T. J. showered and changed from his work clothes into a pair of clean jeans and a T-shirt Wednesday evening. He didn’t want to look like he’d gone to too much trouble.
Then he fed Willie and let him linger outside, smiling as he ran around the yard like a maniac. The dog was another of the creatures Bud had rescued, the same way he had saved T. J.
At first T. J. had protested the animal, who leaned to the goofy side. Now he couldn’t imagine the house without him, even though he had grown well beyond the “terrier-mix” prediction to out-and-out large mutt, still with reddish hair “the color of Willie Nelson’s in the old days,” as Bud put it.
“Come on, big guy. I’ve got business to handle.” He had been by the hospital yesterday to check on Martha and Bill and gotten a surprisingly positive report on the biscuit business and a request to move forward with the market repairs.
He scratched Willie under the chin, rewarded with the shaggy tail swishing back and forth in pure dog happiness. “I confess, though,” he said as the dog bounded away and dropped the slimy ball at his feet. “I’ve missed Avery.” The dog barked. “I know. I wasn’t going to get involved in some society woman’s drama.” He threw the ball again and waited until Willie dashed back with it. “But I can’t stop thinking about her.”
The notion of getting close to Avery should have felt as uncomfortable as a suit and tie. He steered clear of women like his mother who liked stuff and status. A woman who could be attracted to Cres Broussard couldn’t be his type. Could she?
So he stalled. Excuses to stay away weren’t hard to come up with. Between helping Bud fix busted pipes for people at the mission and making custom cabinets for a new house in the Cotton Grove subdivision, T. J. had been so busy that he hadn’t made it by the market since running into Avery and Kathleen at the wholesale store on Friday.
When Ross had called Monday, T. J. had been alone in Bud’s shop, working on fancy cabinet doors. Proud of his work, he rubbed the smooth cherrywood as he listened to Ross. Bud was an excellent teacher.
“What’s up with Avery?” Ross asked right off the bat.
“Is something wrong?”
“You tell me. I tried to call you over the weekend, and she picked up the phone again.”
Maybe T. J. was tired. Maybe he was busy. But something in Ross’s tone irritated him like nothing had in weeks. “Her phone broke, and I loaned her an old one.”
“I didn’t know you were that close.”
T. J.’s jaw clenched. “You’re the one who dragged me into this.”
“Dragged you into what?”
“Why don’t you come back and take care of her yourself?” He clicked off the phone, trying to remember the last time he had hung up on someone. Maybe Bill was rubbing off on him.
Before he picked up the piece of wood again, Ross called back.
“Hey, man, I’m sorry,” they both said at the same time and then laughed nervously.
“I won’t babysit your sister-in-law for you.”
“But you’ll keep an eye on her, let me know if she’s in trouble?”
“She may have had some bad luck, but she’s plenty independent.” T. J. brushed a layer of sawdust from his shirt. Did the Broussards even know Avery? “I get the feeling she’s turned some sort of corner.”
“That’s good news.” Ross was quiet for a moment. “But it helps to know you’re there. Everything good?”
“Yeah, man.” Most days.
“The mothers fixing you up with all of Samford’s single women?”
The question rattled T. J. “Every now and then. Listen, you office guys may sit around and talk on the phone all day, but I’ve got real work to do.”
Ross laughed.
“I’ll run by Magnolia Market sometime this week. I’ll let you know if there’s a problem.”
“Like I said, I owe you one.”
Avery’s smiling face popped into T. J.’s mind. “No, you don’t.” He hung up.
Now he could hardly wait to get over there, and if he wanted to pretend like it was a work matter, that was his business. He did need to get with her about design details and had sketched a new front on an envelope after Sunday lunch at his mother’s.
When he and Bud had ripped the rest of the tin off the shoddy front, they found a fine old facade. With some tinkering, the building could match the personality of the Sweet Olive Folk Art Gallery—and maybe attract more business.
He gave Willie’s chin one last scratch. “No offense, big guy, but she’s a lot prettier than you are.”
Waiting until the last minute to call Avery—maybe that would make it seem less like a social call—he climbed into his pickup and pulled out his phone. But before he got out of his driveway, a horn beeped twice.
Camille Gardner, his brother’s girlfriend, pulled up in her vintage pickup, the twin of Bud’s vehicle.
Stepping out, Camille waved, illuminated under the streetlight. “I hoped I might catch you before you went over to your parents’ house.”
“My parents’ house?” He looked at the date on his watch. “Is that tonight?”
“It’s Wednesday, isn’t it?”
“I forgot all about it.” He shook his head. “I can’t make it.”
Camille stepped closer, a smile on her face, her short hair tousled. She had on a loose artsy dress, topped off by her standard cowboy boots. “Nice try, buddy, but if I have to go, you have to go.”
“You’re going?” Camille and his mother were not all that comfortable in the same room. His mother hoped Marsh would come to his senses and marry Valerie Richmond, a Samford princess who had moved to Houston.
“If it takes a Wednesday night supper to make your mother happy . . .” Camille shrugged.
“But we already do Sunday lunch.”
“Marsh does Sunday lunch. You skip out with your mission crowd more than you go to your parents’.”
“So now Marsh’s tattling on me? He must be in love.”
Camille laughed.
“I can’t go tonight. I need to take care of something—” T. J. stopped at the amusement on her face. “I’m not making that up. What’s this dinner all about anyway? It’s not anybody’s birthday, is it?”
“Your mother read a magazine article about a woman who has midweek dinner parties with the neighbors. She thinks it will be a nice tradition.”
“This is going to be a tradition?”
“Marsh says she’ll move on to something else in a week or two.” Camille gave an impish grin. “I’m meeting him there, so hop in and I’ll give you a lift.”
Looking down at his jeans, he grimaced. “Can you wait for me to change?”
“You’re fine. I won’t even hold your boyish looks against you.” She smiled, her face transformed in the look that had first drawn his brother’s attention. “Come on.”
“Dinner at my folks’ wearing jeans?”
“Horrors!” She looked at her feet. “Maybe I should change too. Your mother’s not crazy about the boots. But I like the way they look with this skirt.” She winked. “And Marsh likes them.”
Avery probably would too.
He froze. Where did that come from?
Unlocking the duplex, T. J. ushered Camille in and picked up a woodworking magazine from the khaki couch. “Sorry for the mess.”
“No sweat. My place is a wreck too.”
“But you just moved in.” He turned. “How’s the art business anyway?”
Camille sat in a wooden rocker Bud had made. “Slow. Trumpet and Vine isn’t exactly a trendy location. Lawrence Martinez’s glass is our best seller.”
“Mom liked the piece you gave her for Christmas.”
“He’s going to make the gallery famous—if we can hold our corner together.” She ran her hands through her hair. “We’re getting some walk-in business and a few orders. And a little traffic since Magnolia Market’s doing better.”
“Really?”
“Marsh said you’re doing some work over there.”
“Bud and I are patching up the front.”
“I went over to visit the new manager. Isn’t she adorable? She’s improved that store in just a few days.”
“Um . . . adorable?” He wasn’t about to talk to Camille about how much he liked Avery. Next thing he knew, Marsh would be ragging him about it. “I guess I haven’t paid much attention.”
“Yeah, right.” Camille snorted. “You’re honestly trying to convince me you haven’t noticed Avery?”
“About your age? Long blond hair?” He had been much better at bluffing in his poker days.
“You’re on the right track.” Camille smirked. “Drives a station wagon that makes my truck look like a VW Bug?”
Finally, an escape. “She doesn’t drive a station wagon.”
“It’s there night and day.”
He shrugged. “Beats me. Avery’s filling in for a few days until Bill figures out what to do.”
“I wish she’d stay. The store’s about our only hope to make something happen on the corner.” She glanced at him. “Ross says there’s an investor who wants to bulldoze the market and that vacant church.”
“Bill might drive the dozer himself at this point. He’s ready to unload that place.”
“He’s probably been listening to his nephew.”
T. J. frowned.
“That guy’s in town again from Little Rock to ‘help.’ He stopped by the gallery Friday, acted like he was shopping for a painting.” She wrinkled her nose. “I went on and on about my dream for the corner—until I realized who he was. He wouldn’t know a piece of original art if it fell on his head.”
T. J. blew out a slow breath. “Bud says he’s tried to get his hands on Magnolia Market for years. Wants to sell it and manage Martha and Bill’s money.” He shook his head. “I’d hate to see them with nothing to count on.”
“If they tear it down, it could ruin our plans for the corner. Do you think they’ll ever run the store again?”
“I doubt it. Want to buy it?”
Camille’s eyes grew wide. “Is there any chance Avery might?”
He stilled. “I wouldn’t think so. Avery’s life’s complicated.”
“I heard about her husband getting killed.” Camille made a small noise. “I can’t imagine losing Marsh like that. She must be a strong woman.”
“She’s something of a contradiction.” He debated how much to say. “She made Evangeline’s dress store a success, according to Ross. Ran the place for five years.”
“I’ve met Evangeline. Avery must be strong. She’s perfect to help us do what has to be done.”
T. J.’s cell phone rang, and his mouth thinned as he glanced at it. “Hi, Mom. I’m on my way. Five minutes. Ten max.”
“Your father said you hadn’t forgotten, but I had my doubts,” his mother said. “Oh, there’s the doorbell. See you soon.”
“We’re late,” Camille wailed. “I’m going to be kicked out of the family before I’m even a part of it.”
“I’ll be right back.” T. J. dashed out of the room. Sticking his head in the laundry room, he smiled at Willie, asleep on a towel on the floor. He grabbed a pair of khakis from a hook on the door and a shirt that could have used an iron, disappointed at the delay in seeing Avery.
Willie stirred and glanced at him with his you’re-leaving-again-already? look, and T. J. gave him another pat as he walked out.
“Think this’ll do?” he asked Camille.
“Other than that frown on your face.”
“I had something else to do tonight. Plus, my brother will show up in a starched white shirt and silk tie—and he’ll be right on time.” He rolled his eyes.
“Your mother means well.”
“I keep telling myself that.”
“She’s so glad you’re back in Samford that she gets a little overexcited.”
T. J. grabbed a lightweight jacket instead of his canvas work coat and held the door as they went outside. “I’m trying to be patient. Dad’s great. Marsh and I don’t quite live our lives to suit Mom.”
She certainly hasn’t lived hers to suit us.
He extended his arm. “Your truck or mine?”
“Mine. I’m not getting enough time behind the wheel now that I’m at the gallery.”
“Go ahead and admit it. You like the look on my mother’s face when you drive up in that thing.”
“Well, there is that.” Camille smiled.
Watching her shift the old truck, he felt a pang of happiness that his half brother had found the perfect woman for him. It would be fun to take Avery on a date with Camille and Marsh.
He shook his head. Am I losing my mind?
“Why don’t you buy the market, Camille? Build an empire at the corner of Trumpet and Vine.” He poured his idea into a grin. “Maybe Avery would run it for you.”
Camille shifted gears. “Between Marsh’s new law firm and the gallery, we hardly see each other as it is.”
“Right.”
She cut him another smile. “Okay, we do spend a lot of time together . . . but it never seems like enough. You know?”
“Not really.” He had wasted so much time getting into and out of scrapes, he had never fallen in love, even though he had developed a reputation as a charmer.
“Are you dating anyone?”
He tensed. “And here we go.”
“What?” Her eyes were wide.
“I’m a twenty-eight-year-old single man with all of my teeth. I can recognize someone about to fix me up. Why is it that everyone wants to talk about my love life?”
“A lot of nice women stop by the gallery.”
“I’m sure they do.”
She snapped her fingers. “Avery! She’s perfect for you.”
Yep. His heart thudded. “She’s a Broussard, for heaven’s sake.”
“You’re a reverse snob. Besides, I saw her on her hands and knees cleaning the market. She’s nothing like Evangeline, nor your mother.”
“No matchmaking, Camille. None.”
Camille let out a hoot of laughter and pointed at the street ahead. Cars lined both sides. “Your mother will kill us before I can fix you up anyway.”
“A valet? She hired a valet? I should have worn a tie.”
“I shouldn’t have worn my boots.”
Marsh strode from the house as soon as they pulled up and kissed Camille on the lips while he helped her from the truck.
“Hey, you,” she said.
“Hi,” he murmured, kissing her again.
“Must you two be so perfect?” T. J. ambled around the truck, considering taking the keys from the college-aged valet and driving off. “If she mentions your adorable dark brown hair, I’m leaving.”
“It is adorable, isn’t it?” Camille ran her fingers through it.
“About time you got here, T. J.,” Marsh said. “Mother’s already told me I need a bigger house and—”
“You need to hire a lawn man.” T. J. knew the script. “And she’s fretting that I’m throwing my life away as a carpenter.”
Marsh slapped him on the back with a laugh. “She may have mentioned that.” Clasping Camille’s hand, he led the way up the walk. “Lucky for you, though, she’s more wound up about Avery.”
T. J. stopped, pretending to study the elaborate Mardi Gras decorations. His mother’s landscape service could work a theme. After a moment, he looked back at Marsh. “Why would she be upset about Avery?”
“Evangeline’s ‘devastated’—and I’m quoting here—that Avery’s gone off the deep end.” Marsh cocked his head, a curious gleam in his eye. “From what I overheard, Evangeline didn’t want Avery around.”
An uneasy feeling fluttered in T. J.’s gut. “You know I wouldn’t tell most people this,” T. J. said quietly. “I was doing a few small repairs at the boutique. Things got heated.”
“Thomas Jacques, are you going to stand out front all evening?” His mother stood in the door of the big house that had never felt like home. She had a tight smile on her face and wore a dress fit for a wedding or the country club. “The other guests are already having cocktails.”
“Sorry, Mother.” T. J. gave her a tight hug. “Marsh and I were catching up.”
“Hello, Mrs. Aillet.” Camille held out a colorful gift bag. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Certainly.” She sniffed, taking the bag but not looking inside. “Maybe your nice manners will rub off on my sons. I don’t know where I went wrong.”
“They have good hearts.” Camille gave a nervous laugh and patted Marsh on the arm. He looked down at her with a smile and squeezed her hand. Then he leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the lips, as though he just couldn’t resist.
T. J. felt a pang. He wanted that kind of relationship, a woman he could marry and have a family with. A woman who didn’t care about money or jewelry, fancy parties, and definitely not valets.
He looked into the room, wishing Avery were there. And wishing she wasn’t part of the society crowd.
Yep, going crazy.
A cluster of guests stood a few yards away in the living room, a waiter in black pants and a white shirt serving crab-stuffed mushrooms and miniature boudin balls.
“This is a small supper?” Camille whispered.
“Aillet style,” Marsh said, before plunging into the room with her, leaving T. J. standing in the foyer.
“There’s my boy!” His father’s look of delight made up for his mother’s stingy smile, and T. J. bypassed the outstretched hand to give him a hug.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“I barely made it myself,” his father said in a low voice. “Minnette wanted to try a weeknight gathering.” He looked across the room with an indulgent smile. “Your mother can put on quite a soiree.”
His mother and Bud had divorced when Marsh was five, and she had married Roger a year later. T. J. had been born the next year. Somehow, despite everything, they had managed to stay together. T. J. admired his father, even though they had never spent much time together.
T. J. smiled. “How was work?”
“Same as every day,” his father said. “Surgery all morning, clinic in the afternoon.” In his personal life, his father followed in Minnette’s wake, but professionally he was one of the state’s top ophthalmologists, his absentminded professor look at odds with a brilliant mind. “I examined that man you sent from the mission. He needs cataract surgery. He can’t see a thing.”
T. J. furrowed his brow. “I’ll have to ask around to raise the money for—”
His father headed into the living room, shaking his head. “I already scheduled it. I’ll cover this one.”
He followed. “Thanks for seeing those folks. Why don’t you go over there one day, see their work?”
“Maybe one of these days. Between my practice and your mother . . .”
T. J. pushed down his disappointment. Since he had moved back to Samford, he felt most comfortable in Bud’s shop or helping at the mission on the other side of town. Neither place enticed his parents.
“Don’t you two know you should be mingling?” His mother glided toward them, a glass of white wine in one hand, her other hand looped through Evangeline’s arm. His father glanced at T. J. and gave a quick smile. Camille was right: everyone was something of a contradiction.
Evangeline Broussard’s cajoling voice addressed his father. “Roger, Minnette has promised you’ll get me a glass of wine.” As his father turned toward the bar, she said, “Hello, Thomas.” Her voice was singsongy, in sharp contrast to its strident tone with Avery those days at the shop.
“Hello, Evangeline.”
“As I was telling you, Minnette, Thomas did a first-rate job on our work at the boutique.”
“He is so talented,” his mother began, and T. J. tensed. “I told him he should be an architect or own a contracting firm.”
T. J. refused to let his mother get him bent out of shape. He’d worked hard to clean up his act and was doing what he loved. He looked around for Marsh. At least they could smile at this together.
“Thomas’s work drew high praise from the new owners.”
His attention steered back to the two women. “So the sale is going forward?” He hoped his interest sounded casual.
“We’ve run into a stumbling block.” Evangeline looked as though she had gotten a whiff of rancid shrimp. “Ross got involved, plus they wanted my manager as part of the package. I have tried to explain to them that she is no longer available, but they are most insistent.”
She stared at his mother as though seeking backup. “Avery is unreliable.” Evangeline accepted a glass of wine from his father. “Now she’s disappeared.”
“Isn’t she helping at Magnolia Market?” T. J.’s question came out before he could stop it.
With a melodramatic sigh, Evangeline took a sip of wine. “So we’ve heard, but her phone’s been disconnected, and she’s not living at the Division house anymore. We’ve tried to give her money and she’s refused to cash the check.”
T. J. opened his mouth and then closed it. If Avery wanted them to have her temporary number, she could give it to them.
Once more Evangeline looked at his mother. “I don’t know how Cres got mixed up with her in the first place.”
T. J. gritted his teeth. He had never cared for Cres, who was more style than substance. When he heard about the accident, he had been remorseful. Now that he had met Avery, T. J. couldn’t imagine a husband going off and leaving a wife like her behind.
After excusing himself, he ducked into the kitchen, where Barb, his parents’ housekeeper and family cook, was ladling shrimp and grits into small crystal dishes. He gave her a quick grin and put his finger to his mouth, moving toward the mudroom. She smiled and nodded.
He dug in his pocket, then punched in the number to his old cell phone. When the call went to voice mail, his own voice greeted him. “Leave a message. I’ll get back to you.”
He hung up and dialed the market on the outside chance Avery was working. No answer.
The room felt too warm, and the chitchat was wearisome. He felt out of sorts. Maybe he should let Camille fix him up with someone or even give in to another of his mother’s reintroductions to a string of “perfect” childhood friends.
Eager for a moment of solitude, he headed for his dad’s sunken den, but it had been taken over by a group of men watching a basketball game. “Come on in, Thomas,” Creswell Broussard said, “but don’t let the womenfolk know we’re down here. Evangeline will have my hide.”
Forcing himself to meet Creswell’s eyes, T. J. entered and went to his father’s bar in the corner and grabbed a bottle of water out of the minifridge. On nights like these he missed his wild oats.
Twisting the top, he pretended to watch the game.
“That’s some fine work you did at the boutique,” Creswell said. “I wish I’d been born with talent like that.”
T. J. didn’t smile. “Thanks, sir.”
“You still working with Bud Cameron?” Creswell’s questions caused a couple of the others to turn away from the game.
Ah, the counterpunch.
“I am. He’s an excellent craftsman.”
“Always has been,” Creswell said.
T. J. looked at the game. “Any word on when Ross will be back?”
“Not for a few more weeks.” He lowered his voice. “He’s opening an office in Baton Rouge.”
T. J. nodded. “He mentioned some big project.”
Creswell’s eyes narrowed, his brows almost meeting. “I’d forgotten that he called you.” His voice lowered. “I appreciate you helping out with that ugliness with Avery.”
He shook his head and left the room. He could think of nothing ugly about Avery.