The soft-drink delivery guy took the next-to-last biscuit, smiling as he bit into it. “Are you sure Miss Martha’s in the hospital? This tastes just like hers.”
But he wrapped the biscuit in a napkin. “I’ll eat the rest later.”
“They’re horrible, aren’t they?” Avery wrinkled her nose. “I was afraid they’d burn, so I took them out too soon.”
“I like them moist in the middle.”
“They’re gummy.”
He looked at the napkin. “Other than that, how’s business?”
“Slow, thank goodness. A few Saturday regulars came in. I couldn’t have handled a crowd.”
“It’s been light for a while. Bill’s cut his orders in half the past year.” He looked away from Avery as he spoke. “I know you’re filling in, but my boss, well, I was supposed to remind Bill that he’s overdue on his last invoice.”
“He must have overlooked it.” She picked up her notebook. “If you’ll give me the amount, I’ll tell him.”
“I can leave another copy of the invoice—to go with the three I’ve already given him.”
“That bad.” He lowered his voice, looking at a customer choosing a candy bar. “The other salesmen have the same problem. Some of them won’t sell to Bill anymore.”
Avery backed toward the counter. “He seems like a straight shooter.”
“A broke shooter.”
Within a few hours, she had heard the same story time and again. After the lunch rush, which included throwing together sandwiches and cooking a burger while ringing up purchases, she wiped off the biscuit case.
After a moment of consideration, she pulled the lone remaining biscuit from the case and tossed it, then rested her head on the counter.
“Rough start?”
Her head popped up so fast, she pulled a crick in her neck. T. J. stood in front of her.
“If you’re here to gloat, don’t bother. You were right.” She gnawed on her lip. “I’m afraid I just threw away the last biscuit. But, trust me, you wouldn’t have wanted it. Free or not.”
He held out a plastic grocery sack. “I have something for you.”
She eyed it but didn’t take it.
He gave the bag a shake. “It’s something I had at the house.”
Avery reached in and pulled out a beat-up iPhone, case scratched and glass cracked.
“I figured any phone was better than no phone. It doesn’t look like much, but it works . . . most of the time.” He reached across and tapped the back. “The number’s written here.”
“For me?” She coughed. Was she choked up over a broken cell phone?
T. J. stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and moved from foot to foot. “It’s not as fancy as you’re used to, but maybe it’ll help until you get to the phone store.”
She wouldn’t have been happier with a lavish piece of jewelry. “Are you sure?”
“I got another one when Bud and I opened our business.” He shrugged. “I don’t need it.”
“For real? I’ve been trying to get in touch with Kathleen and this will help. I left the store number, but she hasn’t called.”
“Were you expecting her?”
“She said she’d pick me up at the hospital last night, but she never showed. It—” Avery stopped and gave a half laugh. “I was going to say it isn’t like her, but I’ve only known her a few days.”
“Maybe she got tied up at work.”
“She did mention some sort of corporate visit.”
T. J. looked at the display case. “So the biscuits didn’t work out so well?”
“Let’s say there’s a learning curve.”
He smiled. “Anything I can do?”
“Find a buyer for the store?” She raised her eyebrows.
“I’ve asked Ross to help, but he called this morning and said there’s not a prospect in sight. Commercial property doesn’t move quickly at this time of year.”
Avery blew out a breath. Her feet were killing her. Not that she would admit it to T. J. “I can’t imagine property on this corner moving well any time of year.”
“The gallery across the street’s doing pretty well.”
Avery picked up the blue pen by the register and twirled it in her hand. “Do you think Ross could contact the guy who wants to buy the land?”
T. J. drew back. “That guy wants to bulldoze this place. Bud and the other artists from Sweet Olive are counting on this corner. Art means a lot to those people.”
She looked outside at the empty street. “It’d take a lot of work to turn this around. You should see Bill’s ledger.” She shook her head. “Revenue’s low and his credit’s not great.”
T. J. went to the front door, gazing through the screen. “It’d be a shame to see this old place go—it’s part of Samford’s history. This corner used to be lively—especially when my parents were young.”
“Really?”
“Bud says this store’s diner counter was where everyone came to find out what was going on in Samford. Without Facebook or Twitter, they had to go somewhere, right?”
Despite her fatigue, she couldn’t hold back her smile. “An Internet café without the Internet.”
“Kids came here for candy after school, and Bill swears Elvis stopped here every time he played the Hayride in Shreveport.”
She rolled her eyes. “I have a hard time seeing Elvis hanging out with Bill and Martha.”
T. J.’s laugh was warm, sending a tingle down her spine. “Before I-20 and I-49 were built, everyone passed by Trumpet and Vine sooner or later.” He pointed across the street. “That church hosted famous revivals—traveling preachers would stop because it was on their way to some other place in the Bible Belt. Crowds flowed out the doors.”
Avery stood beside him. “It’s sad that it’s empty now.”
T. J. nodded. “Ginny Guidry, the woman who organized the artists in Sweet Olive, tells a great story about how she was saved there. Walked the aisle at one of the revivals, and her mother made her have a long meeting with the pastor before she could be baptized.”
“You should write a history of this corner.”
“I did.” He winked. “In middle school.”
“Let me guess. You interviewed Bud.”
“Pretty much, although even my mother had all sorts of stories.”
“What did the gallery used to be?”
“A duplex with a gift shop. Martha’s sister lived upstairs. She was famous for taking in strangers—mostly young women in some sort of trouble.”
“Next you’re going to tell me that vacant lot was a diamond mine.”
He leaned toward her. For a second she thought he was about to kiss her—but instead he tapped his finger against her lips. “Don’t be a skeptic.”
She took a step back. “You make this corner sound magical.”
“That’s too whimsical for me, but there has always been a sort of chemistry here.”
At the moment Avery felt a sort of chemistry, but it wasn’t for the landscape. T. J.’s manner had a warmth long missing in her life, and she drew a breath as he continued.
“That lot was a cotton field until about ten years ago. The owner prided himself on producing the first bale of cotton of the season. Now the land’s tied up in probate.” Staring into space, T. J. put his hands in his pockets. “Don’t you think it would make a great park?”
Avery looked across at the littered lot—tall, dead grass swaying in the breeze. A rusty piece of farm equipment was covered with vines that had died in the cold, approximating a dystopian sculpture. “And you’re not whimsical?”
His laugh rumbled from his chest.
She tilted her head. “So you grew up in Samford?”
“Born here. I left when I was fourteen and came back about a year ago.”
“Your parents moved when you were a teenager?”
T. J. straightened, his expression less genial. “I was sent to boarding school in Connecticut.” He paused. “Not one of my better experiences.”
“Lots of kids get into trouble.”
“Not that kind of boarding school. The kind where you wear a tie and blazer.” He tugged on the hem of his T-shirt. “You can imagine how well I fit in.”
“Why’d you go?”
“My mother thought it would look good on my résumé—and change my mind about my career.”
“Did it?”
“I made buddies from different parts of the country. Got a good education. Didn’t mind living away from my mother. Her house isn’t the kind of place where a teenager feels all that comfortable.”
Avery frowned. Her parents’ parsonage in Lafayette had been welcoming, and her father’s cinder-block apartment in Haiti was cozy. “What about your father?”
“He’s a great guy, but super busy.”
“Ah.” It dawned on her. “That’s why you don’t speak with a true Louisiana accent. Your voice is deep without that—” She hesitated. “Oh, never mind. That’s silly.”
“No one’s ever described my voice before.”
Avery stepped back quicker than a crawfish headed for a ditch. “That is the kind of procrastination a woman will resort to when she has a store to clean. I’ve got to get to work.”