Magnolia Market (9780310330585)

by Christie, Judy

  Greg glanced away. “Tell that to the dozer driver.”

  “I wish the first deal had gone through,” Avery said.

  “Not me,” Kathleen said. “I’d have never gotten to know you.”

  Both Avery’s and Greg’s gazes flew to her, and she shrugged.

  “Girlfriend bonding aside, this is a far better deal than the first offer. That guy’s credit was no good. Turns out, Mrs. Broussard, you helped Aunt Martha and Uncle Bill dodge a bullet.”

  “I’ll be darned.” Kathleen shook her head.

  Chapter 25

  Avery watched a growing number of people arrive at the Sweet Olive Folk Art Gallery, her nerves worsening. Why wouldn’t the traffic light change?

  Kathleen had gotten a call from her former boss about a job interview, which appeared to be running long. The combination of losing her friend and venturing to a social gathering made Avery want to throw up.

  Camille had popped in that afternoon to pick up the Aillets’ fried pies and practically begged Avery to attend the gallery potluck. “We’re showing off the new exhibit and talking about the corner of Trumpet and Vine. You’ve got a stake in this too.”

  “I’d love to.” The words came out before Avery had time to ponder them. She wanted to see this corner preserved. Elvis. Revivals. A cotton patch. It wouldn’t be right to bulldoze all of that history.

  The time had come for her to step out from behind the counter.

  And it wasn’t like she had anything else to do on a Thursday night.

  As she stepped into the crosswalk, she looked down at the tray covered in aluminum foil and scurried while the occupants of an old minivan waited for her to cross. The driver, a woman with a mass of curly brown hair, waved at her and pulled into the small parking area at the gallery.

  “Howdy.” The woman climbed from the van in a tie-dyed floor-length skirt and a bright purple blouse. This wasn’t the Evangeline’s Boutique crowd.

  “Hi,” Avery said.

  “I’m Ginny Guidry.” The woman stuck out her hand. “Are you a new artist?”

  Balancing her tray, Avery shook her hand. “I’m Avery Broussard. I help run the store across the street.”

  “Magnolia Market?” Ginny’s lips, outlined in bright-red lipstick, curved in a big smile. “I hear you’ve turned that place around.” She gave Avery a slap on the back. “Are those your famous fried pies? Camille says they’re delicious.”

  Avery pulled back the corner of the aluminum foil and held it up. “Biscuits and country ham.”

  “Oh, my goodness. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  As they started up the steps, Avery paused to admire the renovated frame house. Painted periwinkle blue with yellow shutters, it had a wide porch, a small balcony on the second floor, and what looked like a widow’s walk perched on the top. An American flag blew in the winter breeze from the porch.

  “Isn’t it a great building?” Ginny asked. “Having this space has made all the difference for us artists.”

  “It’s terrific.” Avery pointed to the bottle tree. “Everywhere you look there’s an unexpected detail.”

  “That’s Camille for you.”

  Camille, standing at the top of the steps, laughed. “At the moment, Camille’s flustered.” She ran her hands through her hair. Wearing a pair of jeans, a “Do Your Part for Art” T-shirt, and a pair of cowboy boots, she looked like a teenager. “Would it be okay if people park at the market, Avery? The crowd’s bigger than expected.”

  “Sure.” A mini traffic jam was building at the intersection. “Why don’t I direct them?”

  “You’re sure? Bill doesn’t generally like us parking over there.”

  “It’s good for business. Reminds people we’re there. In fact, maybe your group might come over for coffee after the meeting.”

  “Bill could take a few lessons from Avery, if you ask me.” Ginny’s beaded earrings swayed as she reached for the tray of biscuits. “I’ll take those.”

  “In the kitchen, no cheating, Ginny.” Camille threw a bright smile to Avery. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  Walking back across the street, Avery waved her arms like a traffic cop, directing a string of cars and pickups toward the market, a motley group of people piling out and heading for the gallery.

  Among the last to arrive was a blue-and-white Chevy pickup, almost identical to the one Camille drove. Bud was at the wheel, and T. J. climbed out of the passenger’s seat.

  Avery looked the other way, unprepared to confront him.

  “We haven’t missed the fireworks, have we?” Bud asked. Wearing a pair of paint-splattered khakis and a white T-shirt, he looked like he had come straight from work.

  T. J. walked around the truck carrying an oversize blue-and-white sack that almost matched the truck. He wore a pair of khakis as he had the night she had visited him, his oxford-cloth shirt pressed, but his brown hair was windblown and he hadn’t shaved. He looked incredibly good, even if she was mad at him.

  “Soup’s on.” He held up the sack with a grin. “Although from the looks of this crowd, we didn’t pick up enough chicken.”

  “When have we ever run out of food?” Bud asked.

  “You’re part of the artists’ co-op, T. J.?” Avery asked, trying not to soften. Something about him made her knees go weak.

  “Bud ropes me into these hootenannies.” He threw her a wicked grin.

  “Keeps him off the streets,” Bud said with a wink. “Besides, with Marsh and Ross both out of town, T. J.’s standing in.”

  “Chief cook and bottle washer. We’d better get over there.” T. J. glanced around. “Looks like the whole crew’s here tonight.”

  When he stepped up next to her, she dropped back to walk with Bud. “How are things coming with the rebuilding, Bud?” she asked, drawing a small frown from T. J.

  Camille rushed to greet them at the door. “T. J., I’ve got you speaking after supper. Sound good?”

  “That’ll work.” He glanced at Avery. “Bet you thought you knew all my secrets, didn’t you?”

  She stiffened.

  “Your mother will be proud, T. J.,” Bud said.

  He shot Avery another glance, patted Bud on the arm, and headed into the gallery with Camille. He paused to speak over his shoulder. “It would take more than a zoning talk to do that.”

  Bud gestured to usher Avery in ahead of him, but she stopped on the porch. She still felt like someone had dumped a thousand puzzle pieces in front of her with no guide.

  T. J. appeared back in the doorway. “Avery, is something wrong?”

  She shook her head and walked on in.

  After the buffet, T. J. watched Avery lope across the street, wearing a black dress that showed her beautiful long legs to full advantage, her steps certain despite the ever-present high heels.

  She threw her arms around Kathleen, who had pulled up in front of the market.

  “Keeping an eye on the neighbors?” Camille asked, sliding out the gallery door.

  He gave an embarrassed laugh. “Yep. And against my better judgment, might I add?”

  Camille scrunched up her face. “Why would you say that?”

  “Something’s up with Avery.” He rubbed his eyes. “It’s like she can’t stay far enough away from me.”

  Running her fingers through her hair, Camille flinched. “I may have accidentally caused a problem yesterday.”

  “Did you try to fix her up with me?”

  “Maybe, but that isn’t what it was.”

  “Come on, Camille. You’re killing me here.”

  “She seemed surprised to learn you were an Aillet.”

  “Ah.” He jammed his hands into his pockets. “She’s figured out her mother-in-law and my mother are best friends.”

  “Why hadn’t you told her?”

  “I’ve known her all of two weeks, three if I stretch it.”

  Camille raised her eyebrows.

  “When I moved back to Samford, I wanted to simplify my life.” He looked
across the street. “I misjudged Avery as one of those rich women who whines when she chips a nail.”

  And our families have a history.

  “No wonder she’s not very happy with you at the moment.”

  “Did she say that?”

  “It’s obvious. And, for the record, she’s a lovely person.”

  “Hey, I’m the injured party here. She’s mad at me because of my last name.”

  Camille moaned. “Your move, T. J.”

  He looked back across the street. A new spotlight fell on the repaired window, the lot full of cars. Kathleen was telling Avery something. “I probably screwed up.”

  Camille narrowed her eyes. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see about that.” She headed for the door. “Are you ready to talk about zoning?”

  Avery and Kathleen eased into the back of the room, every folding chair taken. Camille was in the midst of welcoming the crowd of about forty, none of whom seemed to notice how hard Avery’s heart was pounding.

  T. J. turned around when she entered, his gaze lingering on her face for a second before he turned back.

  “Thank you for staying for this important meeting,” Camille said. “I know you’d rather be creating art.” She paused as the audience chuckled. “But a time-sensitive matter has arisen.”

  The words brought a hum of chatter, the energy in the room like a firecracker about to explode. Avery forced herself to focus.

  They had gathered in an art classroom that smelled of paint. The floors were refinished heart of pine and the walls a pale blue. Partially finished art pieces lined shelves around the room and were tacked to a clothesline on the side. Shutters, painted bright colors, covered the bottom half of big, single-pane windows.

  Camille held up a hand, and the crowd grew silent. “The gallery has been offered a generous sum to relocate.”

  “Here we go again,” a thin African American woman in the front row said.

  “At least, Evelyn, we own this building free and clear, thanks to the”—Camille bit back a smile—“generosity of J&S Production Co.”

  The crowd applauded.

  “When will people quit pushing us around?” a woman said.

  “We’re here to stay,” an identical woman added.

  Twins? Kathleen mouthed to Avery, who nodded.

  “Some argue we could build a newer facility with lower maintenance and utility costs,” Camille said.

  The knot in Avery’s stomach grew. “If they move, the market’s done for,” she murmured.

  “They’re not going anywhere,” Kathleen whispered back.

  “How do you know?”

  “They’re like me. They don’t like change.”

  Camille motioned toward T. J., who got up from his seat. “We’ve asked T. J. Aillet to talk about possible options for Trumpet and Vine. As most of you know, he grew up in Samford and has a degree in urban renewal.”

  Avery’s eyes widened. Maybe she didn’t know T. J. at all.

  “Some of his work has involved a neighborhood similar to ours in Seattle. He’ll be happy to answer your questions about what we might do here.”

  “I said I’ll be glad to try to answer questions,” he said with a smile.

  The crowd laughed and clapped.

  “Old commercial corners like Trumpet and Vine aren’t faring well in lots of cities. That makes what’s happening with the gallery and”—T. J. nodded toward Avery and Kathleen—“at Magnolia Market hopeful.”

  A few people turned to look at them and then returned their attention to T. J.

  “The best thing, in my opinion, is for old buildings to be restored—to return something to the community.” His face grew serious. “But in most cases, they become blight or are torn down.”

  “And people call that progress,” one of the twins called out.

  He smiled. “In some cases, they’re right. In other cases, not. New construction can change the personality of an area in an instant.”

  The audience murmured.

  “Property owners must be brought into the discussion, of course.” T. J.’s gaze met Avery’s. “We can hope to find solutions that work for both owner and neighborhood. This requires planning, and it’s why we’re here tonight.”

  Inspiration displaced Avery’s anger. She would find a way to beat Greg Vaughan. She wanted to be part of what was happening on this corner, and she wouldn’t let him or anyone else derail her again.

  If Magnolia Market were torn down, something special would die.

  T. J. followed a few steps behind Avery, responding politely when he was stopped for yet another question about commercial use of the corner.

  Avery, smiling at everyone but him, reminded the artists they were invited across the street and called out to Kathleen, who was making a sandwich from potluck leftovers.

  After excusing himself, he plunged outside after Avery. As he stepped onto the porch, excited chatter about art projects and concern for the corner drifted around the yard. But he was focused on Avery, who was galloping across the street.

  Perhaps he should give her time to cool off.

  Or maybe she should grow up and quit worrying about who was related to whom.

  Right.

  T. J. dashed after her.

  He jumped off the porch and cut across the yard, the grass muffling his footsteps as he approached the crosswalk. “Avery!” he called out, but she either didn’t hear or pretended not to, marching across the parking lot and into the store.

  By the time he entered, she had turned on the lights, put on a fancy new green apron, and was measuring scoops of coffee. “That was a good talk,” she said without looking up.

  “Thanks.” He stepped closer.

  “Inspiring.” She pushed buttons and the aroma of fresh coffee wafted across the room. She shrugged. “I’m going to consider how to get more involved. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even run for city council one of these days.”

  “That’d be good, I guess.” Why did he feel like he was dodging a land mine? “We need people who care about Samford.”

  “I’ll have to think about it. Decide, you know?”

  “Come on, Avery. We have a couple of minutes before people get here. Do you really want to talk about politics?” He rubbed his eyes.

  “Are your eyes bothering you? Maybe you should ask your father to look at them.” She put the counter between them.

  “You don’t have to get nasty about it.”

  “So you’re Thomas Aillet?”

  “I prefer T. J., but that’s me.”

  “You didn’t think that maybe, just maybe, you ought to mention that?” Her voice had a reedy sound.

  He held up his hands. “We didn’t exactly meet under normal circumstances.”

  “I’ll give you that, but didn’t it cross your mind the other night when I dropped by your house?”

  “Yes.”

  “No wonder you went to prep school.” She smacked the counter. “So what’s with the handyman act?”

  T. J. frowned. “I build things. That’s no act.”

  She looked him over again. “You must be one overqualified carpenter.” She stiffened. “And you knew Cres.”

  He nodded, not quite meeting her eyes.

  “You went to summer camp together in North Carolina, skiing every winter in Aspen, and to someone’s beach house in the summer.” She drew a breath. “Flirted with the same women.”

  He was silent, mad at himself and at her.

  “Am I on track?”

  “You got some of it right.”

  “One big clump of well-bred friends,” she muttered.

  “I don’t think of myself like that, but it’s no secret my parents are wealthy.”

  “No secret to everyone but me.”

  He exhaled. “I knew Cres when we were kids. We went in different directions. After college, I worked for a builder in Seattle, and he—well, you know what direction he went.”

  “His mother never forgave me that he headed in my direction.”
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  Once more he remained silent.

  “The rumors are true. Evangeline believes I ruined Cres’s life. I’m sure your mother has told you the whole ugly story.”

  “I don’t listen to rumors.”

  “You must be the only one.”

  The bell he had installed Thursday sounded, and Avery looked up, relief painted on her face. “Welcome to Magnolia Market.”

  Chapter 26

  Avery opened the oven door and leaned in.

  “Things that bad?” a deep, amused voice asked.

  She jumped back and touched her arm against the hot rack. “Ouch!” Her face flushed as she looked up into Davis’s concerned face. He wore his work shirt and a tattered Louisiana Tech cap.

  “If it isn’t Mr. Classic Clunker himself,” she said with a smile. “You working on a Saturday?”

  He nodded. “You need to put ice on that. Looks painful.”

  She sighed and scooted around the counter. “By the time I leave this place, I’ll have an impressive collection of scars.”

  “I never realized the biscuit business was so dangerous.” Davis followed her to the ice machine and reached past her for ice.

  Avery winced when the cold hit the welt but managed a smile. His now-regular morning stops for the biscuit of the day, inspired by the success of the hot-egg biscuits, entertained Kathleen and her. Occasionally he brought five-year-old Jake, a special day brightener.

  “Any more news on the sale? Aunt Kathy said the moron nephew paid you another call yesterday.”

  “I should be asking you for an update.” She wrinkled her nose. “Your grapevine is much better than mine.” Nearly everyone passed through Davis’s auto shop sooner or later, and he picked up information the way her father attracted hurting souls. He had heard that Martha was being released before Bill had bothered to tell Avery, and he knew when her old house sold before she had seen the Under Contract sign out front.

  “I’m still hearing storage units,” he said.

  A pang of regret ran through Avery. “I was afraid of that.” She headed back toward the glass case. “What can I get you today?”