“Hmm . . . the special, I think.” He cleared his throat looking around. “And I was hoping you might let me take you out to supper tonight.”
“It’s pepper bacon.”
He frowned.
“Monday’s jalapeño sausage.”
“Are you stalling, or have I slid into an alternate universe?”
“I’m stalling.” She stopped, her hand in the biscuit case. “On a date?”
He pulled a face. “Let me explain: I get a sitter for Jake. We both get spiffed up. I come to your door. That sort of thing.”
She smiled. “I vaguely remember what that was like.”
He looked her up and down. “Not that you need spiffing up. You look great. Always.”
Her apron was draped over black slacks and a short-sleeve black T. Sweaters, as she quickly learned, were too warm for working in the kitchen.
She held back a smile. “You’re desperate, aren’t you? But thanks for the compliment.”
“I’ve heard you drive a hot car.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Corvette engine.”
“That thing can move.” She picked up a potholder. “But I don’t know. I haven’t been out on a date in . . . well, years.” She imagined the look on Evangeline’s face if—no, when—word got around that she was dining with a good-looking mechanic.
“We can drive to Shreveport if you’d prefer.” He gave her an easy smile.
“You’d do that?”
“Would you rather stay in Samford? I can cook, if you’d like. Although”—he looked at the biscuit case—“I can’t hold a candle to you.”
The new bell on the door jingled, and Avery looked up.
T. J. stood in the entrance, his tool belt around his waist. “Handyman reporting for duty.” He strolled toward the counter. He looked as uncomfortable as a dress-shop customer trying to get into a Spandex girdle.
As he approached, his gaze moved from her to Davis. “What you having today, Davis?”
“Whatever the chef suggests.” He eyed T. J. the way Howie eyed the squirrels that tormented him in Kathleen’s backyard.
“How about you, T. J.?” Avery asked.
The front door opened again, and Avery drew a breath. Thank goodness.
Camille entered with a smile. “I love this new bell. So much better than the buzzer.” She surveyed the room, stopping at the counter where the trio stood. “Will you come across the street and give me some decorating ideas?”
The hot feeling in Avery’s face intensified. “We haven’t done that much.”
“You’ve changed the whole look in three weeks,” T. J. said.
Avery’s hand went to her cheek.
“It does look great,” Davis said.
“Your garage inspired me,” Avery said. “Camille, have you seen how Davis has his business decorated? It’s like something out of a magazine.”
“Not the look I was going for.” Davis cut his eyes at T. J.
“I notice your truck over here quite a bit,” Camille said. “My Chevy’s sputtering. You making house calls these days?”
Davis laughed and T. J. grew still. “I’m trying but I haven’t convinced Avery yet.” He winked at her.
T. J. was irritated. Very interesting.
“Well, who’s ready for a biscuit?” Avery asked.
The lunch “rush,” although an overstatement, had passed when T. J.’s electric saw grew silent. Not that Avery was paying attention.
She filled a large paper cup with ice, then sweet tea. No matter what the temperature, T. J. couldn’t get enough tea. He favored her new mint flavor, made from a tiny mint garden she had planted in a pot inside the back door.
Maybe the new owner would move it outside when the weather warmed up.
Today she put a slice of orange in the tea. Then she removed it.
Maybe that was too girlie for a guy like T. J.
Then she put it back. “Oh, good grief.”
“What’s the problem?” Kathleen came in through the back door, Howie running into the storeroom.
“I’m thinking of adding orange tea to the drink menu.” She inhaled, the citrus smell tickling her nose. “Is that too froufrou?”
“Let me taste it, and I’ll tell you what I think.” Kathleen reached for the glass.
“I’m taking this one out to T. J. I’ll make you another one.”
Kathleen smirked. “So that’s how it is.”
“Whatever you’re implying, you’re wrong.”
“T. J.’s a great guy. Next to Davis, he’s the best young man I know. Go for it.”
“It’s a glass of tea, not an engagement ring.” Avery sloshed the tea onto the counter as she snapped the lid on it. “He’s been working hard, and it’s warmer today.”
The more she talked, the bigger Kathleen’s grin grew.
“Davis asked me out for supper tonight. On a date.”
“My Davis? I hope you said yes.”
“He’s such a nice guy.” Avery fiddled with the lid on the cup. “It feels sort of like leading him on.”
A crease appeared on Kathleen’s forehead. “You two make a good pair.”
“I’m not sure.” She fiddled with the hem of her apron.
“For someone who says she wants to start dating again, you’re mighty standoffish.”
“I don’t see you going out on any dates—unless you count taking me and Howie to Sonic.”
“Yuk, yuk. You are so funny.” Kathleen straightened the receipts by the counter. “My situation’s different. Wayne and I had a good marriage, and—” She broke off. “I didn’t mean that like it sounded.”
In the past, the words would have felt like a punch in the stomach, but not today.
“Every man isn’t like Cres.” Kathleen picked up a pencil, then tapped it on the counter.
“I know that.” Avery couldn’t bring herself to admit she wished T. J. had asked her out.
“Forgive Cres, Avery. Heck, for that matter, forgive yourself. Go out with Davis, and see what happens. And if you can get over T. J.’s lineage, maybe you’ll forgive him too.” She picked up the glass of tea. “Shall I take this to him?”
“I’ve got it,” Avery said and headed outside.
Chapter 27
T. J. cocked his head to examine the piece of custom trim. Scowling, he strode to his pickup and pulled out a crowbar.
What a day.
“Wait!” Avery cried out as he pried it loose. “That looks great.”
“It’s crooked.”
She stepped back, tilting her head one way and the other. Her long blond hair, usually up in a ponytail, swished back and forth around her shoulders. The omnipresent apron—utilitarian on Bill and cute on Avery—had been removed, revealing a pair of black slacks and a T-shirt. The pair of red high heels—when did I start looking forward to seeing those?—topped off the outfit.
He scowled and turned back to the wall. “Nothing in this building is level, so we have to adjust.”
“You’ve just described my life.”
Giving up a small grin, T. J. wrenched the metal again and looked over his shoulder. “Whoever buys this place will need to pay for foundation work.”
“Unless they decide to level it.” She smiled a tentative smile. “Get it? Level it?”
“I get it.”
“I’m sorry we got crossways over the whole name thing.” The words tumbled out, her face flushed. “I overreacted.”
He gave her his full attention. “I should be the one apologizing. I’ve spent ten years figuring out who I am, and I’m sensitive about it.”
“Can we still be friends?”
“Oh.” His ego fell harder than a hammer off a roof. “Sure. Yeah. Great.”
“I brought you a peace offering.” She held out a paper cup. “See what you think.”
His fingers brushed her hand as he reached for the drink. They both jerked their hands back, jostling the cup, which hit the pavement. The lid flew off, and iced tea splattered onto both of them.
“Sorry.” She kneeled to pick up the cup, lid, and straw. “I’m a klutz.”
He picked up the crowbar. “You seem awfully cheerful today.”
“We had a good sales day. Sold out of pepper-bacon biscuits, and customers loved the muffalettas.”
“I had two of those. That olive mix was good.”
“Gabriela’s group made that.” She looked into the distance, a calculating gleam in her eyes. “If we package that and—oh, never mind.” Her gaze landed on the faded sign. “Are you still planning to paint that?”
“How about asking Bud to carve something with your logo? That magnolia might add some class to the joint. And maybe an awning over that front door to pull it together—and help in bad weather. Maybe in green to play off the sign?”
She twirled her bracelet. “I’ve been thinking about stripes, sort of a modern look to go with the retro logo.” She put her hands on her hips, studying the construction. “I love that display window you came up with.”
Her face was flushed and her eyes shone. Avery was not only pretty, but she glowed. Her voice had risen as she described the display.
He pointed to his sketch with a mechanical pencil, erasing the mullions that had divided the glass. “With tweaking, we can transform the front.” Avery brushed against him as she looked at the drawing, her floral scent invading his brain. He could stand here all day.
But she pulled back. “This is stupid.”
It certainly didn’t feel stupid to him.
“I’m getting ahead of myself. There’s no point in going to a lot of trouble if it’s going to be torn down.”
Conversation floated across the street from the Sweet Olive Folk Art Gallery, a quartet of women exiting, each holding a shopping bag. As they climbed into a BMW sedan, Camille waved from the porch, first at the shoppers and then at Avery and him.
“The gallery business is picking up,” he said. “Bud says sales are ahead of projections. He’s sold a couple of bowls—he turns them on a lathe. They’re nice pieces.” He was babbling to keep Avery nearby.
But she didn’t seem to hear, her attention on the car now headed into the market parking lot.
“If the gallery does well, that should help the market,” he said. “You might make a decent living here.”
Avery’s laughing flush had switched to the color of the paper cup she held. “I’d better get back to work.” She fled into the store.
He shook his head and picked up a hammer. Smashing his thumb might feel better than trying to figure Avery out.
“Hey, good-looking,” the driver called as she disembarked, beautiful long legs unwinding gracefully.
“Hi,” the woman exiting the backseat said, so softly he could barely hear.
“Good afternoon, y’all.” His head ached at this combination of visitors. He still didn’t understand how his mother and Evangeline had stayed friends all these years.
“Isn’t this a wonderful coincidence, Thomas?” His mother came around the front of the car. He moved forward.
“Girl’s day out,” Evangeline Broussard, on his mother’s heels, said in a tight voice.
His mother pointed to her outfit and then back to his construction project. “I would hug you, but . . . Don’t you have help to do that kind of work for you?”
“My staff’s taking a coffee break.” He kept his tone light. “How do you like the way the new front’s shaping up?”
“It looks nice.” His mother glanced at the new window for a couple of seconds and then back at him. “Wasn’t it thoughtful of Maggie to drive us?”
“Indeed.”
His mother’s latest interference in his dating life gave a charming snort at his comment. Margaret Ann Dillingham—Maggie since middle school—was the latest beautiful, young, well-connected woman his mother and Evangeline had encouraged him to take out. Maggie was one of the few he had dated. Already a vice president at her family’s insurance business, she was a heck of a tennis player and easy to talk to.
“Isn’t it serendipitous that we ran into Thomas, Maggie? It was meant to be!”
He hadn’t seen his mother this revved up since she had learned that Marsh was going to be appointed by the governor to a state legal board.
“It’s a pleasant surprise, for me, at least.” Maggie gave him a flirtatious smile and added a big wink.
Humoring his mother—and a little lonely—he had asked her to dinner and a movie two or three times and tried to stir up a spark of feeling. But it hadn’t gone anywhere, and he hadn’t asked her out since . . . Has it been since I met Avery?
“And you remember Thora, don’t you?” his mother said. “She’s a tax attorney now. Very successful.”
“Sure. Thora looked at my other apartment. How’s—?”
“T. J. rented it right out from under me,” she interrupted.
Thora might have announced she summered on the moon for the looks she got from Evangeline and his mother.
“You were going to live in that duplex?” his mother said. That piece of news had just removed Thora from the matchmaking list.
Thora gave T. J. a subtle shake of her head. “Some med-school resident got there first. I wound up renting a bigger place in Shreveport.”
“A doctor? His mother must be so proud.”
“I’m sure she is, Mother.” T. J. was happy to have a reliable tenant, part of his plan to make enough to acquire more property.
“You drive back and forth from Shreveport every day?” Evangeline asked. “Why in the world would you do that?” Her eyes had zoomed in as if she’d spotted a loose thread on Thora’s shirt.
“I’d have a longer commute if I’d taken one of the big-city jobs.” A flush mottled Thora’s neck. “The drive’s only thirty minutes. Gives me time to clear my head.”
What was going on here?
Thora had called T. J. in a panic at the first of December. “I start a new job in a couple of weeks, and Ross said you rent out the other side of your house. I need to get settled in a hurry.” She hesitated and then her words came in a rush. “Do you allow children?”
The next day she had left a message that she had found something else.
T. J. had met her at a party years ago, but he didn’t know her well. She had grown up in Samford and started college about the time he graduated. She looked more like a soccer mom than a high-powered lawyer.
His mother clapped her hands as though calling for attention. “Shall we go inside?”
“T. J.,” Maggie said, “is the hot chocolate as good here as everybody says?”
“I’m more of an iced-tea guy. They have excellent mint tea.”
“Can I get anyone anything?” Maggie included T. J. in her smile. She was attractive in a perky sort of way—and, as his mother often reminded him, very thoughtful. “Or shall we all go in?”
Evangeline pursed her lips. “That sounds lovely.” But she looked as though the idea ranked up there with having a colonoscopy.
Thora slid a clunky white-gold bracelet up and down her arm, her face solemn. “I think I’ll make a call. I’m not hungry.”
“Oh, sure,” Maggie said. “Make me the pig in front of T. J.” She laughed, a fun, tinkly sound. Maybe he should try harder with her.
“Join us, darling.” His mother deigned to tug on his sleeve.
“I’d better finish up.”
“I heard Avery’s working here.” His mother’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Evangeline and I are curious about what’s going on.”
Ah. So this visit wasn’t about throwing Maggie and Thora at him. Evangeline wanted to spy on Avery.
He smiled at his mother. He needed to try harder with her too. “Avery’s been a big help to Martha and Bill, the owners. The place was kind of a mess.”
“Everyone in town is talking about the food,” his mother said, her face impassive. “Claire Richmond served chicken and biscuits from here at a brunch last week, and Maggie’s mother ordered fried pies for our canasta group.” She patted her n
arrow waist. “Thank heavens they were miniatures.”
“They’ve tried quite a few things, and they’re sending a lot of business to the mission.”
“They?”
“A friend helps Avery.” He glanced at the front wall, frustrated that he could still care that she didn’t ask about the mission.
“I’m going to have a look.” His mother talked as though she were about to investigate a homicide. Maggie had paused, holding the screen door open for Evangeline. Thora was rooted in place.
Avery facing this battalion might be a bit much, even for her. “Mom,” said T. J., “there’s not much room to sit down. I know you don’t like to eat in the car.”
An odd expression—relief maybe?—crossed Thora’s face. “Perhaps we could try that tearoom on Trumpet.”
“That might be best, Minnie.” Evangeline—the only person other than Bud who had ever called his mother Minnie—threw his mother a look.
“Let’s see what all the fuss is about,” his mother hissed. “You said you wanted to know.”
Thora glanced at her phone. “I didn’t realize we were going to be out all afternoon. I need to get home.”
Evangeline rubbed her temples. “We won’t stay long.”
“I need to check my messages,” Thora said. “I’ll wait in the car.”
T. J. ran his hand through his hair, watching her practically run to the car. Confused, he followed the other three into the store, smiling at the jingle of bells on the main door. Removing the sterile buzzer and installing the bells had taken him all of fifteen minutes and put a silly grin on Avery’s face. For a while, anyway.
Avery glanced in the mirror, patted her hair, then pulled it back into a ponytail. She was a clerk, not a hostess.
“Wish me luck,” she whispered to Howie, who dozed on the cot. She hurried out, wishing Kathleen hadn’t taken the afternoon off.
Moving behind the counter, she picked up a rag and dusted off an invisible crumb, not yet looking at the entourage. She took a deep breath and plastered on a smile. “May I help you?”
“Hi, Avery.” Maggie Dillingham stepped forward, wearing an outfit Avery had sold her at the boutique. She had the legs to pull off that skirt. “Everyone in Samford’s talking about this place. We were at the art gallery across the street, and it seemed like a good time to visit.”
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