Magnolia Market (9780310330585)

by Christie, Judy

  She asked questions about the various projects underway, from a group of children working on reading skills to the men whom he and Bud helped with woodworking. Gabriela’s Uncle Fernando, who drove a cab, jumped up from the table and shook Avery’s hand. “¡Bienvenidos!”

  Avery blushed. “De nada.” Then she switched to English. “Thank you for your help when I . . . well, you know, the rides.”

  “My pleasure.” A huge smile broke across his usually somber face.

  By the time they reached the kitchen, Avery’s face was flushed and she had shed her coat, pulled out her notebook and pen, and laid her purse and tote bag on a table.

  Some of the volunteers T. J. had brought here before clutched their purses as though someone might snatch them. Others looked at the floor or ceiling, anywhere but in the eyes of this motley group.

  Not Avery.

  “Gabriela, I can’t wait to hear your ideas,” she said as they entered the kitchen where volunteers were preparing Sunday supper. “May I help chop vegetables while you tell me?”

  “Gracias.” Gabriela smiled as she dug out a knife. “I hope you’ll sell our spices and mixes. They’re better than anything you can find in the stores here. I learned most of the recipes from my mother. She was a wonderful cook.” Her smile dimmed. “She passed away last year.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Emotion infused Avery’s voice. “I lost my own mother. It’s hard, isn’t it?”

  Gabriela’s chin dropped. “I promised her I would make a better life for my brothers and sisters. I’m getting my GED, and I want to own my own business some day. Like you.”

  Avery blushed. “I don’t own the grocery store, but I know what you mean. I hope to have a shop one day.”

  T. J. tinkered with a loose faucet and listened intently to their conversation. They acted as though he wasn’t in the room. Other volunteers wandered in and out, looking at the two women intently, smiling and whispering.

  Avery pulled one idea after another from Gabriela and commented on each as though they were the most innovative thoughts ever. Gabriela practically hopped with excitement, her dark eyes glowing.

  By the time they headed to the truck, T. J. felt like he was escorting a rock star. “She’s so nice,” Gabriela whispered while half the crowd hugged Avery good-bye.

  “I’ll let you know how these sell.” Avery nodded at the box of merchandise T. J. carried. “Thank you for the delicious meal.”

  “Wow.” T. J. opened the truck door for her. “You made quite an impression.”

  “They’re wonderful! Gabriela is the most creative person. And to be so young! She’s got amazing potential, doesn’t she?”

  “Apparently.”

  When he slid into the driver’s seat, Avery was thumbing through the box. “What a great idea to have the children color the labels. Customers will like that.” She turned to him. “Gabriela’s a born leader. She could run a business.”

  He nodded. “But she doesn’t read English well. We added classes last month. And she has to get her high school diploma. These folks need a hand.”

  “How’d you get involved?”

  He hesitated. “Bud was trying to keep me out of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “This and that. Mostly gambling.” He turned onto Trumpet Street feeling clammy. “I screwed up, like some of these people.”

  “Looks like you’ve made things right.”

  “I’m working on it.” He glanced at her. “So your father is involved in something like this?”

  She nodded. “Gabriela reminds me of some of the girls who pass through the orphanage. Just this morning Dad was telling me about a girl who is so much like her.”

  “Do you talk to him a lot?”

  “At least once a week, and we e-mail, and he still sends me handwritten letters. I miss him a lot. I haven’t visited since Cres died, but I hope to go when things settle down with Magnolia Market.” She put her hand on his arm. “Maybe you and some of the other volunteers would like to go too. He always needs carpenters.”

  “You were great at New Wine.” He glanced at her hand as they stopped at the traffic light at Trumpet and Vine. He liked her touch, but she moved it away.

  “My dad says we underestimate what people are capable of.”

  “I certainly did,” T. J. said.

  Chapter 22

  T. J. pulled up to Bud’s house in Sweet Olive Monday night, wishing he had passed on the supper plans.

  Work was so busy he didn’t have a minute to himself. And after yesterday’s visit, he wanted to run by the mission and hear Gabriela’s opinions about Avery’s ideas. And maybe run by the market?

  Thoughts of Avery had kept him awake last night. She had him thinking about all the things he had fought so long to escape.

  And he needed to tell her about his mother.

  Grabbing the bag of food, he hurried out to Bud’s shop, gave a quick knock, and walked in, taking a deep breath of wood scent. Sawdust covered the floor, and a floor lamp, a garage-sale reject, threw yellow light on the space.

  A line of carvings, mostly dogs—Bud’s specialty—perched on the workbench. He had probably stopped midproject when Marsh arrived, one of the traits that made him a great friend and business partner. Bud knew how to pay attention.

  That was the kind of man T. J. wanted to be. He would run their custom-carpentry business one day. Pay attention. Use the gifts he’d been given. He breathed in again, the smell of wood tickling his nostrils.

  “Hey, son.” Bud turned around from the small burner in the corner with a can of soup in his hand. “We’d about given up on you.”

  Marsh sat on his usual seat, a beat-up wooden stool that had been in the shop since the two were boys. He held a glass of tea and inhaled at the sight of T. J. “I hope you brought enough chicken for me because I’m starving.”

  “Look who’s here.” T. J. smiled. “Camille must be busy tonight.”

  Marsh offered the familiar Cameron-family grin. “She had to meet with an artist from over around Choudrant. Said to tell you hello . . . and to ask you how things are going with Avery.”

  T. J. groaned, and Marsh erupted in laughter. “She thinks y’all would make a perfect couple. Give it up, T. You’re not going to win when Camille makes up her mind.” Marsh had gotten into a legal battle with Camille last fall over oil-and-gas rights. T. J. was still astonished at how fast—and hard—Marsh fell. It couldn’t be long before they announced their engagement.

  “Did I miss something?” Bud cleared off a pecan table T. J. had made from a tree cut down during gas-well drilling. “Are you and Avery dating?”

  “Marsh is lovesick and thinks the rest of us should be too.”

  “It’s pretty sweet,” Marsh said.

  “I was late because I was revising sketches for Magnolia Market.” T. J. arranged the blue-and-white boxes of fried chicken on the table, while Marsh produced paper plates and another glass of tea.

  “So Bill decided to finish it before he got the insurance check?” Bud sank into a gold-striped platform rocker, T. J. pulling up a lawn chair that had migrated to the shop when he was in high school.

  “Yep, but he called this afternoon and wants to meet with us.” He picked up a drumstick and gestured as it made its way toward his mouth.

  “Mom mentioned something about a mess involving Avery.” Marsh put a piece of chicken on his plate. “What’s going on?”

  “You getting your news from The Minnette these days?”

  “You’re not twelve, boys,” Bud said. “And don’t disrespect your mother, T. J.”

  “She dumped you, Bud. Why do you always stick up for her?”

  “Everyone deserves to be respected. Respected and forgiven.”

  “I don’t get it.” T. J. frowned at Bud.

  “I forgave her, and you should too. It’s the only way for you to move on with your life, to become the man you’re meant to be.” He leaned forward. “You never bring that up unless you�
�re stirred up. Something on your mind?”

  “Camille says T.’s got women troubles,” Marsh said.

  “I hope you and Camille have a good time talking about my love life. Do you do each other’s nails too?”

  Marsh burst out laughing. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you?” He paused. “Camille’s hoping Avery will stay on at the market. Any chance?”

  “She doesn’t exactly share confidences with me.”

  “The man who charmed women from coast to coast can’t win Avery’s affections?”

  “I don’t even know if I want to win them.”

  “Riiight,” Marsh said.

  “How well do you know her?” T. J. asked.

  “I haven’t seen her much since Cres died.” Marsh reached for the potato salad. “Up until recently”—he threw T. J. a look—“she pretty much kept to herself.”

  “What was she like before?” He tried to keep his tone laid-back, but he didn’t miss the looks Marsh and Bud exchanged.

  “A lot of fun when I first met her,” Marsh said, “but less outgoing as time went by. Valerie told me once that Cres was running around on her, but I didn’t pay much attention.” He made a face. “Shouldn’t have mentioned it now, come to think of it.”

  “You’re among friends.” Bud spoke quietly. He and Marsh had learned years ago that whatever they said at Bud’s stayed at Bud’s.

  Marsh picked at the chicken. “Avery used to be involved in a lot of things. She started that group at First Church, the one that provides clothes to women looking for work.”

  “Didn’t she host that fund-raiser for the children’s tutoring program?” Bud asked. “A fancy party at the Samford Club? I even dressed up and went to that.”

  Marsh nodded. “Cres didn’t show that night.”

  “What an idiot.” T. J. stood to pace.

  “Ross thinks Avery might move.” Marsh paused. “His brother did a number on Avery.”

  “I get that their marriage might not have been that great, but the way the Broussards have treated her . . .” T. J. shook his head. “Mob bosses look gentle compared to Evangeline.”

  Marsh stood, his face somber. “Dad, I’m leaving this one to you. Ross is also a client, and I—”

  “Don’t discuss your clients,” T. J. growled, wandering to the workbench. “We know, we know.”

  Marsh grabbed T. J. in a bear hug from behind. “Listen to my father on this one. If Avery’s for you, work this out. Trust her.” He squeezed tighter. “And I quote the wise carver on that.” He headed toward the door. “Tell Avery I said hey. I’m going to get by the market when things slow down.”

  As Bud ushered Marsh out, T. J. sat back down and put his head in his hands. So many times when he had been in trouble—and at odds with his parents—he had found solace in this shop. He’d like to bring Avery out here.

  Yep. In over my head.

  “Sure glad you made it tonight.” Bud’s voice surprised him, and he jerked his head up.

  “I always feel better out here.” He looked down at the sawdust on the floor. “I feel sort of bad that I dislike my parents’ house so much.”

  Bud clasped his hands, nicked from carving. “Maybe you should spend some time with your mother now that you’ve settled in. Take a weekend trip or something.”

  T. J. made a face. “She’s busy. And she doesn’t know me. She doesn’t like my career or my hobbies. Or my church.” He waited. “Truth be known, I don’t know her either.” He had never voiced that—not even to Marsh. And he felt squeamish saying it. “It’s high time I got past all that.”

  “We’ve all made mistakes.” Bud’s blue eyes were trained on T. J. as he sat back in the rocker.

  “If it weren’t for you, Bud, I guess I’d be in jail now or gambling away my paycheck.” And I wouldn’t have met Avery. “Have I thanked you recently for dragging me home?”

  “No thanks necessary.” Bud looked him in the eye. “You’d have come back sooner or later.”

  “With a felony record or broken legs.” He choked out a laugh.

  “You weren’t that far gone. You just needed a nudge.”

  Only a man as kind as Bud would put it like that.

  T. J.’s pleasure with gambling started with poker in prep school and traveled right on to college. With his absurdly generous allowance and an interest in sporting events, his appreciation for the campus bookie far exceeded his attention to college books.

  The more he bet, the more entranced he became. When he won, he put more money down, flush with victory. When he lost . . . well, he bet more, certain he would win it back.

  After squeaking out of college with poor grades and plentiful lectures about wasted talent, he took a low-paying, undemanding job as a helper on construction sites in the northeast. The work, supplemented with the ongoing parental allowance, left him plenty of time to study racing forms and Vegas odds.

  His parents were rarely in touch. His father busy with his practice, his mother busy with being The Minnette. But Bud would not leave him alone, calling several times a month, e-mailing almost daily, and preaching—always preaching. Or that’s how it seemed.

  With web links about better jobs, information about churches wherever T. J. was working, the occasional Bible verse, and a steady stream of comics and jokes, Bud persisted. Some weeks his counsel came with the force of a battering ram, but most of the time it was a steady, simple message: “You’re a good man. God has plans for your life. Don’t squander your talent.”

  Often T. J. groaned at how corny Bud was. Sometimes he deleted e-mails without reading them. Occasionally he didn’t pick up a call. He certainly never admitted how much the contact meant.

  On T. J.’s twenty-fourth birthday, Bud e-mailed him a photograph of T. J. and Marsh in Sweet Olive when they were in their early teens. “It’s been fun watching you grow up,” the message said. “You’re talented.”

  His mother called later that day to demand he come home or lose his monthly stipend. His father texted him, saying how much he loved him, and wired a down payment for a new car.

  Something in Bud’s message nagged at him, so T. J. called the father of a college friend in Seattle, determined to get as far from Samford as he could. With connections and the cash from his father, he made a fresh start. He would prove he didn’t need his parents’ money—nor them, for that matter.

  The position was challenging, the Pacific Northwest beautiful. He found a small apartment with a lake view—if you craned your neck—and visited church a few times. Coworkers fixed him up with pretty young women who liked to hike and cycle, and he found himself enjoying life for the first time in years.

  Only after a few months did he allow himself the reward of betting on an office Final Four basketball pool.

  And within days he was back to gambling more and working less, unhappy and unsettled again.

  Bud’s and Marsh’s surprise visit to Seattle on his twenty-fifth birthday had rattled T. J. Sitting at the top of the third flight of stairs to his apartment, Bud was dozing and Marsh fooling with his phone when T. J. wandered in after midnight. “Did something happen?” he asked, his heart pounding.

  “Nope.” Bud stood and gave T. J. a bear hug. “We wanted to wish you a happy birthday and see how you’re doing.”

  “Haven’t heard from you in a while,” Marsh said.

  Tensing for a lecture, T. J. unlocked the door and ushered them in, embarrassed. A pile of overdue bills overflowed from the kitchen counter, and the sink was full of dirty dishes that smelled worse than T. J. remembered. “There’s a pretty nice view of the lake during the day,” he mumbled, clearing a pile of laundry off the sofa.

  “So you like it here?” Marsh asked.

  “Some days.”

  “And you’re doing okay?” Bud asked.

  “What do you think?” T. J. gestured at the mess.

  “Is there anything we can do to help?”

  With Bud’s question, T. J. felt tears in his eyes. From that day, he had not p
laced a bet. He hunkered down at work, earning a promotion and a raise; wrote his parents a letter of apology; hosted them on a visit to Seattle; and even went to Samford for Christmas. He’d prayed for forgiveness for being a spoiled brat, then felt the load of years of not fitting in lift.

  But the best thing that had happened was that through his former Seattle church, he’d begun to volunteer with a group of homeless men who needed to learn basic work skills. They made him realize what Bud had said was true. God had more important things for him to do than throw time and money away gambling.

  The week before his twenty-eighth birthday, nearly a year ago, he woke up on a rare morning when Mount Rainier was visible in the distance and realized it was time to go back to Louisiana. He wanted longer summers and shorter winters, less vegan pizza and more gumbo. Mostly he missed Marsh and Bud, wanted to get to know his dad, and figured he was mature enough to deal with his mother.

  So he had called Bud—who was staring at him now, his head cocked. “Look how much you’ve changed these past few years. Maybe you should help Minnie get to know that man.”

  “She’s one woman in public and another in private. She’s got me afraid to get involved with . . .” His voice trailed off. “What kind of son finds his mother unpleasant? I’m supposed to honor her, care for her.”

  “Is that what’s got you worked up about Avery—that she’s not who you think she is?”

  T. J. surrendered a quick nod. “Partially. And that I’m not who she thinks I am.”

  “Don’t you think it’s possible she’s changed too?”

  “The truth is, I think she has always been a special person, far too good for Cres.” T. J. hesitated. “So why would they want to run her out of town?”

  “All those years ago, when Minnie and I got married, Evangeline and Creswell stood up with us. In all the years I’ve known them, there was only one thing they couldn’t control—and that was Cres.”

  Bud clasped his hands in his lap. “If they can get Avery out of town, they can pretend that they did, in fact, win. It’s a shame, but they’ll go to any lengths to make that happen.”

  T. J. walked to the workbench and picked up one of the little dogs, then rubbed his fingers over the stubby ears.