Magnolia Market (9780310330585)

by Christie, Judy

  “What’s the deal with him anyway?”

  “He’s one of those guys who thinks life cheated him.” T. J. shrugged. “He watched his father sign their house away in the Great Depression, he never had a son, and he missed out on a city job that his brother got. He never got what he wanted.”

  “That’s quite a list.” She squirmed in the seat. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Have you gotten what you want?”

  His shoulders relaxed. “I’m working on it. I like my job, and Bud’s a great partner. I’ve got a nice little place to live.” He glanced at her. “And I meet intriguing people from time to time.”

  Her face still felt warm when they exited the truck and entered the dark store. T. J. inhaled and looked around, squinting in the darkness. “You’ve already got the place looking better. Smells better too.”

  “Eau de Pine-Sol. Covers a multitude of sins.”

  He looked at the big old clock that hung on the wall behind the register. “I’m going to run.” He hesitated. “Unless you need me to stay.”

  “I’ve got it.” She had to do this on her own. “I’ve managed a store for years.”

  “But you didn’t have to worry about grease fires and faulty coolers there.” His mouth turned up in one corner, attractive crinkles at the edge of his eyes.

  After shooing him to the door, Avery impulsively laid a hand on his sleeve. “Drop by later and I’ll give you that free biscuit.”

  “I might just do that.”

  Avery was smiling as she locked the door and hurried over for a quick check of the cooler, which, though almost empty, seemed to be working. Next she pulled out her list of notes from Bill and rolled up her sleeves. “I’m going in,” she murmured to herself.

  Preheating the big oven, she pulled out the oversize wooden biscuit bowl and a vat of flour. She grabbed a white apron from a hook on the storeroom door, found the other ingredients, and began to mix, working on the worn butcher-block surface behind the register.

  When the blobs of dough looked respectable, she shoved the first batch in the oven and moved to the coffeemaker. She started two pots of regular and added a pot of decaf, supposing she’d learn who in the world drank that stuff.

  From there she moved to the register. The combination to the safe was in two parts—taped inside a cabinet door in the storeroom, and underneath a shelf beside the register. Bill considered this a devious way to thwart any burglar.

  Avery got on her knees to read the scrawl, figuring it would take a mighty motivated robber to go to all this trouble. When she opened the safe, the cash drawer contained small bills as promised. With a practiced system, she counted the money and prepared the cash drawer, then wrote the balance in her notebook.

  She glanced at the clock. Five minutes until six.

  Picking up a greasy plastic lemon from the basket by the register, she wrinkled her nose and tossed it into the garbage bin by the back door. “Three points!” She dumped the remaining lemons in the trash. “Sorry, Martha, but those things were gross.”

  After grabbing the cluster of keys, she turned the lock and flipped the Open sign.

  Victory ran up her spine.

  Magnolia Market might not have the class of Evangeline’s Boutique, but it had its own personality. And she was doing something for someone else.

  Chapter 12

  The soft-drink delivery guy took the next-to-last biscuit, smiling as he bit into it. “Are you sure Miss Martha’s in the hospital? This tastes just like hers.”

  But he wrapped the biscuit in a napkin. “I’ll eat the rest later.”

  “They’re horrible, aren’t they?” Avery wrinkled her nose. “I was afraid they’d burn, so I took them out too soon.”

  “I like them moist in the middle.”

  “They’re gummy.”

  He looked at the napkin. “Other than that, how’s business?”

  “Slow, thank goodness. A few Saturday regulars came in. I couldn’t have handled a crowd.”

  “It’s been light for a while. Bill’s cut his orders in half the past year.” He looked away from Avery as he spoke. “I know you’re filling in, but my boss, well, I was supposed to remind Bill that he’s overdue on his last invoice.”

  “He must have overlooked it.” She picked up her notebook. “If you’ll give me the amount, I’ll tell him.”

  “I can leave another copy of the invoice—to go with the three I’ve already given him.”

  “That bad?”

  “That bad.” He lowered his voice, looking at a customer choosing a candy bar. “The other salesmen have the same problem. Some of them won’t sell to Bill anymore.”

  Avery backed toward the counter. “He seems like a straight shooter.”

  “A broke shooter.”

  Within a few hours, she had heard the same story time and again. After the lunch rush, which included throwing together sandwiches and cooking a burger while ringing up purchases, she wiped off the biscuit case.

  After a moment of consideration, she pulled the lone remaining biscuit from the case and tossed it, then rested her head on the counter.

  “Rough start?”

  Her head popped up so fast, she pulled a crick in her neck. T. J. stood in front of her.

  “If you’re here to gloat, don’t bother. You were right.” She gnawed on her lip. “I’m afraid I just threw away the last biscuit. But, trust me, you wouldn’t have wanted it. Free or not.”

  He held out a plastic grocery sack. “I have something for you.”

  She eyed it but didn’t take it.

  He gave the bag a shake. “It’s something I had at the house.”

  Avery reached in and pulled out a beat-up iPhone, case scratched and glass cracked.

  “I figured any phone was better than no phone. It doesn’t look like much, but it works . . . most of the time.” He reached across and tapped the back. “The number’s written here.”

  “For me?” She coughed. Was she choked up over a broken cell phone?

  T. J. stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and moved from foot to foot. “It’s not as fancy as you’re used to, but maybe it’ll help until you get to the phone store.”

  She wouldn’t have been happier with a lavish piece of jewelry. “Are you sure?”

  “I got another one when Bud and I opened our business.” He shrugged. “I don’t need it.”

  “For real? I’ve been trying to get in touch with Kathleen and this will help. I left the store number, but she hasn’t called.”

  “Were you expecting her?”

  “She said she’d pick me up at the hospital last night, but she never showed. It—” Avery stopped and gave a half laugh. “I was going to say it isn’t like her, but I’ve only known her a few days.”

  “Maybe she got tied up at work.”

  “She did mention some sort of corporate visit.”

  T. J. looked at the display case. “So the biscuits didn’t work out so well?”

  “Let’s say there’s a learning curve.”

  He smiled. “Anything I can do?”

  “Find a buyer for the store?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “I’ve asked Ross to help, but he called this morning and said there’s not a prospect in sight. Commercial property doesn’t move quickly at this time of year.”

  Avery blew out a breath. Her feet were killing her. Not that she would admit it to T. J. “I can’t imagine property on this corner moving well any time of year.”

  “The gallery across the street’s doing pretty well.”

  Avery picked up the blue pen by the register and twirled it in her hand. “Do you think Ross could contact the guy who wants to buy the land?”

  T. J. drew back. “That guy wants to bulldoze this place. Bud and the other artists from Sweet Olive are counting on this corner. Art means a lot to those people.”

  She looked outside at the empty street. “It’d take a lot of work to turn this around. You should see Bill’s l
edger.” She shook her head. “Revenue’s low and his credit’s not great.”

  T. J. went to the front door, gazing through the screen. “It’d be a shame to see this old place go—it’s part of Samford’s history. This corner used to be lively—especially when my parents were young.”

  “Really?”

  “Bud says this store’s diner counter was where everyone came to find out what was going on in Samford. Without Facebook or Twitter, they had to go somewhere, right?”

  Despite her fatigue, she couldn’t hold back her smile. “An Internet café without the Internet.”

  “Kids came here for candy after school, and Bill swears Elvis stopped here every time he played the Hayride in Shreveport.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I have a hard time seeing Elvis hanging out with Bill and Martha.”

  T. J.’s laugh was warm, sending a tingle down her spine. “Before I-20 and I-49 were built, everyone passed by Trumpet and Vine sooner or later.” He pointed across the street. “That church hosted famous revivals—traveling preachers would stop because it was on their way to some other place in the Bible Belt. Crowds flowed out the doors.”

  Avery stood beside him. “It’s sad that it’s empty now.”

  T. J. nodded. “Ginny Guidry, the woman who organized the artists in Sweet Olive, tells a great story about how she was saved there. Walked the aisle at one of the revivals, and her mother made her have a long meeting with the pastor before she could be baptized.”

  “You should write a history of this corner.”

  “I did.” He winked. “In middle school.”

  “Let me guess. You interviewed Bud.”

  “Pretty much, although even my mother had all sorts of stories.”

  “What did the gallery used to be?”

  “A duplex with a gift shop. Martha’s sister lived upstairs. She was famous for taking in strangers—mostly young women in some sort of trouble.”

  “Next you’re going to tell me that vacant lot was a diamond mine.”

  He leaned toward her. For a second she thought he was about to kiss her—but instead he tapped his finger against her lips. “Don’t be a skeptic.”

  She took a step back. “You make this corner sound magical.”

  “That’s too whimsical for me, but there has always been a sort of chemistry here.”

  At the moment Avery felt a sort of chemistry, but it wasn’t for the landscape. T. J.’s manner had a warmth long missing in her life, and she drew a breath as he continued.

  “That lot was a cotton field until about ten years ago. The owner prided himself on producing the first bale of cotton of the season. Now the land’s tied up in probate.” Staring into space, T. J. put his hands in his pockets. “Don’t you think it would make a great park?”

  Avery looked across at the littered lot—tall, dead grass swaying in the breeze. A rusty piece of farm equipment was covered with vines that had died in the cold, approximating a dystopian sculpture. “And you’re not whimsical?”

  His laugh rumbled from his chest.

  She tilted her head. “So you grew up in Samford?”

  “Born here. I left when I was fourteen and came back about a year ago.”

  “Your parents moved when you were a teenager?”

  T. J. straightened, his expression less genial. “I was sent to boarding school in Connecticut.” He paused. “Not one of my better experiences.”

  “Lots of kids get into trouble.”

  “Not that kind of boarding school. The kind where you wear a tie and blazer.” He tugged on the hem of his T-shirt. “You can imagine how well I fit in.”

  “Why’d you go?”

  “My mother thought it would look good on my résumé—and change my mind about my career.”

  “Did it?”

  “I made buddies from different parts of the country. Got a good education. Didn’t mind living away from my mother. Her house isn’t the kind of place where a teenager feels all that comfortable.”

  Avery frowned. Her parents’ parsonage in Lafayette had been welcoming, and her father’s cinder-block apartment in Haiti was cozy. “What about your father?”

  “He’s a great guy, but super busy.”

  “Ah.” It dawned on her. “That’s why you don’t speak with a true Louisiana accent. Your voice is deep without that—” She hesitated. “Oh, never mind. That’s silly.”

  “No one’s ever described my voice before.”

  Avery stepped back quicker than a crawfish headed for a ditch. “That is the kind of procrastination a woman will resort to when she has a store to clean. I’ve got to get to work.”

  Chapter 13

  The letter in the front door that evening screamed trouble, although Avery had been expecting it. The envelope, Evangeline’s signature light-blue linen paper, was visible from T. J.’s truck. Whether she liked it or not, she would be making a move.

  She turned in the seat. “Thanks for carting me to and from the market today. You’ve been a huge help.”

  “Want me to pick you up Monday?”

  “You’ve gone above and beyond.” She opened the door. “I’ll figure out something by then.”

  “I’m available if you need me.” The half smile he added prompted that flutter in her stomach again. “And I still expect my free biscuit.”

  “It’s yours,” she said and hurried up the sidewalk, then paused to wave as he drove off. Could she have called him back, asked for his opinion on her plan, trusted him with her secrets?

  She dreaded the prospect of dating again, but T. J. seemed like a man who could be fun to go out with. He exuded kindness and was easygoing, unlike Cres and his cadre of friends. Not absorbed with himself but interested in others. Interested in her.

  And despite all that happened, she refused to give up on her dream of a home, a family, a faithful husband.

  Rubbing her eyes, she pulled the envelope from the door and turned the heavy paper over. The Broussard return address was engraved on the back flap. She stepped inside, the house temperature colder than the outdoors. She wrapped her coat around her and sat on the edge of the leather sofa.

  She slid the single monogrammed sheet out and scanned the handwritten letter. The Broussards were selling the house. With Ross out of town, the listing would be done through an associate, and Avery’s things would be put in storage until requested. If she cashed the check and left town, she would get a small bonus from the sale of the house.

  “P.S. One way or another, this will all be wrapped up by early February,” Evangeline had written.

  Avery folded the letter, placed it back in the envelope, and looked around the room. This house once held all her desires. Now she could see only a thing or two she wanted. She headed into her bedroom and pulled out a large suitcase.

  She fished the cell phone—what a thoughtful gift—out of her pocket and laid it on the bedside table. Wrapped in the shawl from her father, she was reaching for the quilt when the phone chirped. She grabbed for it, allowing herself to hope it would be T. J.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m sorry I must have the—” The voice paused. “Avery?”

  She glanced down at caller ID. “Ross?”

  “It’s so good to hear your voice. But why are you answering T. J.’s phone?”

  Her face warmed. “Mine isn’t working.”

  “I thought you were avoiding my calls.”

  “It’s sort of a long story.” She fiddled with her hair. “But you can reach T. J. on his other number. I need to—”

  “Don’t hang up, Ave. I miss you. How are you?”

  She hesitated. Ross was as close as a brother to her, but since the day of Cres’s death, she’d shut him out. “I’m helping out at Magnolia Market. Turns out, selling biscuits isn’t all that different from selling dresses.”

  He groaned. “I hate that I was gone when all of this blew up. My family has caused you more grief than anyone deserves. Cres—”

  “Ross, I don’t want to talk abo
ut it. Your mother’s happy with the other buyer, and I’m putting my life back together.”

  “With T. J.?”

  “Of course not. He loaned me a phone. I’m working and making a plan for the future.”

  “Avery, you earned that boutique. Give me time, and I’ll fix what my parents did.” His voice lowered. “We have a few weeks, but it’s hard to work this out long-distance.”

  “I think we’re past that point.” She put one hand under the quilt for warmth. “I was surprised to hear about your new office. How’s it going?”

  “Baton Rouge has a lot of potential, and I needed to get out of Samford for a while.” He cleared his throat. “There’s great retail space here if you decide to open a new shop.”

  She pulled the quilt around her. Maybe she should tell Ross everything, let him help sort it out. But he didn’t deserve to be pulled between Avery and his parents.

  Ross, too, needed to put the past behind him and find happiness.

  Avery slammed the cab door. The driver, the same one who had dropped her at home four nights ago, unloaded her suitcase, a stuffed black trash sack, and leather tote bag with a concerned expression on his face. “You sure you’re all right?” he asked with his heavy Spanish accent.

  “I am now,” she said, freedom creeping into her bones.

  Plopping her things in the dark alley, he looked around with a crease between his eyes. His two-way radio squawked through a crack in the driver’s window. He waved a hand when she fumbled for her wallet. “No charge this time.”

  “I can pay.”

  He threw her a doubtful look and closed the door. “All the best, señora.”

  Bill’s big ring of keys jingled as Avery rolled the suitcase toward the back door. Nervously she looked over her shoulder and inserted the key in the old lock, then shoved the door open with her hip.

  As she pushed the door closed, the driver gave a wave and pulled off, brake lights glowing. The small light over the register reminded her of her night-light as a child. While it didn’t throw much of a beam, it made the creepy interior bearable. She allowed her eyes to adjust, thankful Bill didn’t have a security system.

  He would be sleeping in a chair in Martha’s hospital room, with no way of knowing what Avery was doing.