“Until you decide what to do.” Avery delivered the words in a rush, an odd bubble of excitement in her throat. “I have experience and I’m . . .” She shrugged. “I’m available.”
Bill sat up straighter. “What kind of experience?”
“I managed a dress shop for five years.”
A strange laugh erupted from his lips. “You wouldn’t last a day. We sell coffee and biscuits to working people, not frippery to high-and-mighty types.”
Avery set her mouth in a straight line. “I increased profits every quarter at the boutique, and I know how to deal with people.” She glanced at T. J., pleading with her eyes. “You’ve seen the store. Tell him I can do it.”
“I don’t know. A convenience store is a different kind of place.”
Her heart sank at T. J.’s words. “Why not let me try?”
“You’re biting off more than you can chew,” Bill said, but he hadn’t folded his wrinkled body back into the couch.
“Maybe I am, but it can’t be worse than the store sitting closed indefinitely.”
“Do you know how to cook biscuits?” Bill asked.
“I can learn. My mother made excellent biscuits.”
“Hrrmph. Our customers expect the best, not Elly May Clampett rocks.”
“I used to be a decent cook, when I first married, and I know how to read a recipe.”
“You think that recipe’s written down? Martha learned it from her mama, who learned it from hers.”
Avery’s momentum slowed. “Have you ever helped with them?”
“We’ve had that store for fifty years, open every day except Sundays, Christmas, and Thanksgiving. Of course I’ve cooked ’em.”
“You can write the recipe down for me.”
“Like I’d trust you of all people with that recipe—and my cash drawer.”
T. J. leaned forward. “I suppose it could work.” He paused. “I’ll vouch for Avery.”
She stiffened. “I don’t need someone looking over my shoulder.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Bill rose from the couch and crossed his arms. “Ain’t like I got a lot of choice, I reckon. T. J. can keep an eye on you.”
“That makes it sound like I’m on parole.” Avery frowned.
“You owe me and my Martha. This is only a start to repay us.”
She closed her eyes. “It would be short-term, until you get your buyer back or hire someone. And I’ll report to you, not T. J.”
T. J. cut his eyes at her.
Bill’s shoulders sagged again. “I can’t fool with this right now.”
“Hold on,” T. J. said. “What if you work out a deal with Avery till the end of January? She’ll have a job, and you’ll buy time to make a decision.”
“I need to check with my nephew. He likes to stay involved in what’s going on.”
“Just let me know,” Avery said. “I can go over to the store and prepare to open as soon as you tell me.”
Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. “I suppose a few days couldn’t hurt.”
Bill’s voice was stronger as he lectured Avery that afternoon on how to run Magnolia Market. The hospital waiting room was mostly empty.
T. J. had left for a cabinet-building job hours ago, promising to check in later. Avery wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or Bill.
A motley collection of keys on a plain silver circle lay on the table in front of her. “Write this down,” Bill said when her pen paused. “It’s important.”
“Did you get that?” he asked a moment later. “The soft-drink delivery man is due tomorrow, and don’t turn off the light behind the counter when you leave. It’s important to Martha that it’s always on.”
Avery flipped through the small notebook. “I’ve got five pages of instructions, Bill. I can call if I have questions.”
“What’s your phone number?” He fished a scrap of paper and stub of a pencil from his blue work-pants pocket. “I’m sure I’ll remember other things you need to do.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t have a phone at the moment.” Then she brightened. “But you can reach me at the store.”
“What kind of a person doesn’t have a phone?” The familiar scowl covered his face.
“My power’s out. Just because I don’t have a phone doesn’t mean I’m not trustworthy.”
“Maybe this isn’t a good idea . . .”
Avery took a risk and patted his arm. “Even though it hasn’t seemed like it this week, I’m dependable.” She smiled. “Besides, like we said, it’s better than keeping the place locked up.” She snapped her fingers. “Oh! That reminds me. I need the code to the security system.”
“Security system?” Bill’s nose wrinkled again, an expression Avery had come to think of as his default look. “We don’t have an alarm. No need.”
Frowning, Avery leaned forward. “With you and Martha away, maybe you should consider one.”
“What would anyone steal? A loaf of bread? A jug of milk?” He laughed. “Oh, yeah, I know. A package of vanilla-cream cookies. They’re always a big hit.”
“Real funny. That’s not the best neighborhood.”
“Phooey,” Bill said. “The money’s in the safe, and we’ve never had a lick of trouble, other than a vagrant or two hanging out in our parking lot.”
“Sir?” A nurse stuck her head in the door, interrupting the conversation. “Your wife is asking for you.”
Bill bolted up. “Is everything okay?”
“She’s weak,” the nurse said, “but improving.”
“That’s what you’ve said since she arrived,” he grumbled.
“And probably what we’ll say for a few days,” the nurse said, her white clogs slapping against the floor as she walked away.
Bill fell into step behind her and then turned. “I’ll expect to hear how tomorrow’s sales are. You have my cellular number.” He walked back to where Avery stood and picked up the keys. “Keep these in a safe place.”
“Yes, sir.” Avery resisted the urge to salute. The ring of keys was heavy in her hand as she watched him scurry to catch up with the nurse.
Maybe she had been swept up by T. J.’s words on serving others, but this was better than sitting in the dark, cold house.
Chapter 11
Avery turned the key and gave the back door a shove, a hint of satisfaction blossoming as she stepped into the dim market. A blast of warm air hit her, welcome after the frigid parking lot.
She turned to wave at the nurse who had dropped her off when Kathleen had failed to return. “Everything looks fine. Thanks again.”
As promised, a small light shone over the counter, but the rest of the store was dark in the evening gloom. She waited for her eyes to adjust, reluctant to turn on lights that would make customers think she was open, and considered where to start.
She walked through a tiny entryway with a closet, a bathroom, and a storeroom with a tattered armchair, a cot, and a rusty iron table with two chairs. This must be where Martha and Bill rested when the store wasn’t busy. It looked like a boardinghouse room from a classic movie, minus the allure.
Stepping behind the counter, Avery felt like a student who had ventured into the teacher’s lounge. From this vantage point—and in the low light—the store had a charming shabbiness. The old-fashioned fixtures and cluttered displays didn’t look quite so grim by moonlight.
The kitchen area was not as big as the galley on a wind-jammer cruise she and Cres had taken the second year they were married. The oven, big and black, was in the corner near the back door, jammed next to a compact griddle. A sink sat next to that. A small white refrigerator, similar to the one in her first apartment, was on the far wall.
From the counter, looking out, the store seemed almost spacious.
Strolling to the front, she bypassed the accident site and checked the entrance to make sure it was secure, glancing at the littered parking lot.
Drawing in a breath, she rolled up her sleeves and in
spected the big project ahead. The stock, heaped in the corner, needed to be sorted. The floor needed to be swept. Packages of cookies were crushed and had spilled onto the floor, and the newspaper rack was flattened. A few containers of oil and windshield fluid didn’t appear to be damaged.
Maybe the shelves could be salvaged and she could rearrange the merchandise. She rested her hand against the patch job, not a breath of cool air slipping in around the makeshift wall. T. J.’s carpentry was solid.
Wandering through the rest of the store, she swiped her fingers through dust. Everything needed a good cleaning. A prime display spot by the front door contained out-of-date novelty items, packages faded. She could move those and put a more sellable item—candy maybe?—out front. The chips needed to be more visible too.
Avery stopped.
Bill would join Martha in the heart-attack ward if she rearranged his store.
But she could start on the mess she had made.
Heading to the back in search of a garbage bag, she paused. Eww. Something smelled sour. “What in the world?” she muttered, trying not to gag as she felt her way around the bread aisle and over to the cooler. She stepped into the pool of foul-smelling slime before she saw it—sliding into the cooler door, which stood ajar.
This she hadn’t dealt with at the dress shop.
Opening the door fully, she drew in a tentative breath and was slapped in the face by the pungent odor. She held out a hand and picked up a pint of ice cream, which sloshed. Purple liquid dripped from a box of Popsicles.
A whiff of a half gallon of milk had her running to the back door. She stood in the dark, gulping fresh air. After fashioning a mask from a towel, she flipped on one light and opened the storage closet. A mop and a metal pail leaned against the corner with a push broom.
A large roach—weren’t they supposed to disappear in winter?—scurried under her feet as she maneuvered the pail out from the wall, one wheel wobbling. Stuffing a handful of garbage bags under her arm, she put the mop handle under the other. She might not make Martha well, but she darn well could straighten up this store.
With a surge of aggravated energy, she emptied the cooler shelves into the bags, wondering how much inventory Martha and Bill had lost by someone’s carelessness. Hauling the stinky, bulging bags toward the back, she hoisted each over her shoulder, then grunted as she tossed them in the Dumpster.
She tackled the sticky floor next, and went ahead and mopped the rest of the store’s old vinyl floor, her back aching. Maybe she would polish the cases and rearrange the broken shelves in the morning. She could handle the windows on Sunday when the market was closed.
Propped up against the mop, she blinked when the lights came on and dropped the handle with a loud thump.
“Who’s there?” a man’s voice yelled. “Stay where you are.”
“Don’t shoot! I work here.”
“Avery?” T. J., hammer in hand, rounded the counter. “What in the world are you doing here?”
“I’m helping Martha and Bill,” she sputtered. “You know that.”
“In the dark?”
“I didn’t want customers thinking the store is open. I’m cleaning up for tomorrow.”
T. J. lowered his eyes, and Avery looked down. Her clothes were splattered with a variety of sour milk products, the hem of her gray pants, the same ones she had worn yesterday, wet. He sniffed.
“Now you know,” she said after an uncomfortable second. “I break into stores and clean up melted ice cream for kicks.”
“After all you’ve been through, a sense of humor.” He gave a small smile. “Even though you’re on thin ice with the owner. Or should I say thin ice cream?”
Avery gave a small snort. “This from a man armed with a hammer.”
“I thought someone had broken in.” A scowl replaced the smile. “Why’d you leave that door unlocked? Anyone could have come in and—”
“Attacked me?” She patted her pant leg. “I’d have given a bloodcurdling scream. Or curdling ice scream?”
“This is serious. You need to be careful.”
It had been so long since someone had fussed over her that her stomach did a weird flip. Afraid to meet his eyes, she looked at the cooler. “It’s a good thing I did come by. The cooler was open and everything’s ruined.”
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.” T. J. glanced around as he spoke. “This place is pretty run-down.”
“I want to do this. I need to help.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“I started this week as the soon-to-be owner of an exclusive clothing store and was threatened with a hammer while cleaning up spoiled food.” She looked around. “I can take whatever this place throws at me.”
“At least you’re not blaming yourself for”—his nose wrinkled—“that.”
“Oh, this mess is all of my making.”
“You ruined that food?”
“If I hadn’t crashed into the store, Martha wouldn’t have had the heart attack. If she hadn’t had the heart attack, Bill would have checked the cooler before he left.” She nodded, her lips pressed together. “Yep. I ruined the food.”
“Nice guilt trip, but . . .” He pointed toward the cooler. “That thing hasn’t worked right since the Reagan administration. The door never seals properly.”
“I guess Bill forgot to mention that.” Avery drew herself up. “But I volunteered, and I intend to keep my word.”
“Then you’d better get home and get some sleep. The biscuit hour starts early.”
Biting her bottom lip, a habit Evangeline chided her about, Avery looked up at T. J. “Could you give me a ride?”
At four forty-five the next morning, Avery turned on her porch light and looked out of the shutters. Waiting for T. J. to take her to the market, she almost felt like a kid heading off on a youth trip.
Those had been such happy days.
As car lights shone in the driveway, she picked up her purse and hurried to the door, glad to leave the cold, dark house. She needed to make a dozen decisions about her future, ranging from where to live to how to earn a living. But for now, putting one foot in front of the other would be enough. She’d fallen into her chilly bed exhausted and awakened with a sense of promise.
T. J. was halfway up the walk by the time she stepped onto the porch, her coat hanging open. His hair, damp again, looked like he had combed it with his fingers. He wore his canvas jacket over a T-shirt and a pair of wrinkled warm-up pants.
A quick image of Cres heading out to work, all suit and tie, starched and stiff, ran through her mind. He had always tried to project an image, while T. J. seemed comfortable with who he was. She liked that about him, more each time she saw him.
“Morning.” T. J.’s eyes narrowed as his gaze worked its way down her body.
She smoothed the skirt of the shirtwaist dress she had chosen for her market debut. With its hemline just above her knees and sleeves that could be rolled up, it was a good mix of practical and professional. “Thanks for picking me up.” She glanced self-consciously at her shoes, where his gaze lingered. “Is there a problem?”
“Are you sure you want to wear those?”
She looked at the red heels, her favorites, purchased wholesale on a trip to market. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He held up a hand. “I’m no fashion guru, but—”
“Obviously,” she interrupted, focusing her eyes on his worn running shoes.
“Those things look dangerous. Wouldn’t some . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t know, wouldn’t tennis shoes or something be better for a day on your feet?”
“I’m used to being on my feet in these.” She strode past him.
“Whatever you say.” He fell into step behind her.
Avery settled into the truck, adjusting her coat over her dress and fastening her seat belt. “You don’t think I can do it, do you?”
“Avery, this is a different world from the one you’re used to.�
� He climbed inside and started the truck. “This isn’t your responsibility.”
“It feels like it is. Besides, I don’t have anything better to do right now.” She turned her head to look at him. “You didn’t have to give me a ride. I’m sure you’d have rather slept in on a Saturday.”
“Not a big deal. Bud and I are behind on our jobs, and this gets me to the gym before work.”
The gym. No wonder those broad shoulders filled out his shirt the way they did. And working on a Saturday? Cres had saved Saturdays for golf, out-of-town sporting events, and socializing with clients—or people he purported to be clients. She admired T. J.’s work ethic.
“Did you say you live nearby?” She knew it was snobbish, but she hadn’t figured a handyman could afford a place in the River Bend neighborhood. Maybe he rented.
He stifled a yawn. “On Morgan Street, in a duplex. My friends call it twin peaks.”
Avery nodded. “I think I know that house. It has palm trees out front?”
“That’s the one.”
“It’s charming.”
He gave a startled laugh. “Why do I think you just paid me a backhanded compliment?”
“I’ll need to find a new place soon, and I might consider an apartment like that.”
“I know the landlord.” His voice sounded teasing. “I can let you know if the other side opens up.”
She nibbled on her bottom lip. “First I have to master biscuits.”
“Are you really attempting those?”
“A small batch. If everything goes right, I’ll increase the number Monday.”
“You’re mighty brave. Martha’s biscuits are legendary.”
“I’ll be her protégée.” Avery tried to smile, anxiety growing. “Don’t be negative.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “I should tell you that Martha and Bill give me my biscuits for free.”
She rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t sound like Bill.”
“It was Martha’s idea.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
He grinned. “You know as well as I do that Bill hasn’t given anything away in his whole life.”
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