“They do appreciate the personal touch.” Avery tugged on her apron. “Although they wouldn’t be as interested in my opinion if they saw me now.”
“Very girl-next-doorish,” Jen said. “That’s in.”
Avery choked back a laugh. Wait until Kathleen hears that I am “in.”
Jen eyed Avery as though she were a mannequin in a window. “It’s the look I’m putting together for our next catalog.”
Avery kept her face blank. “Would you like something to eat? Or drink?”
“You serve food?” Jen’s mouth dropped open.
“Good Louisiana food. Breakfast and lunch six days a week.”
Sharon looked at the menu posted on the wall behind the register. “Do you honestly have homemade fried pies?”
“The best around.”
Sharon closed her eyes for a moment. “I haven’t had one of those since I was a kid.”
“We have one chocolate left today.” So much for her dessert tonight. Business was business.
Sharon patted her flat stomach. “I’m going to be naughty.”
Jen gave a tinkling laugh. “Just water for me.”
While Avery grabbed the pie and two bottles of water, Sharon and Jen walked around the store, stopping at the small collection of artwork from the Sweet Olive gallery. After Camille’s first visit, Avery had began to display samples. In return, the gallery handed out menus with Magnolia Market’s specials.
The partnership gave Avery energy, something lacking in her job at the boutique. Kathleen and Camille made her realize what she was missing.
“Are these original paintings?” Jen asked.
“By local artists,” Avery said. “The gallery across the street has a terrific collection of regional folk art.”
Sharon took a step back. “This reminds me of that area near downtown Dallas.”
Jen nodded, looking at Avery. “They added shops and galleries, and people have snapped up the houses around there.”
They are comparing Trumpet and Vine to a trendy neighborhood in Dallas?
“We’ve made a small start,” Avery said, “but we’re hopeful.”
It hit her. “Yet this I call to mind,” the passage in Lamentations said, “and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.”
She was hopeful.
“I suppose that answers that.” Jen arched her carefully shaped eyebrows at Sharon. “We came by to check you out.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. “I don’t understand,” Avery said.
“Forgive us.” Sharon sat at another bistro table Kathleen had found at a flea market and patted the chair beside her. “Evangeline implied you—”
“Were a prima donna.” Jen finished the sentence, her gaze falling on Avery’s apron.
“She said you had issues after the loss of your husband, but that you’d be great for a store in a town like Santa Fe. Anywhere, really, but here.”
Avery opened her mouth but couldn’t summon criticism of her mother-in-law. She was beginning to think she owed Evangeline a huge thank-you. “That was a hard time for all of us. My work at the boutique was my refuge, as pathetic as that sounds.”
“It’s obvious you’re doing a great job here,” Jen said.
“This is temporary, but the break has been good for me.”
Sharon nibbled at the fried pie like a fish eating a piece of bread in a pond. “Do you have any interest in going back into the clothing business?”
“Possibly.” She drew a breath. The afternoon smells of coffee and lunch, and the basket of apples pleased her. January sunshine, a treat, glimmered off a shelf of canned goods in a kaleidoscope of color.
T. J.’s pickup pulled up front, and he hopped out and leaned over to pull out his tools.
The two women turned.
“Ooh la la,” Jen said. “What have we here?”
“He’s repairing the damage to the store.” Avery’s voice had grown frosty. “You were saying . . . ?”
“We’re opening that Santa Fe store,” Sharon said, “if you’d consider relocating.”
Jen continued to stare at T. J. Maybe he would get right to work and not stop to say hello as he did most days.
Okay, every day.
“We also have plans for stores in Nashville and Little Rock,” Sharon continued.
The bell tinkled as T. J. stepped in with a piece of canvas in his hand. “Believe it or not, I found those stripes you like,” he called out, his eyes scanning the store. Avery loved the way he looked for her like that.
Then his gaze picked up the women, and he grimaced. “I didn’t know you were in a meeting. I’ll show you later.”
“You can show me anytime,” Jen said under her breath.
Avery wanted to punch her, but before she could shoo T. J. away from the pair, Sharon spoke. “Come join us.” She almost cooed the words.
“These women are from The Fashion Group,” Avery said, making introductions.
“We’re trying to drag Avery back to the clothing business,” Jen said, “but I see why she might want to stay in Samford.”
T. J. looked stunned. “You’re thinking of leaving?”
“No. Not yet. I’m n-not sure,” Avery stammered.
“Oh,” T. J. said.
“There’s always the local store,” Sharon said. “Jen’s tired of filling in.”
“It’d be great to have you back,” Jen added.
“You’d go back to Evangeline’s?” The look on T. J.’s face had shifted into a full frown.
“I don’t—”
“Sorry.” T. J. held up his hand. “I didn’t mean to butt in. I’d better get to work.”
Sharon and Jen leaned forward, their attention shifting from T. J. to Avery.
The dairy case hummed behind them.
“Nice meeting you.” T. J. ran his fingers under the collar of his shirt and almost sprinted toward the door.
“My, my.” Sharon picked up her pie and licked a glob of chocolate off the side.
“Even if you won’t leave town,” Jen said, “will you take your old store back? Please?”
A dozen thoughts danced through Avery’s mind, but she couldn’t keep her eyes off T. J. working out front. So she settled on the only thing she knew for sure.
“I’ll pray about it.”
Kathleen shuffled through the back door of the store, her black pants and dressy blouse a contrast to the jeans she usually favored. Her hair was in its unruly brown bob. Howie whined at her entrance.
“If it’s Tuesday, I must have been turned down for another job,” she said to Avery, who was sitting at the register. “Swoosh. They’re looking for someone who’s plugged into digital. That’s code for someone right out of college.”
“Any business would be fortunate to have you. They didn’t deserve you.” Avery looked back at the notebook. “I’m glad you didn’t get that job.”
“Thanks for taking it so hard,” Kathleen said dryly. Stepping into the stockroom, she said something to the dog and came out with her apron on.
Avery didn’t get up from the stool behind the counter. She nibbled on the end of the pencil and tilted her head toward the rear of the store. “Don’t worry. You’ll find the right job at the right time.”
“I hate it when you do that.”
“What?”
“Quoting my own words is against the rules of friendship.”
“Oh, okay. Got it.” Avery straightened. “Sorry you didn’t get the job.”
Kathleen’s eyes widened. “Is that the calculator?” She looked past Avery. “When did you do that?”
A slow smile came to Avery’s lips. “Which that are you talking about? The new products T. J. brought by to expand the Louisiana corner? Or maybe you’re referring to the new—hand-lettered, might I add—menu?”
“I’ve only been gone since lunchtime.”
Avery gnawed on her pencil. “I got a job offer this afternoon.”
“Oh, t
hat makes me feel better. Thanks for sharing. From whom?”
“The Fashion Group fashionistas paid me a call.”
“While I was out interviewing? That’s just wrong.” Kathleen’s shoulders slumped. “So you’re leaving me?”
Avery tapped her temple with her index finger. “I’ve been thinking.” She moved the calculator and notebook from her lap and stood. “We’re on to something here.”
Drawing back, Kathleen put her hands on her hips. “You’re on something all right, but I haven’t figured out what.”
“Something weird’s happening—”
“I can see that.”
Avery moved to the chair and patted the stool. “Sit on your throne, and let me explain.”
“Tell me you didn’t take a job.” Kathleen plopped down.
“We know sales are improving, right? And profits are better?”
“I keep the books,” Kathleen grumbled. “I don’t need a lesson in accounting. Did you take the job?”
Avery tossed her a grin. “It just doesn’t seem that appealing.”
Chapter 32
The woman, seventy if she was a day, waltzed into the store, a guy with a camera on her heels.
“We’d like to look around,” she said before Avery, polishing the produce, could speak. Wearing a long putty-colored linen smock, leggings, and a pair of running shoes, she had sunglasses atop her gray hair and a pair of owlish spectacles perched low on her nose. Her thin build and pointed nose gave her the look of an unhappy greyhound.
The photographer, dressed in black jeans and a black turtleneck, inhaled and headed their way. “Do you have any biscuits left?”
“I’m sorry. We sold out early today. People were extra hungry for a Wednesday.” Kathleen smiled and set down her half-eaten dish of red beans and rice, leftovers from the lunch special.
“I was about to practice my beignets,” Avery interjected. “If you have a minute—”
“Louis,” the older woman snapped from the back corner. “What do you think of the light in here?”
The guy looked from Avery to the woman and back at Kathleen. “Do you put powdered sugar on them?”
“What’s a beignet without powdered sugar?” Avery said.
“I’ll take ’em—and would it be all right if I snapped a few photos?”
“No problem,” Avery said, inviting a small frown from Kathleen.
“Louis!”
“On my way.” He adjusted his lens as he sauntered across the store.
“Practicing beignets?” Kathleen whispered. “Did you decide that before or after the door opened?” She stared at the pair poking around the store. “I’m not showing off for some snooty stranger.”
“Help me out here.” Avery waved a whisk. “I’ve never made beignets on my own.”
“No whisk, no gain, I suppose.” Kathleen grinned. “That lady is way too scrawny to be your guinea pig.”
“You don’t know who she is, do you?”
Kathleen put her finger to the corner of her mouth. “Hmm. Oh, that’s right. She used to drop by the manufacturing plant from time to time.”
Avery threw her a dirty look and glanced back at where the woman was fingering a pottery spoon rest. “She’s studying one of the items from the New Wine mission. Wouldn’t it be cool if we could sell more of those?”
Shooting her a glare, Kathleen picked up a wooden spoon but didn’t move toward the mixing bowls. “You’re turning into some kind of merchant missionary, aren’t you?”
“This could be a big break for Martha and Bill—and for us,” she said through clenched lips, trying to hear what the visitors were talking about.
“Beignets it is.” Kathleen waved the spoon. “And who do I have the pleasure of cooking for?”
Avery was in motion in the kitchen, one eye on the store. “That’s Dixie Wilder-Ferguson.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” Kathleen rolled her eyes. “Never heard of her.”
“She’s the Queen of the South, columnist for Best of the South magazine and host of the TV show. Plus, she has a whole series of coffee-table books on southern life.”
“Quit fooling around, and heat up the grease,” Kathleen said. “Grab the powdered sugar while I mix up the batter.” Pulling out a stainless-steel bowl, she grabbed the flour in a fluid move. “We’ve about used all the flour. Probably need to make another store run.”
Avery reached for a large yellow crock bowl—like something from a grandmother’s pantry—from a shelf over the sink and replaced the stainless-steel bowl, the flour landing perfectly in place.
“So now we’re doing beignets and synchronized cooking?”
“It’ll photograph better,” Avery whispered.
A smile flickered across Kathleen’s lips, and she inspected Avery from head to toe. “Get us both a clean apron while you’re at it.”
Avery started toward the stockroom, and Kathleen spoke again in a hushed voice. “Take your hair down, and put on lipstick too. You need some color.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” She couldn’t hold back a grin.
Howie, asleep on the cot, raised his head and flopped over onto his back. “Not now, pal. We’ve got company.”
By the time Avery returned to the counter, a batch of beignets floated in the hot grease. “Don’t take them out until they’re golden brown. And let them cool, but not too much, before you roll them in the powdered sugar,” Kathleen said.
“Can’t beignets be your deal?” Avery scanned the room for their guests. “I’m still trying to get the hang of fried pies.”
“Miss!” Dixie held up one of the small figurines her father had sent to sell. “Are these imported?” Her sharp nose wrinkled.
“Yes, ma’am. They provide scholarships for children in Haiti.”
Dixie made a tsking sound. “When I mentioned I was coming to Samford, my sorority sister told me about your store, said everything was regional.” She turned to the photographer. “Let’s get on over to the art gallery.”
“They’re all hand-carved.”
“That’s admirable, but not what I had in mind.”
The two were headed to the door when Kathleen ladled the beignets onto paper towels spread on the old wood counter. “Sir!” Avery called out. “Don’t forget your beignets.”
“Louis.” Dixie’s tone was scolding, but the photographer was already loping back to the counter.
Avery swallowed. “Ma’am, would you like a sample?”
The photographer threw Dixie a pleading look, and she sighed. “Came all this way. Might as well.”
“If you’ll have a seat at our bistro table, Mrs. Broussard will bring them to you,” Kathleen said in a syrupy voice. She looked over at Avery. “Smile,” she said through clenched teeth. “You know how to handle her type.”
Avery pasted on her biggest smile and yanked out paper doilies she had bought at the Dollar Store. After arranging them on one of the old café plates from a shelf in the back, she glided toward the two. “Would you like coffee?”
“Made in Shreveport,” Kathleen jumped in. “Roasted and ground by a woman entrepreneur.”
Avery bit back a smile. Kathleen always came through in a pinch.
“I’ll have coffee if it won’t be too much trouble,” Louis said.
“No trouble at all.” Avery looked for something other than paper cups to serve the coffee in.
“These just came out of the dishwasher.” Kathleen stuck two of the mission’s handmade pottery mugs in her hand.
“Excellent.” Even if they didn’t have a dishwasher.
The columnist’s back straightened, and she pulled an old-fashioned reporter’s notebook out of her canvas purse, then paused to take a bite of a beignet.
“In fact,” Avery continued, “many of our lines help those in need, at the local New Wine mission and an orphanage in Haiti.”
Kathleen gave her the okay sign and bit back a grin.
Dixie’s thin lips almost disappeared, but she didn’t lay th
e beignet down. “I’m interested in the best of the south, not an import store.”
She and Evangeline would make quite a pair.
“Our menu is entirely southern,” Kathleen said. “In fact, we’re working on a cookbook with a combination of recipes from the owners and some of our own.”
We are? Avery mouthed, but Kathleen’s gaze had dropped to the floor. She looked alarmed.
“Excellent beignets.” The photographer blew powdered sugar all over his shirt.
“If you don’t mind—” Dixie said.
From behind the counter, Kathleen made a moan of dismay and lunged toward the back of the store.
What in the world?
Avery’s gaze flew to the stockroom door, which stood ajar. She had been in such a hurry, she had not shut it firmly.
For Howie, Kathleen’s movement signified a game of chase, and he yelped and flew around the counter, then skidded down the aisle of canned and paper goods.
“Howie,” Avery said in a low, stern voice. “Stay.” Which led him to run to her, barking with his aren’t-I-a-smart-boy? bark.
The magazine spread was evaporating before her eyes—squeezed out by worthy Haitian art and a spoiled dog.
“Oh, aren’t you a cutie?” Dixie cooed, leaning over. Her haughty mask softened, and she made kissing noises. Howie, never one to miss a snack, licked a stray spot of sugar off the woman’s face and put his paws up in her lap.
The photographer wiped his hands on his pants, leaving white prints, and grabbed his camera. He snapped photographs as though he had caught Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie in the midst of their wedding vows.
Kathleen gasped and Avery froze.
“Fantastic, Dixie,” he murmured, moving from his chair to squat beside the woman. “Just a few more. We can do an online photo gallery from these.”
“We don’t usually let him—” Avery started, but Kathleen gave a quick shake of her head.
Dixie stood, giggled like a teenager as Howie jumped around her.
“I think you’ve got a fan,” Avery said. Kathleen stifled a chuckle.
“I write about the south.” She paused long enough for Avery’s heart to drop. “I like the personality of your store.”
“Oh, we know who you are, ma’am.” Kathleen nudged Avery closer to Dixie. “My friend wanted Magnolia Market to have the homey feel of country stores of the rural south. Avery’s a big fan of your work. Avery Broussard.”
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