted road. Handwritten signs, including the menu for the grill, were taped to a smudged plate-glass window. Only a handful of promotions—for bottled water and sports drinks—looked like they’d been issued in this decade. Dim overhead lights glowed against the gray morning.
Her house’s power hadn’t even flickered on, and her cheeks grew warm at the recollection of T. J., who had appeared on yesterday of all days, guiding her through her dark house in search of a candle. That had been after he figured out her front-door lock had frozen.
Thank goodness she stopped short of accusing Evangeline of locking her out.
“Were you a Boy Scout?” she had asked as he pulled out a flashlight, a screwdriver, and a can of WD-40, unsticking the lock in minutes.
“Hardly.” His dark eyes cut to where she squatted next to him on the cold porch. “Way too macho to be a do-gooder.” He wrinkled his nose. “I was an idiot.”
She stared at his mouth as he talked, his deep voice a soothing hum. No one else was stirring on her street, and the ice hit the ground with a crackle. The dark stillness and T. J.’s proximity created a feeling of intimacy, and Avery moved her gaze from his mouth to his eyes. He had clearly grown into a manly do-gooder—and a darned handsome one at that.
“Hmm,” she murmured.
He smiled with such warmth that for a second she forgot she was sitting outside in January. “Hmm,” he echoed and stared back.
There was no pity in his expression now.
Avery’s eyes widened, and she stood so fast she slipped again. “Thank you so much for fixing my lock. I didn’t mean to keep you.”
T. J. rose more gracefully. “Do you have any candles?”
Her brain slipped out of gear as she processed the words. This man and candlelight?
“Candles?” he repeated. “Until the power comes back.”
“Oh, right.” Her face burned, and she pushed open the door. “I’m good. Thanks again.”
But he walked in behind her. “Let’s get you some light.”
“Seriously?”
“What self-respecting man would leave you in the dark?” He tilted his head. “Which way?”
“The kitchen.” Avery gestured to the left, the flashlight beam showing the path. She dug a haphazard collection of candles out of a cabinet and watched T. J. light them, then line them up on the bar that separated the house’s front rooms. His hands were steady as the flames flickered, and the room went from desolate to romantic.
His dark eyes, shadowed in the low light, fixed on her. “That’s a start. Now for the heat.”
“Heat?” Avery was still appreciating the way he looked standing in the cozy kitchen.
“It’s freezing in here.”
“The power will probably be back on in no time. You’ve been great.”
“You sure I can’t take you somewhere?”
She wanted to push him out the door and beg him not to leave at the same moment. “I’m used to staying alone, and I’ve got plenty of covers.”
His eyes narrowed, but he extended the flashlight. “Keep this.”
“You’ll need it.” She fidgeted with her bracelet, cold against her wrist.
“I have another one.” His fingers brushed hers as he placed it in her hand. “It’s a gift.”
“Well, it does happen to be my birthday.” She forced a smile at this confession.
A frown raced across his face. “Today?”
She curtsied, the beam of the flashlight making a weak light show, and waited for the reappearance of that horrid look of pity.
But it didn’t come.
Instead he leaned in and gave her a quick hug. “It seems a little late to say ‘have a good one.’ ” Then he grinned.
The teasing was the best gift she had had in months, and the house did not seem as bleak when he drove off.
And this morning, gray and icy or not, looked brighter.
Once she had her coffee, she would go to the boutique. No matter how upset Evangeline had been yesterday, she wouldn’t sell to someone else. Even she wasn’t that vindictive.
Avery climbed out of the SUV and headed for the market, watching a white sedan pull into the place next to her. It slid uncomfortably close.
“Sorry. I’m not used to the weather,” the driver said, spiky red hair glowing as she eased down the passenger window. The conservative car clashed with her hair, which had been brown the last dozen times Avery had seen the woman here.
“No problem.” Pushing open the store door, Avery stomped the icy sludge off her turquoise-plaid rubber boots and smiled at the elderly man and woman behind the counter. As she did nearly every morning, she walked to the far wall and poured a cup of dark-roast coffee, dumped a pack of sweetener into it, and snapped on a plastic lid.
The market was small, slightly larger than a high school classroom, but the space was jammed with shelves. Passing the dusty display of peanut patties, she pulled a container of orange juice from a wheezing cooler and slid the stubborn door shut.
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