He shook his head. Am I losing my mind?
“Why don’t you buy the market, Camille? Build an empire at the corner of Trumpet and Vine.” He poured his idea into a grin. “Maybe Avery would run it for you.”
Camille shifted gears. “Between Marsh’s new law firm and the gallery, we hardly see each other as it is.”
“Right.”
She cut him another smile. “Okay, we do spend a lot of time together . . . but it never seems like enough. You know?”
“Not really.” He had wasted so much time getting into and out of scrapes, he had never fallen in love, even though he had developed a reputation as a charmer.
“Are you dating anyone?”
He tensed. “And here we go.”
“What?” Her eyes were wide.
“I’m a twenty-eight-year-old single man with all of my teeth. I can recognize someone about to fix me up. Why is it that everyone wants to talk about my love life?”
“A lot of nice women stop by the gallery.”
“I’m sure they do.”
She snapped her fingers. “Avery! She’s perfect for you.”
Yep. His heart thudded. “She’s a Broussard, for heaven’s sake.”
“You’re a reverse snob. Besides, I saw her on her hands and knees cleaning the market. She’s nothing like Evangeline, nor your mother.”
“No matchmaking, Camille. None.”
Camille let out a hoot of laughter and pointed at the street ahead. Cars lined both sides. “Your mother will kill us before I can fix you up anyway.”
“A valet? She hired a valet? I should have worn a tie.”
“I shouldn’t have worn my boots.”
Marsh strode from the house as soon as they pulled up and kissed Camille on the lips while he helped her from the truck.
“Hey, you,” she said.
“Hi,” he murmured, kissing her again.
“Must you two be so perfect?” T. J. ambled around the truck, considering taking the keys from the college-aged valet and driving off. “If she mentions your adorable dark brown hair, I’m leaving.”
“It is adorable, isn’t it?” Camille ran her fingers through it.
“About time you got here, T. J.,” Marsh said. “Mother’s already told me I need a bigger house and—”
“You need to hire a lawn man.” T. J. knew the script. “And she’s fretting that I’m throwing my life away as a carpenter.”
Marsh slapped him on the back with a laugh. “She may have mentioned that.” Clasping Camille’s hand, he led the way up the walk. “Lucky for you, though, she’s more wound up about Avery.”
T. J. stopped, pretending to study the elaborate Mardi Gras decorations. His mother’s landscape service could work a theme. After a moment, he looked back at Marsh. “Why would she be upset about Avery?”
“Evangeline’s ‘devastated’—and I’m quoting here—that Avery’s gone off the deep end.” Marsh cocked his head, a curious gleam in his eye. “From what I overheard, Evangeline didn’t want Avery around.”
An uneasy feeling fluttered in T. J.’s gut. “You know I wouldn’t tell most people this,” T. J. said quietly. “I was doing a few small repairs at the boutique. Things got heated.”
“Thomas Jacques, are you going to stand out front all evening?” His mother stood in the door of the big house that had never felt like home. She had a tight smile on her face and wore a dress fit for a wedding or the country club. “The other guests are already having cocktails.”
“Sorry, Mother.” T. J. gave her a tight hug. “Marsh and I were catching up.”
“Hello, Mrs. Aillet.” Camille held out a colorful gift bag. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Certainly.” She sniffed, taking the bag but not looking inside. “Maybe your nice manners will rub off on my sons. I don’t know where I went wrong.”
“They have good hearts.” Camille gave a nervous laugh and patted Marsh on the arm. He looked down at her with a smile and squeezed her hand. Then he leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the lips, as though he just couldn’t resist.
T. J. felt a pang. He wanted that kind of relationship, a woman he could marry and have a family with. A woman who didn’t care about money or jewelry, fancy parties, and definitely not valets.
He looked into the room, wishing Avery were there. And wishing she wasn’t part of the society crowd.
Yep, going crazy.
A cluster of guests stood a few yards away in the living room, a waiter in black pants and a white shirt serving crab-stuffed mushrooms and miniature boudin balls.
“This is a small supper?” Camille whispered.
“Aillet style,” Marsh said, before plunging into the room with her, leaving T. J. standing in the foyer.
“There’s my boy!” His father’s look of delight made up for his mother’s stingy smile, and T. J. bypassed the outstretched hand to give him a hug.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“I barely made it myself,” his father said in a low voice. “Minnette wanted to try a weeknight gathering.” He looked across the room with an indulgent smile. “Your mother can put on quite a soiree.”
His mother and Bud had divorced when Marsh was five, and she had married Roger a year later. T. J. had been born the next year. Somehow, despite everything, they had managed to stay together. T. J. admired his father, even though they had never spent much time together.
T. J. smiled. “How was work?”
“Same as every day,” his father said. “Surgery all morning, clinic in the afternoon.” In his personal life, his father followed in Minnette’s wake, but professionally he was one of the state’s top ophthalmologists, his absentminded professor look at odds with a brilliant mind. “I examined that man you sent from the mission. He needs cataract surgery. He can’t see a thing.”
T. J. furrowed his brow. “I’ll have to ask around to raise the money for—”
His father headed into the living room, shaking his head. “I already scheduled it. I’ll cover this one.”
He followed. “Thanks for seeing those folks. Why don’t you go over there one day, see their work?”
“Maybe one of these days. Between my practice and your mother . . .”
T. J. pushed down his disappointment. Since he had moved back to Samford, he felt most comfortable in Bud’s shop or helping at the mission on the other side of town. Neither place enticed his parents.
“Don’t you two know you should be mingling?” His mother glided toward them, a glass of white wine in one hand, her other hand looped through Evangeline’s arm. His father glanced at T. J. and gave a quick smile. Camille was right: everyone was something of a contradiction.
Evangeline Broussard’s cajoling voice addressed his father. “Roger, Minnette has promised you’ll get me a glass of wine.” As his father turned toward the bar, she said, “Hello, Thomas.” Her voice was singsongy, in sharp contrast to its strident tone with Avery those days at the shop.
“Hello, Evangeline.”
“As I was telling you, Minnette, Thomas did a first-rate job on our work at the boutique.”
“He is so talented,” his mother began, and T. J. tensed. “I told him he should be an architect or own a contracting firm.”
T. J. refused to let his mother get him bent out of shape. He’d worked hard to clean up his act and was doing what he loved. He looked around for Marsh. At least they could smile at this together.
“Thomas’s work drew high praise from the new owners.”
His attention steered back to the two women. “So the sale is going forward?” He hoped his interest sounded casual.
“We’ve run into a stumbling block.” Evangeline looked as though she had gotten a whiff of rancid shrimp. “Ross got involved, plus they wanted my manager as part of the package. I have tried to explain to them that she is no longer available, but they are most insistent.”
She stared at his mother as though seeking backup. “Avery is unreliable.” Evangeline accepted a
glass of wine from his father. “Now she’s disappeared.”
“Isn’t she helping at Magnolia Market?” T. J.’s question came out before he could stop it.
With a melodramatic sigh, Evangeline took a sip of wine. “So we’ve heard, but her phone’s been disconnected, and she’s not living at the Division house anymore. We’ve tried to give her money and she’s refused to cash the check.”
T. J. opened his mouth and then closed it. If Avery wanted them to have her temporary number, she could give it to them.
Once more Evangeline looked at his mother. “I don’t know how Cres got mixed up with her in the first place.”
T. J. gritted his teeth. He had never cared for Cres, who was more style than substance. When he heard about the accident, he had been remorseful. Now that he had met Avery, T. J. couldn’t imagine a husband going off and leaving a wife like her behind.
After excusing himself, he ducked into the kitchen, where Barb, his parents’ housekeeper and family cook, was ladling shrimp and grits into small crystal dishes. He gave her a quick grin and put his finger to his mouth, moving toward the mudroom. She smiled and nodded.
He dug in his pocket, then punched in the number to his old cell phone. When the call went to voice mail, his own voice greeted him. “Leave a message. I’ll get back to you.”
He hung up and dialed the market on the outside chance Avery was working. No answer.
The room felt too warm, and the chitchat was wearisome. He felt out of sorts. Maybe he should let Camille fix him up with someone or even give in to another of his mother’s reintroductions to a string of “perfect” childhood friends.
Definitely going crazy.
Eager for a moment of solitude, he headed for his dad’s sunken den, but it had been taken over by a group of men watching a basketball game. “Come on in, Thomas,” Creswell Broussard said, “but don’t let the womenfolk know we’re down here. Evangeline will have my hide.”
Forcing himself to meet Creswell’s eyes, T. J. entered and went to his father’s bar in the corner and grabbed a bottle of water out of the minifridge. On nights like these he missed his wild oats.
Twisting the top, he pretended to watch the game.
“That’s some fine work you did at the boutique,” Creswell said. “I wish I’d been born with talent like that.”
T. J. didn’t smile. “Thanks, sir.”
“You still working with Bud Cameron?” Creswell’s questions caused a couple of the others to turn away from the game.
Ah, the counterpunch.
“I am. He’s an excellent craftsman.”
“Always has been,” Creswell said.
T. J. looked at the game. “Any word on when Ross will be back?”
“Not for a few more weeks.” He lowered his voice. “He’s opening an office in Baton Rouge.”
T. J. nodded. “He mentioned some big project.”
Creswell’s eyes narrowed, his brows almost meeting. “I’d forgotten that he called you.” His voice lowered. “I appreciate you helping out with that ugliness with Avery.”
He shook his head and left the room. He could think of nothing ugly about Avery.
Chapter 20
Avery drew in her breath and turned down T. J.’s street. The Corvette engine suddenly sprang to life, and she sped up. She glanced down to make sure the fried pies hadn’t slid off the seat.
At the same time she zoomed up to the curb in front of the duplex, T. J. walked around the front of an old pickup truck in the driveway. Illuminated by the headlights, he was laughing and pointing at the driver who had opened her door.
A thin beam of light shone on a pretty young woman with a perky haircut and a big smile.
Avery gasped.
T. J. was the man Camille had fallen in love with? The one who had convinced her to stay in Samford?
Together they headed toward the house, T. J. carrying a white sack.
Avery fought back tears. She had allowed herself to daydream that T. J. might be the man for her.
Another misjudgment.
With her foot already on its way to the brake, Avery hesitated and then punched the accelerator. The hiccup in timing was enough to bring the big, old car to a shuddering halt in the middle of the street.
At the noise, T. J. and Camille turned her way, their expressions hidden by winter darkness. “Great,” Avery muttered, turning the key. “Just great.”
The car acted as though it was going to start but sputtered and died. She tried again. And again. Staring at the street ahead, she pretended she didn’t see them. That she wasn’t stalled in front of T. J.’s house.
“Avery?” His voice was muffled through the car window, and she cranked the engine again. “Hey, Avery!”
The engine came to life, and she had a split second to make a decision. Inhaling, she eased up to the curb and rolled down her window. “I’m a much better driver than you might think.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He stepped closer, his gaze moving from the gigantic hood to the cargo carrier of the car. “New car?”
“I’d better get going.” She looked beyond him to Camille, who had stopped a few feet behind T. J. “Sorry for interrupting.”
“Don’t go,” he said. Hearing those words in that warm voice jarred something deep within her.
“Avery?” The curiosity in Camille’s voice was unmistakable.
“I brought fried pies to thank T. J. for bailing me out last week. I should have called.” She cranked the car, which started on the first try.
He shifted the paper sack and put his hand on the door. “Wait. Can’t you come in?”
Camille, wearing a cute dress and the same boots she’d had on in the market, nudged him as he spoke.
T. J. shot a pointed look at Camille. “You two have met, right? You’re neighbors at Trumpet and Vine.”
“How wonderful to see you again, Avery. T. J. was just talking about you earlier.”
“Camille . . .”
“I’d love to talk more about your plans for Magnolia Market.” Camille’s teeth gleamed in the darkness. “I’d stay now, but I promised T. J.’s brother I’d come right home.” She looked at T. J., raising her eyebrows. “I’ll pick up that book later.”
“Subtle, real subtle,” he mumbled. “I’ll stop by the gallery.”
“Bring Avery with you. I’d love to show you our new exhibit.”
T. J. narrowed his eyes, but the corner of his mouth turned up.
Avery watched. What was she missing?
Calling out exuberant good-byes, with a brief hug for T. J. and a wave at Avery, Camille climbed in the old truck, backed into the street, and stalled her vehicle.
Rolling the window down, she laughed. “See, Avery? Happens to the best of us.” And she shifted gears and rolled away.
“Ah,” T. J. said. “So you’ve met Hurricane Camille. She blew into town and swept my brother, Marsh, right off his feet.”
“Your brother?”
“He’s so in love he doesn’t know what hit him.” T. J. reached for the door. “Now, will you—and those pies—please come in?”
Avery followed T. J. to the left side of the duplex and stepped inside, her heart pounding.
A wooden lamp with a parchment shade glowed on an end table, and a couch covered in a khaki slipcover sat by one wall, a giant television on the other. A wooden rocking chair was pushed into a corner, and a braided rug covered wooden floors.
In the back of the house, a dog yelped, and T. J. rolled his eyes. “Willie, hush,” he yelled, but his voice sounded more affectionate than stern. The dog’s yelps turned into barking.
Sighing, T. J. looked at her. “Are you okay with dogs?”
“I love dogs.”
“Even bratty dogs?”
“Especially bratty dogs. We had a rat terrier who was the biggest brat of them all.” She smiled at the memory.
T. J. grew still. “You and your husband?”
“Oh, good heavens no.” Her grin fade
d. “Cres wasn’t a fan of dogs. Fearless was our family dog, but we had to give him away when Dad moved to Haiti.”
“That’s too bad.”
“He was a sweet terror with these crazy super-pointy ears. He always looked like he knew something I didn’t.” She laughed, even though the memory made her melancholy. Avery had begged to take him to college her final semester, but as her father pointed out, he was prone to chewing. Wallets. Shoes. Furniture. Not a roommate charmer.
But the couple who adopted him was crazy about him. Avery had mailed rawhide chews at Christmas. The first year they were married, Cres found the idea cute. The next year he chided her. By the third year, she didn’t tell him. It was one of two secrets she had kept from him.
“I bet you still miss him.” T. J.’s gaze roamed across her face.
“Terribly. It was like losing another member of my family.” She stopped, self-conscious. She hadn’t told anyone, even Cres—especially Cres—that much.
T. J. reached out and rubbed her hand. “I understand.”
“What kind of dog do you have?”
“Prepare to see up close and personal,” he said with a laugh. “I’ll free poor, abandoned Willie, who has been alone for all of two hours.”
“Free Willie. Funny.”
Chuckling, he started toward the rear of the house and set the sack and her tray of pies on the small pecan dining table. T. J. disappeared into the back, and minutes later an oversize reddish dog—some sort of setter maybe?—bounded into the living room. He skidded to a stop in front of Avery with a startled yelp and jumped on her.
“Willie, sit.” The dog obeyed him for a split second, then spied a rope toy across the room and ran after it.
“I may have wasted my money on obedience training.” T. J.’s grin was about as big as the dog-smile on Willie’s face.
“He’ll grow out of it.” She tried to hide the doubt in her voice.
“He’s only a year and a half old. That’s young, right?”
“About like a ten-year-old child.”
He gave a huff of laughter. “So I still have to make it through his teen years?”
“Very likely. Where’d you get him?”
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