The cooler was only about half full. Inside, a bottle of Yoo-hoo lay on its side, its yellow label a bright spot. On long-ago church visits with her father in South Louisiana, she’d been rewarded with one of the chocolate drinks at a store owned by a deacon. The drink tasted cold and sweet as her father chatted under fluorescent lights, an antiseptic smell of cleaning supplies in the room.
She liked those memories.
Walking to the counter, she laid a five-dollar bill on the linoleum tacked to the wood. “I’m living dangerously today,” she said with a grin. “I’ll have a biscuit too.”
Bill, the hunched-over owner, raised his eyebrows. “If you were gonna start eating biscuits today, you shoulda got here earlier. Electric company got ’em all this morning. They worked all night to get our power back on.”
Avery looked over at the biscuit case and frowned. Sitting in the front corner was one biscuit wrapped in white butcher paper. She tapped on the case. “What about that one?”
“I’m holding that for someone.”
“You can reserve a biscuit?” She didn’t pull off the joking tone she was going for.
“I can do anything I please.” Bill’s words reminded her of Evangeline’s, causing her face to grow hot. He punched the keys on the gigantic gilt-edged cash register. “Will there be anything else?”
“Is there a problem, dear?” A wavering voice came from behind the case, and Avery strained to see Martha, Bill’s wife, crocheting in an old office chair.
The man met Avery’s eyes. “Just a cranky customer.”
“I’m not the one who’s cranky.”
“This weather has everyone out of sorts.” Martha rose gingerly from the chair. She looked like she might fall to the floor as her skein of thread had done. “Is your power out, honey?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Avery forced a chuckle. “I really need that biscuit.”
“I should have made more.” Martha steadied herself by gripping the wooden frame of the counter. “I flat ran out of steam.”
Bill looked over her shoulder and withdrew the biscuit from the case. As Avery reached for it, he snatched it back and pointed a gnarly finger at a word written in blue ballpoint ink. Hers. “You might come in here every day, but you don’t own the place. This is sold.”
“I could make you a piece of toast,” Martha said. “Or would you like a package of doughnuts?”
“No one’s coming in to claim that biscuit on a day like today.” Avery kept her voice soft, not wanting to upset Martha, but she glared at Bill.
“Nothing would keep me from my daily biscuit,” a voice said behind her.
“This gal’s trying to steal it from you.” Bill’s tone lightened.
Avery turned. The red-haired woman laughed as she approached, a small carton of milk in her hand. Underneath an all-weather coat, she wore a pair of black slacks with a sweater. A large, middle-aged woman, she wasn’t fat—more like oversize. With the new hair color and spiky cut, she looked like a punk rocker-turned-secretary.
“Sorry,” Avery muttered and patted the money she had laid on the counter. “I’ll just have coffee.”
“If you don’t want the orange juice, put it back in the cooler,” Bill said.
Avery sucked in a breath.
“Give her my biscuit, Bill. My treat. And I’ll put that juice back for her.”
Bill stared at the biscuit for a moment and laid it on the counter.
“That’s okay.” Avery picked up the cardboard coffee cup. “I don’t need it.”
The redhead picked up the small white package and thrust it, causing Avery to step back. The woman moved with her. “I want you to have it. Today’s my birthday, and my boss will probably bring a cake anyway.” She stepped nearer. “Take it.”
With the biscuit almost against her coat, Avery grabbed it, murmured her thanks, and bolted for the door.
“You left your change,” Bill yelled.
“Give it to her.” Avery pushed the door hard and flung the screen door back, cold air hitting her hot face.
Juggling the coffee and biscuit, she jerked open the heavy SUV door and slid onto the leather seat. The door eased shut, not catching, but she didn’t take time to adjust it nor to put on her seat belt.
She tossed the biscuit on the seat, plopped the coffee into the cup holder, then turned the key. The woman was just trying to be nice. It wasn’t her fault Bill was a grouch.
The SUV sputtered and died. Does everything have to be a hassle?
Avery turned the key again, mashed the accelerator until the engine steadied, and jammed the vehicle into gear. The SUV hesitated again, so she stomped it, putting all her recent frustration into the effort.
But her vehicle didn’t zoom backward as intended.
It lurched forward before skidding sideways with a sound like a lawn mower running over a steel pipe. The white car next to hers moved a foot or so, right up against Avery’s SUV, and then jumped forward, Avery’s vehicle dragging it.
The movement flung her toward the dashboard, the coffee and biscuit flying into the air just before Avery bumped the steering wheel. The rearview mirror fell onto the seat as the SUV cleared the curb. Her purse flew off the seat and spilled onto the floor.
She had been on a roller coaster in middle school that felt like this before it stopped, jerking her right and left. Her teeth jarred, and her mind scrambled for instructions on what to do.
Right before the vehicle hit the metal-and-glass wall, Ms. Carrottop burst from the store, jumping to the side as the SUV approached. “My car!”
Chapter 4
The wham of the impact coincided with the air bag catapulting Avery back against the seat.
She closed her eyes and laid her head forward against the bag, then jerked back from the chemical smell. People said it had a sickening thud. No one mentioned how an air bag smelled.
What had Cres smelled with his last breath?
“Are you all right?” A female voice, the redhead probably, asked while someone knocked on the passenger window.
“Did you see that?” Bill’s voice rang out. “She crashed into our store.”
“I called 911.” Martha picked up speed as she hobbled near. “The police are at a wreck on I-20. They want to know if she’s conscious.”
The redhead loomed next to Martha. Their path was blocked by Avery’s vehicle across the sidewalk.
Dazed, Avery turned her neck and looked down at her body. No visible blood, but her skin was ice-cold. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and she fought to draw a breath. I’ve got to get out of here! She leaned to push open the door but instead nearly fell off the seat and into the side of the white car. Her door was gone!
No, not gone. It was crushed against the back fender like a wadded-up piece of aluminum foil.
“We need to drive her to the hospital, Bill.” Martha’s voice wafted through the open door. “Or get an ambulance.” The trio peered through the windshield as though looking at a museum exhibit.
“I don’t need an ambulance.” Avery scooted across the front seat, her bottom smashing the biscuit. Sausage and mustard smeared the seat, and she groaned.
“Where does it hurt?” The redhead opened the passenger door.
“Nowhere.” Avery put a hand to her neck. “Everywhere. I’m sorry about your car. I have insurance.”
“You’d better.” The woman’s laugh was shrill.
Avery’s legs wobbled when she crawled out. “I’m Avery. Avery Broussard.” She grabbed at the woman to keep from falling, which seemed to be something of a habit lately.
“Whoa, steady there. We need to ice that bump on your head and get your insurance papers. I’m Kathleen Manning.”
Avery touched her forehead and winced.
Kathleen’s gaze followed the movement, landing on her left hand. “We need to call your husband!” The corner spun when Avery shook her head.
“Is there someone else? Family? Coworkers? A friend?”
Family? No way would she worry
her dad over this, and Evangeline wouldn’t welcome a call. Maybe Ross, but T. J. had said he was out of town. Coworkers? She wasn’t sure she had a job anymore. Friends? For a year she’d all but been a hermit.
No answer was needed, though, the question overshadowed by the commotion of people stopping to gawk. They’d better not be here for a biscuit, or they were in for a big disappointment.
“Avery?” A man’s voice joined the ruckus, and she squinted to see T. J. sprinting toward her. “Are you hurt?”
“Oh, dear Lord.” She put her face in her hands. “Just a little headache.”
“You’re going to have a big headache,” Bill said. “I expect you to pay for all the damages. And if this messes up our deal, you’re responsible.”
“Now, Bill.” Martha patted his arm.
The parking lot tilted.
“She needs to sit down.” T. J. put his arm around Avery’s waist, and she relaxed as he eased her onto the curb.
“She a friend of yours?” Bill asked.
“She is.” T. J. knelt beside her, so close she caught a glimpse of herself reflected in his eyes. Despite mud on the knees of his jeans, he smelled crisp and clean, a mix of cold outdoors and soap. Not the expensive cologne Cres had favored, but ordinary soap. An enticing scent, lacking pretension.
“Who are her people?” Martha wobbled closer.
“My family doesn’t live here.” Avery tried to stand.
“Careful.” T. J. put a hand on her arm. “Relax.”
The blare of sirens joined the cacophony in Avery’s head. A police car roared through the intersection, sounding a loud horn as it pulled into the run-down parking lot, blue lights flashing.
“They made it after all.” Martha sounded proud. A couple of bystanders stepped closer, embellishing what had happened to anyone who would listen. Bill shook his head and a metal cane simultaneously.
An African American woman in a tan police uniform approached with her forehead wrinkled. “Anyone hurt?”
“Just my store.”
“Sir,” she said to Bill in the voice of a middle-school principal, “I’m trying to establish if we need an ambulance.” Her gaze landed on T. J. and widened. “T. J.? What’s going on here?”
“Hey, Jazz. I don’t think there are any serious injuries.” He peered at Avery. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“I need to go to work.”
The officer knelt and threw T. J. a big smile, a look Avery suspected he was used to from women. He smiled back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Avery, this is a friend of mine, Jazz Hamilton. She’ll take good care of you.”
“That Broussard woman doesn’t need coddling.” Bill pointed at the storefront. “This mess is her fault. Arrest her.”
Avery nodded. “The accident was my fault.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Bill protested. “You destroyed our store.”
“You should have been more careful,” Martha said, her voice stronger.
Officer Hamilton held up her hand, her unpolished nails clipped short. “If everyone will be quiet, we can proceed.” She flipped to a blank form on a clipboard, then slipped on a pair of reading glasses, her pen poised above the paper.
“Let’s start with you, Avery. Tell me what happened.”
“I told you,” Bill growled, pointing at Avery. “That woman ran into our store.”
The officer tilted her head, looking at Avery over her glasses.
“The parking lot was slick,” Avery started.
“The ice had melted,” Bill interrupted. “She was speeding. And mad. Real mad.”
“Upset,” Martha corrected.
“My car was parked next to hers, and she slid into it,” Kathleen said.
Avery squeezed her eyes closed, and T. J. touched her hand.
“She smashed Kathleen’s car first and then the front there.” Bill gestured with his cane at the broken window and the hole in the building.
“Were you upset?” Officer Hamilton asked.
Only for a few years.
Bill broke in again. “She was mad because I wouldn’t sell her a biscuit.”
That small furrow appeared between T. J.’s eyebrows. “Bill, why don’t you let Avery give her side of the story?”
“Good idea.” The officer nodded.
“I wasn’t speeding, and I didn’t care about the biscuit. My car stalled, and I tried to back up, but I went forward instead.” Avery put her hand to her head, wishing she could escape the crowd closing in around her.
“Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?”
“I need to get this over with.”
The officer looked at Avery over her glasses. “Your license, please.”
“It’s, it’s on the floorboard. And my insurance card’s in the glove box.”
“I’ll get them.” T. J. fished around in the car until he came up with the items.
Ms. Hamilton squinted at the license, and her gaze moved to the small slip of white paper in her hands. “Do you have a current proof of insurance? This one’s expired.”
Avery’s head ached as she tried to think where the new card was. “I’m insured.”
“You’d better be,” Kathleen muttered.
The officer walked to the back of the Tahoe and narrowed her eyes. “Your tags are expired too.”
“That can’t be right. One of the maintenance guys took care of that last week. He was supposed to put the updated insurance card in there too.” The words made her sound like the spoiled rich woman she had fought so hard not to become. “I should have taken care of that myself. I’ll pay for the damages.”
“T. J., will you stay with her while I run her license?”
Avery frowned.
The officer arched one eyebrow. “Would you rather sit in the back of the patrol car?”
Avery gave her head a quick shake, and Ms. Hamilton spoke into a radio in the car and occasionally jotted something. Bill, still grumbling, ushered Martha back into the store. Kathleen placed a call, her voice urgent as she whispered into the receiver.
“You sure you don’t want to call someone?” T. J.’s brown eyes were filled with concern. “Ross would—”
“Do you always rescue nutcases, or is it just me?”
He looked as though he was considering a smile. “I’ve needed rescuing a few times myself . . . At least you haven’t thrown up on me.”
“T. J. helps everyone.” Officer Hamilton returned, clipboard in hand. “You couldn’t ask for a better champion.”
“Okay, Jazz. Don’t go overboard.” He nudged a rock with the toe of his boot. “I just stopped for a glass of tea. It was a slow morning anyway.”
“Yeah, right.” The officer pointed at his muddy knees. “I heard about the busted pipe at the mission.”
“Bud did most of the hard work on that one.”
The radio on her police belt crackled with a message, and she sighed. “Enough chitchat.” She handed Avery her license, insurance card, and a ticket. “Get that insurance straightened out immediately or you’ll lose your license.”
“Will do. I’m a very responsible person.”
The officer’s expression was impassive. “You might want to keep ice on that head and take a couple of ibuprofen.”
Nearby, Kathleen’s phone played a twangy country-and-western song, and she answered and spoke for a few moments before holding it away from her ear. “I’m having my car taken to the garage, Mrs. Broussard. Do you want them to tow yours?”
“It’s Avery.”
“Do you want them to tow yours, Avery? Yes or no?”
“Is the place reputable?”
Kathleen laughed, a big, bold sound. “She wants to know if you’re reputable,” she said into the phone.
“Oh, just tell them to tow it.” This probably wasn’t the time to call the Broussard mechanic.
“Do you have someone to drive you home?”
Avery turned to T. J. “I’d appreciate a lift. I can pay you.”
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He smiled. “This one’s on the house.”
Kathleen’s cell phone buzzed, and she glanced at the text message on the screen. A shadow ran across her eyes before she looked up. “Could you drop me off too? Thanks to all this”—she waved at her car—“I’m late for work.”
“Sure.”
Kathleen held out her hand. “Avery, I’ll need a check to cover my deductible right now. If your insurance doesn’t pay, I’ll need more, of course.”
“My checkbook’s in the car.” She flinched as she looked at the smashed SUV.
“I’ll get it—and your other things.” T. J. headed to her vehicle. “Go sit down.”
As Avery walked toward his truck, Kathleen was mumbling. “I knew better than to dye my hair red. You don’t change your life by changing your hair color, no matter what Lindsey says.”
Chapter 5
Avery burrowed under the quilt, wishing whoever was hammering would stop.
She sat up.
That wasn’t hammering.
Someone was knocking—make that pounding—on her door.
Shivering, she ran a hand through her tangled hair and contemplated crawling back in bed.
Wham. Wham. Wham.
Already dressed, including her coat, she slipped her feet—covered in two pairs of socks—into the fleece-lined slippers next to the bed and exhaled, her breath hanging in the air.
“Avery Broussard,” a voice called out. “Open this door immediately! I need to talk to you.”
Light-headed, she made her way through the living room, her eyes feeling as though they were encrusted with gravel. A small beam of daylight shone over the plantation shutters, and the angle of the sun confused her. She must have napped longer than planned.
Glancing through a slat, she saw a mop of red hair. The woman she’d crashed into! Avery’s mind scrambled to recall her name—Kathleen. That was it. Kathleen Manning.
Wham. Wham. Wham.
“Give me a minute,” Avery muttered. After taking off her leather gloves, a gift from Cres on their first ski trip, Avery fumbled with the key in the dead bolt and wrestled the door open.
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