She walked to the closet of a room, stepped inside, and closed the door before turning on the overhead light, a fluorescent bulb that buzzed like an angry bee. She felt the tension in her shoulders ease.
While it was a far cry from the New Orleans Ritz where Cres had taken her on their honeymoon, it was a warm place to sleep until she figured out her future. She opened the door a crack and slipped through it, collecting the garbage bag first. From it, she pulled her pillow, a sheet, and her grandmother’s quilt and arranged them on the cot.
She corraled the luggage into the tiny space, lifted it onto a kitchen chair in the corner, and pulled out a T-shirt and pair of sweatpants, her toothbrush, and the shawl from her father.
The bathroom was smaller than the pantry at Evangeline’s house, the lavatory about the size of a goldfish bowl. She stashed her toiletries on the back of the commode and prepared for bed.
Sliding into the lumpy cot, she lay back on her pillow and smiled at the ceiling.
For the first time in five years, she was not beholden to the Broussards for the roof over her head.
Chapter 14
The buzzing of the phone roused Avery on Sunday morning, and she felt for it in the dark, trying to regain her wits.
“Darling, are you okay?” her father asked. “I’ve been worried.”
She looked at the calendar on the wall and concentrated on figuring out where she was.
“I got your text with your new number. An ice storm? In Louisiana?”
“I’m sorry I scared you, Daddy. I wanted you to know why I hadn’t been in touch. It’s been wild around here.”
“How’s my birthday girl?”
“Aging.” She forced a laugh. “How’s the birthday girl’s father?”
“Wondering how I wound up with a twenty-nine-year-old.” His warm chuckle was almost as good as one of his hugs. “I miss you. I wish we could talk more.”
“You don’t need to waste money calling.”
“Money’s not that tight. I need our weekly chats. Did Cres’s parents do something special for you on your special day?”
Tell him now.
The words she needed to say wouldn’t leave her throat. “Since the ice storm hit, things have been out of kilter,” she said instead.
“You sound a little blue. Want me to come home?”
“Daddy, you don’t need to offer to come home every time we talk.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m hoping you can visit this summer.”
“Maybe. Things are up in the air right now.” She fingered the fringe on the black-and-brown shawl. “Your gift arrived right on time. Thanks so much.”
“That’s one of the handmade items I was telling you about. What do you think?”
“It’s lovely. I’m wearing it right now.” She considered her next words. “But I don’t think it’s what Evangeline wants in the store.”
“Then I’ll keep looking for something else to sell.”
“Uh, Dad, most boutique customers go for name brands. But I want to buy some for gifts.” These goods would be worthy of her tight cash. “How are the children? I miss them.”
“Wonderful. And challenging. New residents show up every week.” He paused. “Angel said to tell you hello.”
“She’s still there?” Joy and sorrow collided within Avery.
“I doubt she’s going anywhere. No one has come forward since her grandmother died.” He sighed. “She’s twelve now, all arms and legs and still talking about your last visit. She wants to grow up to be like you.”
Avery flinched. She was not worthy to be a role model. “Give her a hug for me.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to make a trip home? I haven’t been there since, well, since Cres’s service.”
“You’re the best, Daddy. I love you, and I wouldn’t want you anywhere else. You’re doing something special.”
“I wish we could have been together for your birthday. This year especially.” His voice softened.
“Your work’s more important than a birthday dinner.”
“I feel like I let you down.”
“Daddy, aren’t I supposed to leave you and grow up?”
He chuckled. “Are you telling me to get a life?”
“Don’t fret. Something interesting’s happening with me. I’m not sure how it’s going to work out, but I like it.”
“Uh-oh.”
“What do you mean ‘uh-oh’? That’s a good thing.”
“When your mother said something like that, I knew I’d better watch out.”
“I’m finally doing something I feel good about.” She reflected on the idea, unable to voice the hope she felt.
“You know I’m here anytime. I pray for you every day.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t have made it otherwise.”
When she hung up, she pulled out her battered Bible, a gift from her parents when she turned thirteen, and hugged it to her chest, inhaling the familiar smell.
She flipped it open, and it fell to the oft-read passage in Jeremiah. “ ‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’ ”
Hope and a future.
Since the early days of her marriage to Cres, she had turned to those words—and since his death, they had been her rock.
A collage of memories moved across her mind, but T. J.’s smile and her father’s encouragement overrode the familiar pain. Maybe the path was getting easier. She wanted to believe it was.
She looked back at the verse and bowed her head. “Help me, God.”
Then she brushed her hand across the Bible and stood, too much to do to surrender to emotion.
She had to make a practice batch of biscuits.
The phone, a black wall model that had to be forty years old, was ringing when Avery finished sweeping the front sidewalk, and she composed herself before answering.
“Magnolia Market, Avery speaking. May I help you?”
“Are you working for me or the chamber of commerce?”
“Oh, Bill, good morning.” She dusted the counter as she talked, stretching the cord.
“You were supposed to call me last night.”
She wrapped plasticware in napkins. “It was late,” she said after a moment. “I had to take care of a few things at home.”
He made a harrumphing noise. “Seems like you could have spared a minute or two. Did we make any money yesterday?”
“Not much, but tomorrow will be better. I made a big Open sign to hang out front . . . you know, in case people think you’re closed because . . . because of Martha’s—”
“Not a bad idea,” he jumped in. “Did you explain to the regulars?”
“I did. They said to tell Martha they’re praying for her.”
“What do they say about the biscuits?”
“That I need to take lessons from Martha.” She laughed but didn’t tell him she had scrapped three practice batches today, each worse than the one before.
“Did you sell all of them?”
“All but one. They buy them even if they’re not as good.” She puttered around behind the counter. “Is Martha still improving?”
“She’s got a long way to go.” Bill’s voice was gruff. “Her heart was in worse shape than anyone realized, and she may have had a little stroke. I’m not real sure what kind of timetable we’re looking at.”
“You take care of her and don’t worry about the store.” Now wasn’t the time to think about how fast February was approaching.
“Magnolia Market’s not the same as some gal’s dress shop.”
“That’s for sure.” She bit back a laugh. “But I can hold things together for a while.” She looked at the diminishing shelves of bread and hoped she wasn’t making another bad decision.
“Don’t forget to call and let me know how things go tomorrow.” Bill hung up.
“You’re welcome,” she said as she put the receive
r on the hook. But truth was, she hoped he would let her stay a few days more.
The faint knock startled Avery, who was rearranging a shelf of outdated seasonings, and her heart sped up. Maybe T. J. had stopped by to see how things were going.
Adjusting her ponytail and brushing the dust off her jeans, she hurried to the front door.
“Hi.” The woman standing outside ran a hand through her short tawny hair.
“Hello.” Avery turned the key and opened the door a crack. “I’m sorry, but the market’s closed on Sundays.”
The woman’s smile transformed her face. “I’m Camille Gardner from the Sweet Olive Art Gallery across the street.” She stepped in the store, her beat-up cowboy boots clomping on the floor. “Is Martha better?”
“She’ll be in the hospital for a while, but she’ll be glad to know you stopped by.”
“So you’re related to Bill and Martha?”
Avery gave a quick shake of her head. “I’m a . . . friend. I’m Avery Broussard.”
“Avery . . .” Camille studied Avery’s face. “I’m new to the area and still trying to remember who’s who. Your name sounds familiar.”
“I don’t think we’ve met, but I hear the gallery’s fantastic.”
“You should let me give you a tour.” Camille’s voice rose with excitement. “We have the best regional art, and the artists are super nice.” She raised her eyebrows. “Can you tell I like my job?”
“I was beginning to suspect you did.” Avery grinned.
Camille took another step into the store, touching a display of chips in a crockery bowl. “You’re a miracle worker. This place looks so much better.” She slapped her hand across her mouth. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, but things look . . . well, cleaner.”
Avery pointed to the dirt on her jeans. “Don’t look too closely. I’ve got a long way to go.”
Camille’s smile broadened. “So you’ll be running the market?”
“Temporarily. A few days or so.”
“Darn. I hoped I might rope you into helping with the corner. I’m trying to get a crusade going, but Bill isn’t interested.” She picked up a peanut pattie. “I believe his exact words were: ‘I’ll be dead. Why should I care?’ ”
Avery hooted, a laugh so unexpected that she slapped her hand over her mouth. “That’s our Bill. Ever the charmer.”
“So would you be interested in helping?”
“I’m just lending a hand here.”
“You’re the kind of person we need. This corner’s going to be turned into light industry—whatever that means—unless the community gets involved.”
“I’ve never been part of something like this.” Camille’s enthusiasm was hard to ignore. “What exactly would I do?”
“Anything you wanted. We need everything from people picking up litter to someone to run for city council who cares what happens to the neighborhood. We need to find a buyer for that church and publicize the art gallery—and Magnolia Market.”
Avery twirled her bracelet around her wrist. “A few of Bill’s customers say the corner’s doomed, that businesses are moving west of town.”
“They’re just naysayers.” Camille grabbed Avery’s arm. “We can’t let that happen. The Sweet Olive artists worked so hard to get the gallery remodeled. Samford needs more character, not more cookie-cutter buildings.” She looked down at her hand and slowly removed it. “Sorry, but I want this to work.”
“So you’ve been involved for a while?”
“Not at all.” Camille’s mouth twisted. “I stumbled to the corner of Trumpet and Vine sort of like you. I was working for an oil-and-gas production company and met the artists. They’re phenomenal.” Her voice softened. “I haven’t been in Samford a year yet.”
“They convinced you to stay?”
“They’re a persuasive bunch.” Camille’s smile was huge. “And I happened to . . . um, well, it’s still hard to say out loud.”
Avery leaned forward.
“I fell in love.” She wiggled her nose. “Can you believe that? Next thing I know, I live in Louisiana and accost nice people like you.” She chuckled. “I get wound up.”
With a laugh, Avery gestured at the store. “It’s easy to get drawn in. I’m attached to this place already.”
“So you’ll help us save the corner?”
A list of excuses ran through Avery’s mind. She was in a monthlong battle with the Broussards. She didn’t know how long Bill would want her to work at the market. Ross had hinted she could possibly get the boutique. She wanted to visit her father.
But why not help? It was the kind of thing her parents had taught her. She might run into T. J. more if she got involved in the neighborhood. He could even be part of this project. Volunteering might lead her to something better for her life.
“I can try.” Avery shrugged. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here, but I’m happy to help while I’m here.”
Camille dove straight in for a hug. “I knew God was going to send us someone.”
Chapter 15
Avery prepared the paper for Tuesday’s biscuits like a professional gift wrapper at Christmas.
In only three mornings, she had come to look forward to the quiet routine, alone with her thoughts and a mound of dough. Preheating the oven set the plan in motion, warming the dank space until the store came alive.
Today she had scurried from her secret nest in the back, where she slept soundly, turned on the oven, and got coffee going in the dark. After a quick splash bath, she dressed in one of her boutique outfits—a black maxi skirt and a black-and-white wraparound blouse—and smoothed the wrinkles with a damp kitchen towel.
When she pulled the biscuits out of the oven, a fluffy, golden brown, she felt like she had managed to get something right.
Bill had called a half-dozen times since Sunday to remind or reprimand, always a note of suspicion and fatigue in his voice. Even Monday night when she had been waxing the grimy floor. His lecture was a blend of a kick in the pants and a pat on the head. He started with a sharp accounting checkup, muttering about low sales, and morphed into a coach’s pregame pep talk, reminding Avery she could do it.
For an ornery man, he delivered a stirring tirade.
But the one biscuit left from yesterday stared at Avery, weakening her confidence.
She snatched it from the case, yanked the paper off, opened the back door, and threw it like a major league outfielder. It sailed across the alley, and she slammed the door.
Kathleen’s absence was unnerving. What had happened to her?
Avery dialed her cell number again, and this time it didn’t even go to voice mail. It rang ten times and clicked off. After rummaging under the counter, Avery pulled out a battered phone book and scoured the residential pages. No Kathleen Manning was listed, nor K. Manning.
Her finger trailed up and down the columns as she tried to recall Kathleen’s husband’s name. Wayne. That was it. Sure enough there he was, even though he had been dead for four years.
The timer, a vintage blend of plastic and rusty metal, dinged, and Avery reached for an oversize pot holder and whispered a prayer for this latest batch. Her biscuits were improving at about the speed Martha walked.
After jotting Kathleen’s phone number on a scrap of paper with a fat yellow pencil, Avery went back to work.
Preparing the biscuits, step-by-step, reminded her of her mother. A master of Louisiana meals, her mom believed working in the kitchen was a type of praise, a chance to offer thanks for the blessings of the day, an opportunity to focus on what was in front of you instead of worrying about something down the line.
Everyone felt welcome at their family table.
And then her mother had gotten sick.
Their life as a family became like life on a treadmill. Avery could not stop, going faster and faster toward death until one day it flung her off without a mother.
How were she and her father to get back to normal, whatever that was? H
ow was she to believe, day after day, that her mother was in a better place and that it had happened for a reason? What kind of reason could be good enough to leave Avery?
Her father had agonized over a pending mission assignment in Haiti, an offer extended before her mother got sick. Avery listened to his hushed conversations with church members and saw their sad looks.
He had taken Avery’s hands one night with that tender smile that always comforted her, the one that kept her from flying apart. “If it’s okay with you, baby girl, let’s stay in Lafayette for a few more years.”
She gripped his hands so tightly it hurt. “But what about the kids in Haiti? Mama wanted us to help them.”
“There’ll be time for that. But for now, let’s help each other.” His gaze met hers. “Avery, it’s all right to miss your mother.”
She started crying. “What about those children who don’t have anyone?”
He took off his glasses and wiped at his damp eyes. “We’ll keep praying, and God will show us the way. Maybe if we wait we’ll be able to help them more.” His mouth twisted. “Your mother would be mad at me if I uprooted you from school right now.”
And slowly they had gotten into a new routine, life after her mother, bearable, sometimes even peaceful.
Not until the summer after Avery’s junior year in college had they gone to Haiti.
“What do you think?” her father asked.
“You’re perfect for the job they have for you. You speak French. You are handy with a power saw.” She smiled. “I want those children to know the kind of love I’ve known.”
“Are you sure you’ll be okay with this?”
“You need to do this—for all of us.”
But she had been caught off guard by how much she missed him when she returned to school.
Then she met Cres.
Avery glided eagerly—if clumsily—into a new life, anxious to have a home to visit for holidays and a family that could be hers. But caterers made the food for parties, and housekeepers didn’t let a dish sit in the sink for more than a minute. Cres introduced her to friends and family, bragging about how smart she was and how down-to-earth.
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