Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (10 page)

“I can drive myself. I’ll probably do some work beforehand.”

“Marsh will be happy to pick you up. His father is entering a sculpture, and he’ll want his son there. Right, Marsh?” Ginny’s hair, looped on top of her head like an out-of-control waterfall, bounced as she cut a grin at him.

He looked at Camille, her eyes duskier this evening. They gleamed with what looked like mischief, but he couldn’t tell if she was trying to keep from laughing or waiting for him to come up with an excuse.

“Sounds great,” he said, unable to hold back his own smile. “What time should I pick you up?” His inner rationalizations were as lame as a weak witness in the jury box.

Despite his determination otherwise, this case was personal.

C
amille met Marsh in the parking garage on Saturday morning, hard-pressed to remember this was a business event.

Leaning against the jaunty car in a baseball cap, Marsh looked as casual as he had during their first encounter. His khaki shorts showed off muscular tanned legs, and she wondered what sport took him outside so much. The car’s top was down. A U2 song played at high volume.

“Did you get a lot of work done?” He leaned in to adjust the radio volume as he spoke.

She shrugged. “My mother called to chitchat, and I wound up talking to a friend in Houston.” Allison had called to tell her a volunteer—with a master’s in art—had signed on for Saturdays until Camille’s “situation” was resolved.

“Do you get used to traveling all the time, or does it feel like your life’s on hold?”

With the music playing in the dim garage, she felt disoriented for a moment, almost like she was on a date. “Some of both, I suppose. I plan to settle in Houston.”

“So that’s home?”

“Not yet, but it will be soon.” If she said that out loud, maybe it would come true.

“I would have pegged you as more of a small-town woman.”

“We’ll see. I’ve never lived in one place long enough to know.” She opened the door and crawled in. “Don’t you think we’d better go?”

Marsh turned and pulled a cap out of the backseat. “You’re probably going to need this.”

An odd zap of jealousy flowed through her as she looked at the pink cap with a golf resort logo, but she put it on, pulling the bill down until it shielded her eyes.

As they reached the garage exit, Valerie turned into the other lane, lowering her window to insert her passkey. Her head jerked as she saw them approaching. “My, my. Don’t you two look cozy? Nice hat, Camille.”

“Hey, Val,” Marsh said.

“I didn’t know you were coming in today,” Camille said.

Valerie’s gaze went from Marsh to Camille, unsmiling. “Looks like the new boss won’t be looking over my shoulder.”

“Val …” Marsh’s voice sounded as it had at the party the first night.

“I left a couple of file requests on your desk.” The words gave Camille a perverse measure of satisfaction. “If you can have them to me by Monday, that would be great.”

Valerie’s eyes narrowed, and Camille detected a hint of a grin on Marsh’s face. “We’re off to Sweet Olive,” she added. “Big art show today.”

“I thought that—” Valerie stopped midsentence, and a smirk crossed her face. She slowly raised her window, blowing a kiss just before it closed. “Y’all have fun.”

Marsh reached up to grab his sunglasses from the visor. “You two seem to be getting along well.” This time his grin was full blown.

“You really didn’t have to pick me up.” She frowned

“You mentioned that. At Ginny’s, twice by e-mail and on my office voice mail.” He straightened his cap. “Ginny’s right—this is a good way for you to learn more about us.”

Camille removed the hat and stuffed it in the glove box, silent while Marsh maneuvered through Samford. When they passed Trumpet and Vine, she ran her fingers through her hair.

With the beautiful blue sky and a slight shift in the light, the duplex looked almost … homey.

“You interested in that place?” Marsh’s joking voice interrupted her thoughts. “My friend Ross is the broker, and he’d love to unload it.” He gestured at the intersection. “This corner isn’t the best place to sell a piece of property. Even that church is on the market.”

“The area seems to have potential.” Camille kept her voice steady.

“Local developers have been saying that for years, but it would take a miracle.”

They drove through North Samford, silent except for the radio, approaching the area where Bienville Oil had drilled two new wells.

Marsh’s tiny car scraped bottom on the rutted road. “Potholes,” he said. “Sorry.”

They jostled their way down the parish highway, swerving every few yards. The Saturday traffic included a stream of work trucks, few of which belonged to J&S. The car made a loud thunk, audible even over the music, and Marsh made a face. “Oil-and-gas
equipment has wrecked these roads. It’s one reason Sweet Olive doesn’t want wells.”

She turned toward him. “Louisiana didn’t have bad roads before the shale was discovered?”

“Not like this.”

“We should have brought my truck.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I like my car. Don’t let a few potholes spoil your day.”

“I’m not letting anything ruin my day. Ginny says this festival shows a lot about Sweet Olive.”

“I need to warn you—”

“Warn me?”

“This isn’t the kind of art show you’re used to,” Marsh said, his mouth turned up in a small grin. “The wine-and-cheese crowd won’t be around today.”

She studied him as the wind whipped her hair. “I can’t tell if you’re really a snob or just act like one.”

“I’m not a snob! I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“What we’ll see today would interest collectors anywhere.”

“You’re expecting too much.”

She shook her head. “A gallery should represent these artists.” She thought of Allison. “Their work’s unusual—especially Ginny’s whirligigs, Lawrence’s glass …” She laughed. “All of it, actually.” She tilted her head. “Which one of your father’s carvings will be on display?”

“He was still trying to decide last time we chatted,” Marsh said, as they pulled in to the park area. He positioned them in a line of cars.

She leaned forward. “Are you close?”

He pointed. “There it is, right there.”

She shook her head with a cough. “Are you and your father close?”

“He’s the best. I can’t imagine where I’d be without him.” Marsh turned the radio down. “How about you and your father?”

“He sounds like the opposite of your dad. He died when I was fifteen.”

Marsh surprised her by taking off his sunglasses and looking into her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Camille could barely think of her father, much less talk about him. “My mom makes up for it. She’s my rock.”

His mouth twisted. “My mother’s not the nurturing type. She’s sort of a cross between Emily Post and Margaret Thatcher.”

“You don’t get along?”

He put his sunglasses back on. “Good question. We disagree on a lot of things.”

“That’s too bad. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t talk to my mom.” The words felt like a confession. “She thinks she made mistakes when I was a kid, but she was doing her best.” The thought resonated in her heart. Camille felt a sense of relief that had eluded her for years.

“My mother never made a mistake,” he said with a grim laugh. “She calls me once a week on her way to get her hair done. And before you ask, yes, she gets her hair done every Thursday afternoon. Funerals have actually been scheduled around that appointment.”

Camille giggled, the sound catching her off guard. “Do you call her?”

“Not as much as I should.” He eased the car into a shorter line, the parking spaces a few yards away. “You’re probably a pro at this, but I’m not quite sure how it works.”

She squinted.

“Have you judged a lot of shows?” he asked after a moment.

“Sweet Olive’s my first,” she said. “And I’m only an honorary judge.”

“You actually sound excited about this.”

“I’m thrilled. I want to help Sweet Olive artists connect with a gallery.” She squirmed. “Would you mind if I got out? I’ll meet you in the area where the winners are announced.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He glanced at his watch.

“I need to warn you …” She could not hold back her grin as she mimicked his earlier words. “I plan to look at every single piece.”

“Do your best. I’m in no hurry.”

Leaving the car, Camille wanted to skip across the grass toward the festival site. Balloons and streamers hung from the pavilion, under the Cypress Parish Park sign. A cheerleading squad pranced around adjacent to the driveway with posters advertising corn dogs and lemonade. Their voices were hoarse as they screamed.

Camille caught a hint of the unusual fragrance, the one from Ginny’s yard, as she made her way to a big tent pitched on a baseball field.

She spotted Ginny near home plate. Wearing a flowing skirt and a gauzy peasant blouse, her hair was hidden under a floppy pink hat that shielded her face. A row of five or six bangle bracelets lined her left arm.

Camille smiled. “Isn’t this the most perfect day? There’s even a breeze.”

Ginny responded by dipping her head, the hat flying off to reveal her messy topknot. “Camille.” She snatched the hat before it could hit the ground. “I need to tell you something.”

“I know, I know.” Camille patted her arm. “It’s fine, really.”

“You know?”

“Marsh told me,” Camille said.

“He knew?”

“It’s no big deal.”

Ginny’s nose crinkled. “I thought you’d be crushed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I know this isn’t a big-city show, but unlike some people”—she cast her gaze around until she saw Marsh chatting with Jason Dinkins across the baseball field—”I’m not a snob.”

“I broke my word. I promised if you gave us a chance, we’d give you a chance.”

The sun felt suddenly hotter, and Camille wiped her forehead. “And you are. Being an honorary judge is a big deal for an art lover like me.”

Ginny drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “The artists are boycotting the show.”

“Boycotting? The show?”

“What’s
boycott
mean, Aunt Ginny?” Randy approached with a hot dog in one hand and a balloon in the other. His red hair glowed in the fall sunshine. Kylie was behind him with a corn dog, smiling with an orange mustache.

“It’s like when you take your toys home because you don’t want to play with one of your friends anymore,” Ginny said, then looked to Camille. “More or less.” Ginny took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “They’re a bunch of stubborn coots.”

“I’m not following you,” Camille said, her face frozen.

“Apparently they’re not following me either.”

“But what—?” Camille ran her fingers through her hair.

“The anti-drilling crowd said it would be disloyal to the
heritage of Sweet Olive if they showed their work. The prodrilling crowd said they want to remain neutral.”

Camille threw her hands up. “Ginny, you’re going to have to spell this out for me.”

“They’re mad at me, mad at you, and trying to stay on Bienville’s good side.” She shook her head as Camille gasped. “I’m doing my best to keep the art and gas separate, but most folks didn’t think you should be a judge.”

“If I’d only known—they must be devastated.”

Ginny’s face crinkled. “You’re worried about them?”

“They’ve worked on their exhibits for months.”

“You had every right to judge. You’re way more qualified than most.”

“They deserve to show their art,” Camille said.

Marsh wandered toward them. He had a relaxed look on his face and stopped to shake hands, hug babies, and chat, looking like a candidate for office. “Where’s this soon-to-be-world-famous art?” he asked as he drew near.

No one spoke for a second, and then Randy piped up. “They don’t want to play today.”

“O-kay,” Marsh drawled. Sunglasses shaded his eyes, making his expression hard to read.

“A misunderstanding,” Camille said.

“The artists pulled out of the show,” Ginny said. “You may be wasting your time on us. We can’t get Sweet Olive to agree on anything.”

“Is my father around?” Marsh’s brow furrowed.

“He’s working the hot dog stand, but he didn’t bring his work either.” Ginny’s tone was sorrowful. “Lawrence is here too, but he pulled his glass pieces a few minutes ago. Said it
didn’t seem right to go against the group—even if he does like Camille.”

Camille scuffed the ground with her boots. “I’m going to look at the children’s booth.”

“May I go, Miss Camille?” Kylie scurried from across the packed playground and grinned as she spoke, showing her missing front teeth.

“Me too,” Randy said. He had seemed glued to Ginny’s side until this moment.

Camille summoned a smile and, after a nod from Ginny, took the children’s hands. “Lead on. Which drawings did you two decide to enter?”

“I painted the funny flowers,” Kylie said. “They make me happy.”

“The dog picture, the one that’s your favorite,” Randy said shyly.

As they wandered toward the funeral home tent housing the exhibit, she saw a sign with a giant
X
over the words
mineral leases
, and a woman wearing a T-shirt that said “Water Wells, Not Gas Wells.”

She squeezed Kylie’s and Randy’s hands and hoped they didn’t notice.

A few yards from where they strolled, Lawrence sat alone at a picnic table, looking at a newspaper. Pretending she hadn’t seen him, she veered to the left, but Kylie spotted him too.

“Hi, Lawrence,” she said, her voice high with delight. “Lawrence!” At the sound of his name, he turned and smiled, the children climbing up on the bench next to him as he started to stand. Wearing a pair of cargo shorts and a black T-shirt, he folded up the arts section of the
New York Times
as they approached.
With a pair of aviator sunglasses and no cap, he would have been at home on the cover of
Vanity Fair.

“Well, if it isn’t the best artists in Cypress Parish. I saw your entries.”

“Where’s your bottles?” Randy asked, looking around.

Lawrence made a small clicking sound. “I left them at home today.”

“Aww, man.” Kylie glanced up. “Are you mad at Miss Camille?”

“Of course not.”

“Aunt Ginny said people took their art home because they couldn’t get along with each other,” Kylie said.

“That’s not nice.” Randy stuck his lip out in a pout.

“You’re right.” Lawrence produced a few dollar bills from his shorts pocket. “But it’s a grown-up thing.” He offered them the money. “Would you guys like a snow cone?”

“Please, Miss Camille,” the two children pleaded together.

Camille looked over at the stand. “Stay where we can see you,” she said, and the children dashed off.

He patted the bench. “Have a seat.”

She sat as far to the end as she could without falling off. “How’s your mother?” she asked, after a moment.