The guy held out his hand to Avery, who grimaced. Her stomach felt as if it had been invaded by a swarm of butterflies. Maybe this was a dumb idea, but she took his hand.
“Davis Sonnier.”
“We met when I came to check on my SUV.” Avery liked his firm handshake and his calloused hand.
He made a face. “I’d rather pretend that never happened. I owe you an apology, Mrs. Broussard. I was way out of line when I told you about the food pantry.”
“It’s Avery, and don’t be silly. I was miserable that day—and it was thoughtful of you to be concerned.”
A big guy, tall and muscular, the mechanic carried himself as though comfortable in his own skin, which for some reason made Avery nervous. With his light-brown hair and hazel eyes, he resembled a younger version of his aunt.
Kathleen had scooted out midafternoon for another job interview. The notion of her future desertion propelled Avery to take a cab to the garage.
Now she felt vulnerable, on turf more alien than Evangeline’s coronation at the Samford Spring Cotillion. Life had crashed in on Avery in the past week and a half, and she had darned well better figure out how to right things.
“I sounded like a jerk,” Davis continued, “presuming you needed help and that I might bestow it on you.” His mouth quirked at one corner. “It’s enough to give churches a bad name.”
“I did need help, but I wasn’t sure how to accept it.” She clasped her hands. “It took a few days for your offer to sink in.”
“My aunt Kathy told me you’re lending a hand at the market in your spare time.” His gaze roamed over her. “Looks like things have turned around for you.”
“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “That’s why I’m here to buy the cheapest car you’ve got.”
“I hope I’m not out of line again, but you look great.” He offered a grin, and her anxiety faded.
She looked down at the black slacks and houndstooth blazer finished off with her favorite red heels. “I wasn’t sure what to wear to buy a ‘classic clunker,’ ” she said with a wry smile.
A familiar burst of laughter erupted. Clearly that ran in the family as did the eye color.
“I’ve never bought a car on my own before.” She held out her hands. “I’m at your mercy.”
“Just the way I like my customers,” he said with a mock sneer. “You’re going to love this baby—as long as you don’t do a lot of driving.”
“That’s a ringing endorsement.”
“It doesn’t get great gas mileage, but I know the old guy who owned it. It’s dependable—and fast too.”
“What color is it?”
Davis furrowed his brow. “Don’t you want to know what model it is first?”
“That too.” Her face heated.
“Follow me.”
On either side of the glossy royal-blue door into the waiting area, two cone-shaped junipers perched in large blue ceramic pots. Oversize white rockers sat to the side, a small wrought-iron table between them. A sisal welcome mat lay before the door, and Davis stopped to wipe off his work boots before entering.
The entrance was a disturbing contrast to the shabby entrance of the corner market. If only Bill and Martha had not let the store slide, perhaps someone might actually buy it. This place showed what a little creativity could do.
The chairs weren’t the usual industrial vinyl of auto shops but a glossy orange plastic with an embossed gray chevron stripe. Magazines were arranged on an orange coffee table, and they lacked the usual battered look of waiting-room reading material.
“The car’s out back.” Davis led her through a small hall with restrooms, a watercooler, and a coffeepot. Everything looked clean.
“This shop’s so inviting,” Avery said. “The owner has quite an eye for design.”
Davis scrunched up his face. “Not really.”
“It looks great. I kind of want to live here.”
He laughed. “I’ll pass along your compliment to Aunt Kathy. She helped me put it together.”
“You’re the owner? I thought you just worked here.” As soon as the words were uttered, she clapped her hand over her mouth. “That sounded incredibly rude.”
“No problem.” Davis waved his hand. “You can’t believe how many people tell me they’d rather talk to the owner.”
She laughed. “You look young.”
He patted his cheek. “Baby face. I’m thirty-five, which gives my aunt hives. Makes her feel old.” He smiled. “She was twenty and had married her childhood sweetheart when I came along. She practically raised me and would rather people think she’s my big sister.”
“So you lived with Kathleen?”
“Most of the time. My mom got pregnant in high school, and Aunt Kathy and Uncle Wayne stepped right in, let Mama stay with them. They are the kind of people who will do anything for anyone.”
“I’ve seen glimpses of that.”
“Wayne was a mechanic here and helped get me a job cleaning the garage after school. I stayed on and bought it five years ago.” A shadow ran across his face. “He died not long after. What a shocker. And then . . . life sucked for a while.”
Avery laid her hand on his shoulder for an instant, the pain in his eyes familiar. “I’m sorry.”
“My aunt’s a rock.” His hazel eyes were intense as he met Avery’s. “But I guess you know how it feels to lose someone like that.”
“Yes, well . . .” She looked away. Until recently she had focused on the loss—when she awoke alone and unsure, when a memory skittered forth, when she caught a whiff of someone who smelled like Cres or a glimpse of someone who looked like him. But not now. “I guess we move forward a day at a time.”
Nodding, he looked around. “This place has been a refuge for me. Work therapy, I suppose.”
Davis had created what she had wanted with the boutique. She clasped her hands and fought an instant of envy. “How’d you come up with all these ideas?”
She smiled. “I was a marketing major at LSU.”
He grinned, shaking his head. “I did my first two years at the community college in Bossier and finished up at Louisiana Tech. I’ll try not to hold that LSU business against you.”
“Geaux, Tigers.”
“Dawgs.”
She laughed, relieved at the shift of mood. “I’ve always loved businesses that do nice things for customers.”
“Getting your car fixed ranks right up there with going to the dentist, so we try to make it easier.”
“I’m impressed. Since I’m helping out at Magnolia Market for a few days, maybe I could get a few pointers for the owner.”
“Good luck with that. Bill’s a pretty change-averse guy.”
She peered at him. “You know Bill?”
“I stop by the store occasionally, but I’m a single dad, so mornings are crazy.” His smile grew. “But if I’d known you were there . . .”
Avery clutched her purse. Is he flirting?
“I’d better check out the car and get going.” Her words sounded sharper than intended, so she added a smile. “But if this clunker is a classic, the biscuits will be on me next time you come by.”
He extended his arm with a flourish. “Judge for yourself.”
A gargantuan wood-paneled station wagon sat before her. The back fender was scraped, but the car shone as though recently waxed and polished.
“A Buick Roadmaster,” Davis said as though she had won the grand prize in a contest. “And you’re not going to believe this—it has a Corvette engine.”
Her eyes widened. “It’s huge.”
His face fell. “I knew it was an acquired taste.”
“I appreciate the effort, but I had something . . . I was expecting something smaller.” And more colorful.
“Smaller cars cost more. This one you can get for a steal.”
Her wallet didn’t contain much to bargain with. “A Corvette engine, you say? That car’s looking better all the time.”
The Tahoe had been big, but Avery’s new station wagon made the SUV seem like a MINI Cooper. The car drove like an 18-wheeler, with about the same turning radius.
But she was mobile again.
With a sense of freedom, and feeling certain Davis had given her a feel-sorry-for-you discount, she drove up Trumpet and back down and across Vine, like a college student checking out her old haunts. She shook her hair out of its ponytail and let the window down, despite the chilly weather.
Using the stainless-steel buttons, she found a classic rock-and-roll station and cranked it up loud enough to draw a stare from an old man walking a dog. Or was he admiring her new car? She inhaled, giddy, the car replete with the smell of old leather, pine air-freshener—and a hint of dog. This was definitely a car for a dog and a couple of . . .
The giddiness slid away. How she longed for a child. Davis had been so proud showing her a picture of his son, Jake, his face beaming.
She let off the accelerator and coasted back down Trumpet, the weight of memories exhausting. How did I let myself be drawn into Cres’s world?
Praying for guidance, she wandered through the neighborhood that should have been a wonderful place to call home. Ancient live oaks, squat and sprawling, and tall, skinny pines boasting green leaves and needles despite the winter weather. Purple pansies and yellow snapdragons filled flower beds, and the occasional bike and wagon sat in front yards, as though left during play.
She could almost see the neighbor’s preschool son dashing in from a hard morning of pedaling or the babysitting grandmother pulling the petite twins in the wagon. Although the grandmother had taken to looking the other way after the rumors swirled about Avery. Those small, unexpected slights hurt more than the big cuts.
Avery turned onto Division and drove by the house she had shared with Cres. A Contract Pending sign had been added to the realtor’s sign in the front yard, and she pulled up, tires scraping against the curb. She shoved the door, heavier than a piece of furniture, then stepped into the yard—and stopped.
What good would it do to look around?
The place had little of her and Cres left within its four walls. Even before his defection, he had badgered his parents to make a down payment on a new house, disparaging the cottage as too old and shabby for their lifestyle. House plans had been delivered from the architect the week of his death, a two-story McMansion in a gated community north of town.
When they first married, the house had brought Avery a sense of peace each time she walked through the door. But as the months passed, it stood as a symbol of how different she was from her husband, how she had let loneliness and fear draw her to the wrong man.
She shook her head. There was nothing here for her. She had started over.
Avery wished she could tell the people who whispered about her perfect life that nice houses, designer clothes, and extravagant vacations didn’t make anyone happy. None of those meant as much as being available to others. Dropping in for a chat. Calling to check on a friend, offering a prayer. Her father’s love for those who couldn’t help themselves. Kathleen’s and T. J.’s help with her problems. Those mattered.
She returned to the car, turned up the radio with a determined twist of the dial, and pulled away, almost but not quite ready to sing along.
She wound past T. J.’s duplex, admiring the neat gray-green paint and the front doors flanked by two large camellia bushes loaded with pink blooms. Incongruous cabbage palms stood nearby almost like Florida tourists.
She couldn’t hold back her smile at the inviting home, wondering who owned the place and who lived in the other side. She would need an apartment. The driveway was empty, and she was both thankful and disappointed, unsure of what she would say to T. J.
A flood of longing washed over her. Maybe they could become friends.
Avery pulled out onto Vine and turned toward Cres’s childhood home, a brick mansion that looked like a community center. Evangeline’s car, the small Mercedes, sat under the porte cochere. The new road warrior wouldn’t even fit between the columns.
Driving on, she couldn’t resist going to the boutique. For the past six years, she had been here almost every day, often late into the evening. During Cres’s increased absences from home and after his death, she migrated more and more to the shop, distancing herself from those who wanted to help, friends and family who bemoaned the passing of her husband.
She shook her head. The wound from the lost boutique was not as bad as she had expected. And despite another call from Ross, she had lost interest in fighting The Fashion Group.
Another plus for a fresh start.
Manuevering the station wagon behind the shop, she gazed at the row of unfamiliar cars where she and Evangeline once parked. Had the sale already gone through? Evangeline relished the cotillion and debutante seasons, when her friends flocked to the store for long visits and expensive purchases. But maybe The Fashion Group deal had been too good to wait on.
The shop looked classy, the front window intact and freshened with the bold colors Samford women adored for winter. Yet another contrast to the market, whose color of the day was gray. The moldy market had the personality of grumpy Bill. Surely she could do better. Prepare it for a buyer perhaps. Couldn’t she?
As Avery left the discount craft store, her arms were loaded and excitement danced through her blood for the first time in months. With a trio of cardboard display boards, glue sticks, a stack of magazines, and a rainbow of markers, she opened the hatch of her car and bit back a grin.
Maybe she would add a page to her new notebook listing the positives of owning a plus-size vehicle. The tanker might not steer easily, but she could move a household. In fact, if her bedroom at the store went away, she could live back here. It was almost bigger than the room she inhabited.
Debating where to park the beast at the market, she inched toward the far side of the front, riding the brake. If this baby went through the wall, the entire building might fall. She bit back a giggle.
Her mishap had set so many things in motion, but the memory of the wreck, just as the boutique drive-by had been, was not as painful as expected. Before pulling her materials from the car, she walked out to the street and surveyed the building.
The Magnolia Market sign was peeling, its post rusted. Its redeeming quality was the faded magnolia on the logo, a nice piece of advertising art.
Beyond that, things went downhill. A neglected planter underneath had been knocked loose, bricks sitting where flowers should be. Weeds grew in cracks in the asphalt, with a pothole or two big enough to knock a hubcap off.
Litter collected at the corner, due in part to the lack of a receptacle out front. A pile of railroad ties were stacked at one end of the building, with the look of a project gone awry. She sniffed, hating the creosote smell, and as she kicked at the stack, a rat ran out and skittered to the back of the building.
No wonder Bill’s business was sliding.
Grasping for the happiness she had experienced when driving off Davis’s lot, she retrieved her materials from the car, a lot of stuff for a little cash, and let herself in the front door.
At least the store smelled fresher.
Kathleen had picked up a bag of lemons, and Avery put them in baskets near the register. Their citrus scent mixed with the lingering smell of coffee, which was better than the stale smell of cardboard and sour milk the store had when Avery took over.
Stashing her purchases in the back room, she grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler and put a dollar in the cash drawer. Taking a long swig, she focused on what to tackle next.
You must not begin to think of Magnolia Market as your own.
She glared at the shelves and went back to work.