Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (21 page)

“Did
you
buy this place?” he asked.

“No.” She stepped back. “I’ve been intrigued by it and couldn’t resist a look around.”

“At this time of night?”

“I’ve been busy,” she said. “Our deal can’t be too far off, and I wanted to see it before I left.” She raised her eyebrows. “You?”

“Ross is the agent for this property, and I thought he had a prowler. I can’t believe it was unlocked.” He reached for his phone. “I’d better let him know.”

“Marsh …” Her voice had a begging tone he had not heard her use before. “Please don’t. Okay?”

“He needs to know it was open. There’s not much to steal in here but nonetheless—”

“It wasn’t open.” She spit the words out. “I broke in.”

He tilted his head.

“I don’t think I damaged the lock. If I did, I’ll pay for it.”

A couple of seconds ticked by. “Say something,” she said. “You’re making me nervous.”

“You weren’t nervous wandering alone through a dark, vacant house?” Nerves made him sweat.

Marsh considered himself a discerning sort of guy. Trying to understand Camille Gardner was like doing a puzzle with his eyes closed. Just when he thought he had her figured out, she did something like … well, break into an old house at night.

He, a man who made his living cross-examining people, floundered.

She moved toward the front of the duplex, looking up at the ceiling.

“What am I missing?” he said, half talking to himself. “What are you doing here?”

She fanned her face. “Let’s sit on the steps.” She pulled on the ornate front doorknob, a remnant of a finer day.

“You’ve been in here before.” Marsh closed the distance between them and put his hand on top of hers.

Her shoulder was right under his chin, her hair damp at the back of her neck. He moved in another notch and drew in a deep breath. She did not move away. Her breathing sounded soft and steady, while his felt uneven.

Camille followed him onto the porch and sank onto the steps. She nudged at an ant bed with the toe of her boot. “We lived in Samford for a few weeks one summer.” She stared off into space.

“I had no idea.”

“Your investigation into my background didn’t tell you that?”

“There’s not much about you online.” He gave a grin. “For example, there’s not a hint of any burglaries.”

“I should have asked Ross to show me the house.”

“That’s what I usually recommend.” He was surprised by how much she made him want to smile.

She looked at him intently, sitting so close that he could watch the way her eyelashes swept down as she talked. “It’s sort of a long story,” she said after a moment.

He glanced down at his watch.

“That’s an incredibly irritating habit.”

Marsh unfastened the watch, gave her a steady look, and tossed it out into the yard. “I’d like to hear the rest of your story.”

“You’re crazy,” Camille said but moved closer, looking up at the beaded-board porch ceiling. “My father was a wildcatter and always had a well he wanted to check on. Until recently, I thought he cared about the oil-and-gas business more than he did me and Mama.”

She fidgeted with the hem of her jeans. “He was called away to a well fire. He burned to death.” She swiped at her face. “His clothes melted on him.”

Marsh slid an arm across her shoulders and cradled her head. “I’m so sorry for your pain, Camille.”

She put her good arm around herself, drawing into a ball against his chest. “It was worse for my mother. I’d learned to live without him a long time before that.”

“What’d you do?”

“The same thing I always did—called my uncle.”

“Did he help you?”

“Always.” Camille grew still against him and then lifted her face. “I got your shirt wet. I don’t usually cry.”

“That’s what all women say.”

“This place has made me emotional. My mother asked about it.” She shrugged. “I wanted to see it too.”

“Does your mother live in Houston?”

Camille shook her head. “She eventually went back to Amarillo, where she grew up. She has a nice little house and lots of good friends from church. It was sort of a fresh start for her, even though she never remarried.”

Marsh shifted so he could see her face more clearly. “Did you make a fresh start too?”

She gave her head a quick shake. “I’m still working on that.”

“With your interest in oil and gas, you must take after your father.”

“I suppose,” she said.

“Is that a bad thing?” He turned so his face was almost touching hers.

“Before coming to Louisiana, I thought so. I suppose you could say my father was like a good gas well that never produced to its potential.” She gave a choked laugh. “Daddy made some colossal mistakes—including the one that cost him his life … but he loved me and my mother.”

Camille pulled away slightly. “How about you? Is it true that you’re a lot like your father?”

“If I were half the man my dad is, I’d be happy,” Marsh replied.

“What about your mother?”

“My parents are as different from each other as that store over there is from Nieman Marcus. The only thing they have in common is me. Thankfully they figured that out before they killed one another.”

“How old were you when they split up?”

“Five,” he said. “I pretty much spent my childhood shuttling back and forth between Samford society and Sweet Olive artists.”

She touched his face. “No wonder you’re so comfortable in both worlds. But that must have been tough.”

“For years I felt like two people. I watched what I said and how I said it. I even worried about what I wore.” He gave an embarrassed laugh. “I didn’t want to look too sloppy at my mother’s or too dressy at my father’s.”

She frowned. “Where does your brother fit into all of this?”

“My mom married Doc—Roger Aillet—a year after the divorce. T.J.—Thomas Jacques Aillet—was born when I was seven.” He stared up at the flashing traffic light. “When he got old enough, he begged to go with me to my dad’s. He always seemed more at home at my dad’s than in the Samford house.”

He glanced down at his empty wrist. “This is weird.”

She started to stand. “Let me get your watch.”

Marsh shook his head. “I’ve never told one person—not even Dad—what I just told you, the one person in the world I’m supposed to keep at arm’s length.”

“Now we’re even.” Camille put her finger to her lips and offered a small smile. “Except you know the secret of my criminal tendencies. I swear I’ll never break into another building.”

He stood, tempted to pull her back up against him.

“Do you need a lift?”

He looked at her and the truck and threw wisdom out the window. “Could I interest you in a burger?”

Camille and Marsh left the diner after midnight with loud farewells from the robust owner. “Bring your girlfriend back
anytime!” Camille felt like she was back in high school and had somehow become the popular girl.

“He likes you,” she said, sliding behind the wheel.

“He and my dad have been friends for years. I did a small favor for him in court once.”

“It must not have seemed small to him,” she said.

“I only did it because my father asked me to, and it only took a few hours. I groused about it so much around the office that you’d have thought I’d spent weeks on it.” He gestured to show her the route to his house.

“I’m ashamed of how I felt about the case,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I was annoyed every minute I wasn’t getting paid. I made a big deal about it to my dad, making sure he knew I was only doing it for him.”

“I bet that went over well.”

Marsh grinned. “He told me he’d rather hire another lawyer than listen to me whine. I got the message and won Sam a little settlement. That’s not a secret, by the way. He tells everyone about it. And I do mean
everyone.
”

“And that embarrasses you?” Camille slowed as he directed her onto the lovely tree-lined street.

“I don’t want to be the big, selfish lawyer, but I do want to take cases where my work has impact.”

“Are you talking about Sweet Olive?”

“That case has big implications. Little community fights big oil. You know that.”

She made a small noise. “But you haven’t handled this case like that.”

“So my charm is working?”

“Occasionally.” She couldn’t hold back a smile. She turned by the Richmond home and wound back to Marsh’s street.

“Do you think it’s safe to turn into my driveway?” he asked with a grin.

She patted the steering wheel. “We’ve bonded since I came to Samford.”

A tingle ran up Camille’s spine as she pulled in. She had not realized before that the house resembled one of her most recent art purchases—a watercolor of a bungalow by a Florida artist. When she bought it, she had imagined stepping into the space.

“You have a lovely home,” she said.

“Thanks. I bought it the second I could. I needed a place to call home.”

“Whose work is that over the fireplace?”

“Evelyn traded me that for a small job I did for her,” he said. “I came out better than she did.”

“I didn’t know she painted.”

“Folks in Sweet Olive do a little of everything,” he said, opening the passenger door.

On impulse, she grabbed his sleeve. “Thank you for an … interesting evening. I never knew breaking and entering could be so much fun.”

He stepped from the truck. “The pleasure was mine.”

Going into the house ranked as one of the stupidest things she’d ever done. Being caught by Marsh made it worse. Spilling details about her past compounded it.

Not only had she chosen to open up to the landowners’
lawyer, she was pretty sure she was falling in love for the first time in her thirty years.

That was about as smart as the time her father wanted to turn an old well site into an amusement park.

Maybe the fire and her injury had frayed her. Or perhaps Uncle Scott was right. Maybe she was getting soft. And maybe she should have told Marsh her other secret.

M
arsh arrived at the Samford Club nearly thirty minutes early Tuesday, surprised that his palms were sweating.

This wasn’t a lunch he looked forward to.

Lawrence greeted him at the elevator. “Let me show you to your table, Mr. Cameron,” he said, a big smile on his face.

Marsh drew back. “What’s up with you?”

“Today,” he said, reaching out to high-five Marsh, “is my last day as a waiter. I am officially retiring from food service.”

“Did you decide to take the J&S deal after all?”

Walking toward a small private dining room, Lawrence shook his head. “I’m certainly not spending that money yet. Like Mama always says, ‘we lived without the money before.’ We’ll get by.”

He looked like a quarterback who had scored the winning touchdown. “Camille restored my confidence about my glass. Even though the gas deal’s not certain, I have to give my art a chance.”

Marsh raised his eyebrows and tried to look unconcerned. “Are you and Camille … involved?”

“You sound like my mother,” Lawrence said with a laugh. “There’s way too much going on right now, with the leases, the
gallery possibilities …” He shrugged. “Besides, Camille doesn’t seem that into me.”

“You’re telling me Camille’s immune to that rugged artist image you work so hard at?” Despite his attempt to be unaffected, Marsh’s voice sounded gruff. His relief ballooned.

“She seems to go more for the suit-and-tie type. I don’t get it.” Lawrence paused. “For the next few years, I’m putting my time and energy into my glasswork. I don’t know anything about business, but I’m going to give this a shot.”

“I know where you can find a cheap lawyer.”

Lawrence nodded. “You need to go ahead and open your own firm too. We’re not getting any younger, buddy.”

Pulling out a chair, Lawrence sat down. It was the first time Marsh had ever seen him do that on the job. “I want to finish up Sweet Olive first,” Marsh said. “Something’s not quite right.”

“Give it up,” Lawrence said. “I’ve realized we can’t control what everyone else does. People have to do what’s best for them.”

“I’ve got to make sure all the property titles are clear, no matter what happens,” Marsh answered. “Your children—or your children’s children—shouldn’t have to fool with all this.”

“Camille cleared the title on the Martinez land before she gave me that check,” Lawrence said. “Does this have something to do with the questions you’ve been asking about Ginny’s property?”

“Let me do a little more digging before I say more. It’s probably nothing.”

Val stepped into the room. “What are you two talking about?” Her voice had an accusing tone, and Marsh wondered how much she had heard.

Wearing a fancy suit with the pearls her parents had given her for her twenty-first birthday, she looked beautiful—but different.
Marsh had always thought of her as the most beautiful woman in Samford, but she seemed artificial compared to Camille.

“I’d better get back to work,” Lawrence said, not meeting Valerie’s eyes. “Keep me posted, will you, Marsh?”

“You’re walking out?” Valerie grabbed his arm as he started by.

Lawrence looked down at her hand. “Do you need something?”

“I need to know what you two were whispering about.” She stamped the toe of her high-heeled shoe. “You’re talking about Camille, aren’t you?”

“Val—” Marsh said.

“Grow up, Val,” Lawrence said.

Valerie put her hand over her mouth.

“I’ve got to get to work.” Lawrence pulled the door shut behind him.

“Well, that was … unexpected.” Val plopped into a chair without her usual elegance. As she placed the napkin in her lap, he noticed that her hands were trembling. “Are we here to talk about the J&S deal or for you to dump me too?”

He frowned. “Let’s don’t say something we’ll regret.”

She let out a huff of breath. “You think I’m a loose cannon.”

He eased into the chair next to her, not pulling it up to the table.

“I won’t bite.”

He scooted closer and put his hand on the back of her chair. “Why are you acting so sneaky?”

She didn’t meet his gaze. “So it’s business we’re talking today.”

“We’ve been friends a long time. You’re up to something.”

“That J&S job should have been mine. I know the way Scott Stephens works, and I intend to deliver.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder with her hand. “With or without your help.”

“Val, Camille’s worked hard for the right deal. If you mess
that up, it hurts J&S and the people who live around here. Doesn’t any of that matter to you?”

She was quiet for a second and then shook her head. “Camille is too tight with the artists in Sweet Olive, and you know it. I’m looking out for J&S.”

“And for yourself.”

“Aren’t you?”

He looked at the hunting scene hanging on the far wall, English hounds and fancy gentlemen on horseback. “I’m trying to do what’s right.”

“You’re throwing away the state commission appointment.” Her voice revealed her disgust. “You’re more interested in keeping your daddy and Camille happy than your firm.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m serving my clients.”

She chuckled, not the light, tinkling laugh he usually associated with her, but a stiff sound. “Corporate firms want their partners to be loyal to them no matter how perky the opponent is.”

“This isn’t about Camille.”

“Are you sure?”

He glanced at his watch. “Do you want to order?”

“I want you to tell me why you called this meeting.” She waved her arm around the room. “You’re obviously going for something quiet and private, with a hint of professional.”

“I’m concerned about you.”

“Oh?”

“You need to move on with your life.” That seemed to be the theme of the day.

“So you can have a clear shot at Camille?”

“Quit obsessing on Camille,” he snapped. “This is about you, Val. You’re systematically destroying your life.”

Her nose wrinkled. “My, my. Where’d that come from?”

“First there’s Lawrence.” Marsh plowed on. “You were engaged, and that means something. You treat him like dirt.”

“We were kids. You’ve dated plenty of people.” Her mouth twisted. “Although you’ve never gotten serious.” She lowered her lashes. “I’m waiting for you.”

“Quit fooling around, Valerie. We dated and we had some fun. But we’re not going to be a couple.”

She pushed her chair back. “Is there anything else, or is this lecture over?”

“What do you know about the Sweet Olive leases?” His tone was abrupt.

Valerie smirked. “The artists aren’t likely to sign anything. You’re trying to get the well sites changed, you’ve convinced J&S to consider water from the Red River, and Camille is not going to win.”

“Aren’t you and Camille on the same team—that J&S team you keep talking about?”

“I’m dealing directly with Scott Stephens.” She made a point of glancing at her diamond-encrusted watch.

“Val, do the right thing here—not only for J&S but for your life.”

She unleashed one of her legendary smiles on him, her teeth sparkling. “We’ll see,” she said and glided out.

So much for lunch.

Truth was, Marsh did talk about his cases with one person.

His father.

While he didn’t divulge legal secrets, he often sought his father’s counsel.

A contractor by trade, Bud Cameron wasn’t very interested in business, and you couldn’t pry a confidence out of him with a pair of pliers. But more important, he understood human nature in a way most of Marsh’s colleagues did not.

He found his father in his shop, adjacent to his house in Sweet Olive.

Marsh’s mother, who never missed an opportunity to criticize his father, liked to say that Bud wasn’t happy unless he was playing with tools. She believed smart men “worked with their brains and not their hands” and thought her ex-husband had wasted his life.

She’d traded him in for a doctor, moving from the small old cottage to the gargantuan house near the Richmonds. With his law practice, Marsh moved regularly in the same circles as his mother and the eye doc. T. J., though, had chosen carpentry as his profession—a blow to his mother.

She was socially connected and went to all the
right
parties. But his father was actually the one plugged in deeply. Most days, he knew more about what was going on in Samford than the mayor.

“Don’t usually see you this time of day on a Tuesday,” his father said, as Marsh walked into the wood shop. The smell of sawdust and varnish tickled his nose as his father gave him an exuberant hug. “You knocking off early?”

Marsh stepped back and shook his head. “I needed a break.”

His father’s eyebrows rose. “You’re just in time to help me with this board.”

Marsh loosened his tie and moved into place. “You carving?”

“Carpentering. Got to make some money to pay for my carving habit.”

“Gas lease money would help.” Marsh moved carefully across the cluttered room with his end of the heavy board.

“Not going to happen.” His father eased the wood onto a saw-horse as he spoke. “So if that’s what brought you out here, you probably need to try someone else.”

“I never expected you to lease your land.” Marsh grinned, picking up a small saw with his grandfather’s initials carved in the handle. “Just doesn’t suit your personality.”

Bud nodded at the tool. “You want to hire on with me and T. J.?”

“That’s a tempting offer on a day like today. But I’m not very good with a hammer.”

His father shook his head and went back to his work. “You’re handier than you let on.”

“Dad, do you trust Slattery?” he blurted out.

“Why would you come out here to ask a question like that?”

“Probably for the same reason you’re not answering.”

“Slattery’s the smartest man in North Louisiana, and he looks out for Slattery.”

Marsh lowered himself to his favorite spot, a beat-up wooden stool that had been in the shop as long as he could remember. The very act of sitting there, surrounded by the essence of his father, calmed his nerves.

Tools and gadgets filled a Peg-Board, and Marsh could identify most of them. The homemade toolbox, its handle worn smooth through years of use, had belonged to his grandfather.

Sawdust covered the plywood floor, and an unused push broom sat in the corner. The carving table was covered with
an assortment of partially completed figures, including several dogs—his dad’s favorite subject.

His father took a seat in a tattered platform rocker that had migrated from his house to the shop years ago. This afternoon the light from one of two big windows backlit the chair and his father, giving him the look of down-on-his-luck royalty.

Somewhere along the line, the chair had been reupholstered in gold-striped vinyl, and many of Marsh’s favorite memories of his father were here—drinking coffee, whittling, reading his Bible early in the morning.

While many men clipped cell phones to their pockets, Bud Cameron always wore a tape measure. It was there today, on his father’s old painter’s pants, a reassurance.

Unhurried, his father would give him as long as he needed to say what he had on his mind. He and T. J. joked that Job could only wish for as much patience as Bud Cameron had.

“I need your advice,” Marsh said finally.

“I didn’t think you drove up here to borrow a hammer. What’s going on?”

“Where do I start? Sweet Olive’s contract, my law practice, Camille.” He gave his father a sheepish smile. “Somehow this keeps coming back to Camille.”

His father gave a brief nod. “I can see why. She’s got spunk. Ginny wants us to find a way to keep her, and Lawrence has a crush on her.”

“She and I are on opposite sides of a deal,” Marsh continued hurriedly. “Or, we’re supposed to be.”

“She could turn out to be what Sweet Olive needs—and you too.” His father cocked his head.

Marsh picked up a small piece of wood and turned it over
in his fingers. “I think Slattery’s manipulating the Sweet Olive deal.” He kept his face impassive.

“How might he do that?”

“He’s bought land under a shadow company and is trying to keep the old Richmond leases active, even though some of those wells haven’t produced in years.”

His father waited.

“He stands to make a bundle if J&S drills in Sweet Olive, and there won’t be wells anywhere near that expensive subdivision he’s so proud of.”

“Putting them in our backyards instead?” his father asked.

“Very likely.”

“Don’t worry.” The rocker squeaked as his dad leaned forward. “Sweet Olive has lasted through tornadoes, hurricanes, floods, drought. The faithfulness of the artists won’t be destroyed by a gas well or a sneaky land deal.”

“I can tie Slattery up in legal knots over this—at least enough to get his attention.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t want Camille hurt in the process.” He met his father’s eyes, eerily similar to his own.

“Work with her on this. Trust her.”

Marsh stood slowly, nodding. “You’re wrong about one thing, Dad. Slattery’s not the smartest man in North Louisiana.”

He gave his father a tight hug and headed back to the office.