Dixie scribbled in big bubble writing in her notebook. “How did you come to be business partners?”
“I ran into Kathleen one day.”
Kathleen guffawed. “And we decided to enjoy life for a change.”
“We’re not the owners,” Avery added. “We’re filling in, building on the foundation laid by a fine couple. Would you like to see their photograph?” She pointed to the black-and-white picture of Martha and Bill standing behind the old wooden counter, the cash register drawer open on their first day in business.
“My goodness, it looks the same.” Dixie paused. “Only cleaner.”
“Thank you.” Avery nodded.
Kathleen appeared at her back, holding two small dishes of red beans and rice. “Would it be too much trouble for y’all to taste these for me?” She made a clucking noise. “I’m trying to decide if they’re too spicy.”
Enough with the Martha Stewart act, Kathleen.
The market’s beans and rice, made with Gabriela’s spice mix, were the best Avery had ever eaten, including down in Lafayette. With cheap ingredients, they were a high-profit item. Customers raved about them.
“I suppose we have time for a bite,” Dixie said, while Louis took a sample.
Dixie didn’t smile when she handed back the dish and fork, but as she bent to pet Howie again, she spoke. “The seasoning in that dish is unusual.” She paused long enough for Avery’s nerves to surge. “I’d like to print your recipe.”
“We’re launching a line of those seasonings,” Avery blurted out. “They’re made by a young local woman. She wants to go to cooking school.”
“You people certainly have a lot of projects going.” Dixie scribbled something in her notebook and glanced at her Cartier watch.
“We’re never short on ideas,” Kathleen said. “Just capital.”
“We need help.” Avery’s face grew warm with the proclamation.
A frown flew onto the columnist’s face. “I’m not involved in the business side of things.”
“How’d you get your start?”
Kathleen stifled a gasp at Avery’s blunt question, and the photographer’s eyes widened. Even Howie seemed to recognize something had shifted, giving a sharp bark.
Dixie looked at the dog again before meeting Avery’s gaze. “Like you two. A friend introduced me to the right people, gave me a hand.” She nodded for the photographer to open the door for her. “I suppose,” she said, her nose once more tipped up, “you might contact the magazine. It has a push to support businesswomen, and they might have a scholarship for your spice girl.”
Without a wave, she got in the car, pointing to the gallery as they drove away.
“So that’s the Queen of the South.” Kathleen grabbed Howie by the face and kissed him on the mouth. “And we are her loyal subjects.”
Avery burst out laughing. “Oh, Queen Dixie, would you like to sample our poor, pitiful beans and rice?”
“How about a beignet?” Kathleen mocked, tears streaming down her face. “And did you know we’re planning to write a cookbook?”
Howie jumped up and started running around the store.
While Kathleen chased the dog, Avery lettered a sign about the girls at the orphanage in Haiti and added a donation box next to the “imported” items.
“Did she actually say ‘spice girl’?” Kathleen asked.
“Can you believe that woman?” Avery wiped the powdered sugar off the bistro table. “But I’m going to find Gabriela a scholarship and help her get started.”
Chapter 33
Avery lugged two flats of early strawberries from the car, inhaling their earthy smell.
Between the Thursday breakfast and lunch crowds, she had dashed over to the Cypress Parish Cooperative Extension office to pick up the berries, sold as a fund-raiser for the 4-H club.
“We should have ordered more of those.” Kathleen took one flat from her. “I could make great jelly with these.”
“Are we going to add homemade jam to our product line?” Avery teased.
“Maybe we should. I could make chowchow too, if you can find us a deal on homegrown tomatoes.”
“Are you serious?”
“Halfway.”
“Bud probably knows someone in Sweet Olive who’ll have tomatoes this summer.” Avery set the strawberries on the shelf by the sink and pulled out her notebook. “That might help another local vendor.”
Kathleen held up a pint-size green basket of berries and looked back at Avery. “Are you the same woman who crashed into me in a snit over a biscuit?”
Avery let out a peal of laughter, her heart lighter than it had been in months. Arranging a few pints of strawberries in what had developed into the fresh produce section, she glanced up as a carload of attractive young women pulled near the front of the store.
Dressed in bright-colored jeans and gauzy shirts, they entered the market in a swirl of laughter and conversation.
“Ladies who lunch,” Kathleen murmured, moving over to the grill.
Avery had known it was bound to happen, but the sight of a cluster of her former customers made her feel off balance, like running into a group of church friends in a nightclub.
“Good morning.” Maybe her smile didn’t look as forced as it felt. “May I help you?”
“We’re browsing,” one said, flitting toward the Louisiana corner without looking at her.
“Avery?” Another of the women approached the counter. “So this is where you ran off to!”
“Hi, Lynette. Good to see you.”
“You look great. How are you?”
Avery looked down at her apron, glad she had worn her favorite shirt and slacks. “I’m fine.”
“I miss you so much at Evangeline’s. The new girls should ask you to give them lessons.” She glanced around. “Although you probably don’t have time now that you’re famous.”
“I hope you haven’t run out of biscuits because I spent an extra thirty minutes at the gym so I can have one,” the wife of a prominent obstetrician said. “I’m Shelley Dixon.”
Avery knew who she was. She’d whispered loudly in the boutique that Avery was the woman who couldn’t hold on to her husband. That memory didn’t bother Avery today. “How’d that dress work for your Christmas party?”
“It was a big hit. I can’t believe you remember that.” Her pale pink lips made a moue of disapproval. “They don’t have many cute outfits at the boutique these days. It seems kind of . . . flat.”
“Ooh, girls, look at these fresh Louisiana strawberries, and so early in the season,” one of the other women said. “The grocery store still has the ones from California.”
“The lunch group is going to be so jealous that we got here first.” Shelley drifted toward the berries.
“If the food’s as good as the Queen of the South says,” Lynette said, “we can bring them here next time.”
Perplexed, Avery looked at her. “So you know Dixie Wilder-Ferguson?”
“I wish. Maybe you can introduce me.”
Shelley giggled, migrating back with a basket of berries and a package of homemade peanut brittle that a local church had brought in to sell. “We’re on a birthday outing today. I happened to see Dixie’s tweet as we were leaving the house.”
“Her tweet?” Kathleen moved from the grill, where she had been conspicuously silent. She said the word tweet as though it were an illegal drug.
Shelley nodded, looking past Kathleen. “Is Howie here today?”
“Howie?” Again Kathleen’s voice was bemused.
“What an adorable mascot,” Lynette said.
“Mascot?” Avery said.
“Dixie linked to the pictures of your shop,” Lynette said. “The World’s Only Biscuit Boutique and right here in Samford! We would have driven to New Orleans or Dallas for something this fun.”
“She named your handmade Louisiana items a Southern Top Pick of the Week. Those mugs will make the perfect hostess gifts for my niece’s bridal shower,�
� Shelley said.
“Is this all you have?” The other woman held up a royal blue mug.
“We’re getting more,” Avery said. If we can stay in business. “I could take your number and drop them by your house.”
“We deliver?” Kathleen murmured from behind her.
“We do now,” Avery said between her teeth.
“Look at this jewelry.” Shelley bent to read Avery’s new sign. “This is so sweet. These help orphans in Haiti.” She slipped a bracelet on her arm. “Wouldn’t this be a precious graduation gift?”
By the time the quartet left, they had cleared out the mug inventory, decimated the Haitian jewelry, and announced plans to bring their lunch bunch in for gumbo. By closing time, the Samford mission crafts were sold-out, crumbs remained of the daily specials, and Avery and Kathleen were trying to get online to see what Dixie had posted.
Chapter 34
T. J. and Bud stepped off the elevator Thursday afternoon and walked down the spotless corridor. A tree decorated with purple, green, and gold ornaments stood by the nurse’s station, and a woman in scrubs was typing on a laptop on a rolling cart.
“Do you think Bill’s found a buyer?” T. J. asked, the silence making him whisper.
“I suspect he’s trying to figure out how to care for Martha and run the store at the same time. I sure can’t see him letting that place be torn down.”
A nurse stepped out from behind a counter as they approached, several strands of Mardi Gras beads around her neck. “Martha and Bill are in the sunroom.” She dropped a string of beads around Bud’s neck, then slipped a strand around T. J.’s neck and winked. “We’re having a Mardi Gras party today.”
As they walked off, Bud shook his head. “Oh, to be a young man again. She practically throws the beads at me and all but asks you out while putting yours on.”
T. J. rolled his eyes, took the beads off, and stuffed them in his pocket. “You’re almost as bad—no, make that worse—than my mother about matchmaking. And you’re fifty-seven, for heaven’s sake. Quit acting like you just rolled into town in your wagon.”
“I don’t always see eye to eye with Minnie, but I’d like to see you settle down.” He stopped walking. “Have you talked to Avery this week?”
T. J. stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Could you have told me you were going to meddle before I agreed to go into business with you?”
“With that attitude, I’ll take that as a no.”
“Between our other jobs and the mission, I have a lot going on.”
“If you’re as interested in Avery as you seem to be, you shouldn’t be too busy for her.” Bud’s voice was patient. “You’ve known her how long now? A month? Isn’t it time you asked her on a date?”
“If you’re so keen on her, why don’t you ask her out?”
“I’ve got my eye on Ginny Guidry.” Bud winked. “But if she won’t have me, maybe I will.”
T. J. shot him a grin. “Don’t even think about it. I’ll talk to Avery as soon as I can.”
Martha sat in a wheelchair by the window, eating a piece of King Cake, a remnant of the Mardi Gras party.
“I got the baby.” Bill held up the tiny plastic doll. “Martha says I have to host the next party, and I ain’t in a partying mood.”
“Cheerful as ever, I see.” Bud bypassed Bill to kiss Martha on the cheek.
“He’s relieved I’m out of bed,” Martha said in a weak voice, “but he won’t let on.”
T. J. shook hands with Bill, his gaze moving to a man of about forty who had risen to his feet nearby.
“This is my nephew, Greg Vaughan. He’s helping us decide what to do about the store.”
“Greggie owns a used-car dealership outside of Little Rock.”
T. J. bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh at the childish nickname Martha used. He imagined Greggie in shorts and kneesocks.
“Late-model vehicles,” Greg said. “I can’t stay in Samford much longer.”
“It was thoughtful of you to come down at all,” Bud said, his tone wry.
Wearing a pair of jeans, starched and creased, and a V-neck sweater over a shirt, Greg looked like an aging version of the preppy boys T. J. had gone to school with. His loafers were leather with tassels, and his hair made a weird loop on his forehead.
T. J., who gave people the benefit of the doubt, disliked him instantly.
“I want an immediate update on the repairs. I’ll authorize enough renovation to keep the buyer on the hook.”
Greg’s manner reminded T. J. of Willie when he got a piece of particularly good meat, although that wasn’t a fair comparison for Willie.
“It’s a little late for that,” Bud said in a sharp tone he seldom used. “The new front was authorized by Bill, and T. J.’s almost finished with it.” He grinned at Martha. “You’re going to be pleased.”
“Oh.” A smile came to Martha’s cracked lips.
“Ain’t going to happen. Tell them, Uncle Bill.”
“Greg’s found us a good buyer.” Bill’s voice was unusually subdued. “The fellow plans to tear down the old building and use the lot. He wants to close the deal by early next week.”
“But the changes to the front are almost finished.” T. J. felt like someone had set off a Roman candle in his gut. “And business has picked up considerably.”
“I want to make that Broussard woman pay and get Uncle Bill and Aunt Martha out of the grocery business. Now.”
“Her name’s Avery, and she’s the only thing that has kept Magnolia Market going,” T. J. said.
“Now, Greg, calm down,” Bill said. “That gal’s done more in a month than Martha and I were able to do in a year. And she sends food, keeps me posted on sales. Always dropping something off for Martha. Hasn’t even taken a salary.”
“Avery’s a fine young woman,” Bud said, looking at T. J.
Greg turned toward Bill. “Don’t give her too much credit after all the trouble she caused.” He leaned closer and patted Martha’s hand. “We’ll get this taken care of and get you situated in a nice spot.”
“Our condo in Hot Springs?” she asked.
“Or something every bit as nice. Once these two tell us what our building’s worth with the repairs.”
“Ross Broussard would be better for that,” Bud said abruptly.
“Oh, right, the CPA’s son.” Greg’s smile gleamed, annoying T. J. further. “Is Creswell Broussard Sr. as loaded as he looks? He sees that whole corner going light industry.”
“I so hoped we’d find someone who wanted to keep Magnolia Market open,” Martha said. “I love that place.”
“How many times do we have to talk about this? Those old stores are worthless. People don’t shop at places like that anymore.” Greg glanced at Bill. “We’re lucky I found a buyer. That store could sit vacant like that church across the street. Then where would you be?”
T. J. wanted to knock the smug look off his face.
“You have to look out for yourself, Uncle Bill, because no one else is going to.”
“Ironic,” T. J. murmured.
“You’re right. Martha and I will sell.” Bill put his arm around her and gave her shoulder a squeeze with such tenderness that T. J. had to clear his throat. “I’ll take care of it.”
Walking to the parking lot, Bud looked at T. J. “Didn’t think much of Greg, did you?”
“He reminds me of Cres.”
“It’d be a shame to see that old store go, wouldn’t it?”
“To quote Greggie, it ain’t gonna happen.”
Avery jabbed her finger at the paper after she digested the financial information in front of her.
“Look at this. Our revenue isn’t coming from traditional things: bread, milk. It’s coming from things we’ve added.”
“That’s hard to believe.” Kathleen glanced from the paper to the glass case. “Biscuit sales have increased 30 percent since we added the Biscuit of the Day.”
“Your fried pies are raking in the
dough—pun very much intended—and that honey from that farmer out in Sweet Olive sold out. Sold out!”
Kathleen cocked her head. “So this is what you look like when you’re happy.”
“And that’s not all. Look at this.” Avery flipped to the back page of the notebook and shoved it forward.
“Hmm. This is either the mailing list for your fancy boutique or the guest list to a Mardi Gras ball.”
“You’re close.” Avery reached for the notebook. “When I started here, I jotted down the names of customers, to help me remember. That first week it was mostly regulars, people like you who worked, or used to work, in the neighborhood. But look at this.” She slid her finger to the bottom of the second column of names. “After week one, our customers shifted, widened. Thanks to the godsend of Dixie’s visit and word of mouth, we kept the regulars, but we’ve added—”
“The see-and-be-seen crowd.” Kathleen walked to the register and punched a button. The drawer flew open, and she reached beneath the tray of cash and pulled out a sheaf of old-fashioned ledger sheets. “I found these in the back of the safe.” She thrust the pages at Avery.
A neat list of months and years chronicled the expenses, revenue, and net profits the store had made for fifty years. “This goes back to the beginning.” Avery flipped through. “Wow, this place was a cash cow.”
“Keep going.”
At the back was a new page, a computer graph, a black line climbing and then plunging, with a minuscule jump in recent months.
Avery chewed on her lip.
“These”—Kathleen pointed—“these are our sales.”
“So we’ve turned the corner?”
“It’s not much time but the numbers are solid.”
Avery grabbed Kathleen’s hands, the ledger sheets between them. “Do you know what this means?”
“That you’re way more organized than I gave you credit for?”
“Our offer to Bill can work.”
“I’m listening.” Kathleen’s face was impassive.
“Don’t you think we’re creating something special here? That we might be part of something bigger?”
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