“Bud gave him to me allegedly as a housewarming gift when I moved back last year. Someone dumped him by the road in Sweet Olive.” He looked across the room. “Truth be known, Bud thought I needed the company.”
“And did you?”
He twisted his mouth. “It’s been nice having him to come home to.”
The market was lonesome when Kathleen left each day. Maybe Avery would rescue a dog when she got a new place.
Willie dropped the toy at T. J.’s feet and pounced on it when he reached for it, a vigorous game of tug-of-war ensuing. “He’ll calm down in a second. Maybe.”
“If you say so.” Avery’s grin grew as she watched.
“Could I get you something to drink? Or eat?” He nodded toward the table. “I have excellent leftovers from my parents’ house.”
She quirked her brow.
“Some sort of fancy crawfish dip and French bread too. No telling what all’s in there.”
Avery’s stomach growled.
“Aha!” He hopped up, causing Willie to jump around the room, slinging the rope toy. “Let me get a plate.”
“I really—”
“I’ll feed you, and maybe you’ll tell me how you came to have that monstrosity of a car. I have to ask . . .” T. J. looked at her, his eyebrows raised. “Does that thing have a Corvette engine?”
“It does.” She felt oddly proud.
Sitting at the table a few minutes later, Avery licked the fork. “That bread pudding was delicious.”
“I’ll tell my mother. She was fussing because it didn’t have raisins.”
“That’s what I liked about it.”
He smiled. “I knew I liked you.”
“You do?” The question flew out of her mouth.
“Sure.” He tilted his head. “A lot.”
She plunged on. “Is that why you haven’t been to the market all week?” She scraped the plate with her fork, gathering the thick sauce. “I figured you’d finished with me as a project.”
“You’re not a project.”
“Sorry.” She studied her dessert plate. “I’m sensitive about you rescuing me with that frozen lock and the wreck and everything.”
“You’re a friend, not a project. Keeping my life in order is project enough for me.”
So they were friends. She liked the sound of that. “So you just started a business?”
“Only a few months ago. Bud and I became partners last fall.” T. J. bit into one of the fried chocolate pies. “First he made me prove I’d learned something worthwhile since college.”
“Woodwork, you mean?”
“Life work. I didn’t have much use for the straight and narrow for a few years, and I needed to prove myself.” He took another bite of the pie. “Wow. This is great.”
“That’s my first solo batch. Thanks for letting me test them on you.”
“Anytime I can be of service.” He reached behind him and pulled a folder out of a cluttered bookcase. “I have an idea I want to test on you.”
She dipped her chin, suspicious, looking at the pencil sketch on the back of an envelope.
“Bud and I think you should go ahead and pull the old sheet metal off the market.” He grabbed a pen from the shelf and tapped on the drawing. “With not much more expense, you could get back to the original wood siding. It’s unique to this region, and it looks great.”
“That looks like some old pictures I found in the safe. Would you use the same front window?”
“With a few minor adjustments,” he said. “You have photographs of the original exterior?”
“Interior too. It was a quaint place. Martha and Bill were young—and Bill was smiling.”
T. J. looked up. “You’d better frame that one.”
“I don’t know if Bill will go for this, though. Especially if it costs extra.”
“I’m not a marketing whiz like you, but I think it would pay for itself in a few months. I ran the numbers, and Bud and I can do it pretty cheap.”
She hunched over the table, pulling the envelope toward her. “The difference is startling. It might help Bill sell it.”
An odd look shimmied across his face. He leaned back in the chair, his legs outstretched. “Bill told Bud the market’s gaining customers.”
“He’s being nice.”
“Bill?”
She chuckled. “We’re doing better, but it’s only been a few days. Nothing to bank on yet.”
“You’re a natural at that place. You’re not ready to bail, are you?”
“Depends on when you ask. Magnolia Market has its own charm.”
“I doubt the word charm has ever been used to describe that place.”
Talking to T. J. always made her want to smile. “Charming or not, I’ve got to figure out what I’m going to do.”
“Are you planning to stay in Samford?”
She fidgeted with her nails. “My dad wants me to visit him in Haiti. I may do that and then get a job down around Baton Rouge or New Orleans.”
His face grew serious. “I guess you want a store of your own. You made something out of the boutique.”
She looked at the floor. “That was my baby.”
“I don’t mean to pry, but . . . why didn’t you fight harder to keep it?”
She opened her mouth to spit out an answer—and didn’t have one.
Bending to pet Willie, who gave a quick bark and slung the rope around, she searched for words. “It didn’t feel right,” she said after a second.
And the time had come to break her ties with the Broussards.
“I used to think starting over was like one of those toys you draw on and erase with one quick pull.” Avery was unused to talking about this, but T. J. was the kind of man who might understand. “But then I realized it went deeper than that.”
“Hmm.” He appeared as taken aback by the comment as she had been by saying it. “I try to think of every day as a fresh start, I guess.”
“ ‘Morning by morning new mercies I see. Because of His great love we are not consumed.’ ” She gave a light laugh. “Such unexpected words from a book with the downer name of Lamentations.”
“You’re quoting the Bible?”
“What can I say? My dad’s a preacher. That verse helps me through rough times.” She adjusted her ponytail, winding her hair up in a knot. “I’m sorry you heard that argument between Evangeline and me.”
“No worries.”
“That day I realized I had lived in limbo way too long.”
The concern in his dark eyes did not look like pity.
“I didn’t intend to run into a building, but . . .” She held up her hands. “Apparently it worked.”
T. J. smiled. “God works in mysterious ways.”
Avery tidied the tiny room, stashing her suitcase under the cot and putting her cosmetics case behind a stained throw pillow. She found shelter in the little room. The walls of the house she shared with Cres had closed in on her, but this teeny space felt safe and warm.
Walking out into the market each morning gave her a ripple of pleasure.
“Morning by morning, new mercies . . .” She whispered the verse as she twisted the oven knob to preheat for the biscuits and flipped on the coffeemaker. The stillness of the store pleased her—in the same way the breakfast bustle buoyed her.
While the boutique’s rhythm had been fluid, Magnolia Market was more staccato.
She chose a few apples from a basket and polished them with a paper towel before rearranging them. Grabbing a green marker and a piece of paper, she scrawled a fresh sign and taped it to the basket. Not bad. In fact, quite good.
With eight minutes left on the oven timer, she put a vase of daisies from Samford’s biggest grocery store on the other side of the register and straightened the candy counter. With two minutes left, she wiped down the front of the cooler and scurried back to grab the biscuits. Perfect. Golden brown. Fluffy.
She was still grinning when Kathleen rushed in, brown hair sticking out.
“I overslept,” she said and then paused. “What are you so chipper about?”
“I don’t know.” Avery pulled a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator and slammed the door. She cracked the eggs on the edge of a stainless-steel bowl, then pulled out a whisk and added the usual salt and pepper. She grabbed Tabasco sauce and put in one dash and then another.
“Whoa, Chief. You want to give our customers heartburn?”
“I’ll do a regular batch too. But my mother’s hot eggs were a big hit with the men’s prayer group in Lafayette.”
“Yeah, but that’s Cajun country. We’re a tad more bland up here.”
“Let’s spice things up. We’re only here for a little while. What can it hurt?”
Kathleen grabbed a serrated knife and sliced through the biscuits. “Might as well have some fun, I suppose. I could make beignets one day.” She took a bow as she talked. “I’m sort of famous for them.”
Avery turned with a full grin to high-five Kathleen.
“I like seeing that happy look on your face.”
“Wait till you see the look on our customers’ faces.” Avery curtsied and wrapped the biscuits, while Kathleen moved to the stove and scrambled another batch of eggs.
Picking up the marker again, Avery wrote HOT on the wrappers and embellished them with flames. “Ta da,” she said, adding the word Kathleen’s to one.
Kathleen smiled, scooping the eggs onto a plate and shoveling them onto biscuits. “I can’t wait to try it.”
Avery laid a slice of cheddar cheese on each of them and closed the tops.
By the time she unlocked the front door and turned the Open sign around, the case was filled with plain biscuits and egg and cheese.
Chapter 21
Avery wasn’t sure how to dress for a Sunday-afternoon occasion such as this. She didn’t want to look like a snob. But she wanted to show her respect and serious interest.
She wasn’t dressing for T. J., but if he liked what she wore, all the better. Right?
With a limited wardrobe—black slacks, gray slacks, two pairs of jeans, two blouses, a blazer, a couple of sweaters and Ts, a basic black dress, and combinations thereof—she didn’t have the choices of her past.
The simplicity reminded her of those few years when she had more clothes than she could wear and open-ended credit at stores all over town. She liked today better.
She grinned and looked down at her feet. These black boots had been a marked-down birthday gift for herself before everything had gone so crazy that day. With the heels and a pair of running shoes, she had more than enough footwear.
In black slacks and a gray sweater with her boots, she loitered by the door like a teenager waiting for a date.
As the big clock behind the counter inched past three, she rearranged the few canned goods on the shelves, read over inventory notes she had jotted down, and slipped an apron over her outfit. She might as well wipe down the dairy cases while she waited.
She stared at the clock again but refused to get the cell phone out of the back. T. J. would call on the store phone if he couldn’t make it.
And just like that, Avery was back in her old life, waiting for Cres to show up, making excuses, worrying.
Her stomach churned, and she fidgeted with the bracelet, recalling the last time she had reached out to a group of Samford people in need. With Evangeline preening for days, Avery had organized a black-tie fund-raiser at the Samford Club. A blues band played, and appetizers and drinks were served while Avery waited for Cres to arrive.
When the band paused for a scheduled break, she rushed over and begged the bearded leader to keep playing. “My husband should be here any minute to make the opening remarks.”
But Cres never showed up, and when the crowd began to whisper and fidget, Avery straightened her back and took the microphone. “My husband and I thank you all for coming and helping fund school supplies and books for children in our parish. Cres has been delayed, but I hope you’ll enjoy this lovely music and food.”
The bearded bandleader gave a perplexed smile, and his musicians launched into a lively zydeco tune. Ross, his blond hair gleaming, his tux perfect, stepped forward and led her to the dance floor. “Smile,” he said, his teeth clenched. “I’m going to kill that brother of mine.”
Somehow she made it through the evening, vowing never to put herself out there with Cres again. He weakly agreed after showing up at home after midnight, full of feeble excuses.
Unreliable and unfaithful. That had been her husband.
Her optimism of a few moments ago disappeared. She grabbed a butter knife, knelt, and scraped a piece of gum off the floor near the counter. People are pigs!
“Avery?” T. J.’s deep voice, unusually loud, sounded at the same time the door buzzed. “Are you all right?”
She stood, waving the knife as she regained her balance.
“Why didn’t you answer the phone?” He looked behind the counter and strode toward her. He ran his fingers through his hair, which already looked messy. He wore a pair of khakis, a long-sleeved shirt, and a nicer pair of work boots than those he usually had on—and a frown.
“Uh, let me think. Because it didn’t ring?”
Avery’s gaze followed his to the old black phone. Hm. She must not have put it back on the hook after her father had called.
“Where’s the cell I gave you?”
“In the back.” Maybe she had miscalculated.
“You scared me to death,” T. J. said. “I called four times. Then I called the store and got a busy signal. I was sure you’d been robbed or that nutcase nephew had come back. And you should keep that door locked.”
“Are you yelling at me? The door is unlocked because you were coming to pick me up.” She stared at the clock. “Forty minutes ago.”
“I’m really sorry. I tried to call to tell you I’d be late. My mother was . . .” He trailed off. “Marsh and I usually eat there after church, and she was on a tear today. But that’s no excuse.”
“I’m used to it. Cres was always late.”
“I’m not Cres.” The words flew out of his mouth so fast that Avery stared.
He was right. T. J. was unlike Cres, from the messy hair to the work boots. Cres had never worried about something bad happening to her—and only apologized when he wanted something. He didn’t help others unless he could make money out of the deal.
T. J. was a good and solid man who worked for what he got.
He let out a loud sigh. “I’ve made a mess out of this afternoon. Do you still want to go?”
“Of course. I’m psyched about this. Let me get my coat.”
As he helped her into her jacket, T. J. was quiet. His fingers lightly lifted her hair over her collar, his hand resting for a moment on her neck. When she turned to face him, his gaze was intent, running from her boots up to her hair.
“Am I overdressed?” She put her hand to her hair.
He smiled. “You look fantastic. They’re going to love you.”
The mission was wedged between a nail salon and a payday loan center in the middle of a decrepit strip mall. A small sign taped to the door said New Wine Ministries, and the original sign across the front had been covered with a blue tarp.
“Ross got this space donated to us for a year,” T. J. said as they pulled into the parking lot. “It was a bar for years.”
“New Wine Minstries.” She grinned. “A biblical pun.”
He shot her a look, his mouth quirked up at the corner. “You’re one of the few who get that. A couple of our participants are former customers who wandered in looking for a drink.”
“Is this a church project?”
“Three churches—all different denominations—partnered to get it going. The pastors wanted us to work together to show Christ’s love to a group of people who struggle to earn a living.” He turned to her. “Sounds easy enough, right?”
She nodded.
“But everyone had their own ideas about what we should offer and how we sho
uld do it.” He scrunched up his face. “It was a disorganized mess.”
“And now?”
He gave a snort of laughter. “It’s still a disorganized mess but in a better way. It’s embarrassing to admit, but it took us a few months to start listening. The folks here knew the things they needed help with.”
T. J. turned toward Avery, his hand on her arm. “That’s why I hope you like their ideas. We need more partners to show what these folks have to offer.”
“You’re passionate about this, aren’t you?”
He froze. “Do I sound like some sort of wacko?”
“You sound like my father. His entire life he’s preached that when we love others, we’re supposed to meet them where they have needs.”
“Come take a look. This is your father’s kind of place.”
T. J. followed Avery across the parking lot, his nerves jumping around like Willie after a day of being cooped up in the house. The contentious lunch with his mother, who griped incessantly about the construction work at Magnolia Market, had collided with not being able to reach Avery on the phone, putting him in a rotten mood.
Studying her as she walked around a pothole, he sighed. In those black boots and that dressy outfit, she looked ready for a corporate takeover. Until recently, Avery had been a socialite. What if she didn’t get these good-hearted people?
But she had mentioned her father. Clearly some of that carried over to her. He saw it in the way she treated everyone who came into the market.
When she reached the door, she turned and gave him a dazzling smile before stepping inside the mission. Lord, please work this out. With a deep breath, he followed her into the spliced-together space.
Gabriela rushed to greet Avery. “¡Bienvenidos a New Wine! I’m Gabriela Rodrigues.” She enveloped Avery in a hug.
He should have prepared Avery better. Gabriela, only twenty-one, tended to be exuberant and had more ideas than Bud had tools.
But Avery put her arms around Gabriela as though she hugged excited young immigrants every day. “I’m happy to be here.” She gave T. J. a quick wave as she followed Gabriela, who switched to English as she introduced Avery to every person.
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