Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (25 page)

T
he For Sale sign on the house at Trumpet and Vine had been pulled up and was propped against the front of the house. The yard had been raked, and someone had hung a fall wreath on the door.

As Camille drove by, she gunned the truck, headed for Ginny’s house before the final community meeting. The thought of the evening ahead felt like pulling a Band-Aid off too slowly, but she was excited about the announcements to come.

She slammed the heavy truck door and stood looking at Ginny’s magnificent scenes, stirring in the evening air.

They would have sold well in the Houston gallery, but Ginny had been adamant when she’d called. She had decided against “shipping these things halfway across the country.” Allison had been mad but insisted the work “didn’t suit the gallery’s brand” anyway.

Stepping onto the porch, Camille drew in a breath, the scent of sweet olive already fainter than it had been a few days ago. She inhaled, wanting to hold on to the fragrance as long as she could.

Children, at their regular Monday art lesson, were drawing at the art table, as they had been that first afternoon. Kylie and Randy’s mother sat nearby, working with a lump of clay spread out on newspaper. When Camille tapped on the door, the children squealed, and Ginny hollered a boisterous, “Come in.”

Janice met Camille’s gaze and then looked down at the figure she was sculpting. She had started coming by after school once a week and staying to have supper with Kylie and Randy, part of the arrangement she and Ginny had worked out.

Ginny flitted around the room, her movements unusually jerky. She wore a pair of wide, blowing pants and a top that ballooned as she picked up keys, glasses, and phone.

“Are you ready?” Camille asked. “We have a lot to wrap up, and I hope it’ll work out.”

Ginny threw her an exasperated look and turned to Kylie. “Show Miss Camille your picture, Kylie.”

The girl held up a drawing of a tall treelike image with flames bursting out from it. Underneath there were two small figures holding hands and running. One wore a halo.

“Oh,” Camille said, “the well fire.” She hated thinking how the children had been affected by the explosion and evacuation.

“That’s you, Miss Camille,” the girl said. “Aunt Ginny says you’re an angel.”

Camille stared at the drawing.

“You saved Miss Evelyn.”

Ginny shook her head when Camille opened her mouth to respond. “Listen to the children, Camille. Look what you’ve done for our community.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Yes you have,” Kylie said solemnly, going back to her seat.

Ginny bestowed one of her wide, generous smiles on Camille. “Want to help me get the snacks?”

In the familiar kitchen, the table was clear, except for salt and pepper shakers. The missing stack of papers caused a pain in Camille’s heart.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” Ginny said, following her gaze.

“But you were cheated,” Camille said.

“No,” Ginny said, in much the same tone Camille had used earlier. “We didn’t get the gas money, but we got Todd’s settlement.”

Camille pulled the snack tray out from a cabinet near the oven, something she’d seen Ginny use many times.

“You deserve more.” Camille walked toward the children. “Life’s expensive.”

“God always provides,” Ginny said. “Always.”

Marsh helped his father arrange chairs in the small library meeting room, while Ginny, unusually quiet, made an urn of coffee.

“You’re sure you want to stay for the check presentations, Ginny?” Bud asked. “We can do this without you.”

“Of course she needs to stay,” Marsh said, “for the grant.”

“I’ve stuck with it this far,” Ginny said. “I’ll see it to the end.”

Marshall’s father gave a shake of his head. “I’ve always admired the way you conduct your business, Ginny. Take the high road. Slattery will get his just reward in the end.”

“Marsh’s right.” She looked at Bud. “I want to get the grant check tonight and let us all move on. We’ve got big things ahead with our art. I refuse to mourn the lease money.”

“Are things moving ahead with the gallery?” Marsh asked.

“Pretty much, wouldn’t you say, Bud?”

Marsh looked from his father to Ginny. His father nodded. “I hope Camille’s right that we have a shot at selling our work.”

“She certainly believes in you,” Marsh said. “Any luck buying the property?”

“Not quite yet. Ross is working on it.” Ginny smiled. “I can’t believe that it took so many years for us to do this.”

“We never had the gumption until Camille came along,” his father said. “Where is she, by the way?”

“I left her at the house with the children for a while. I told her they needed her, and we’d get a late start.”

“Smart.” Bud patted her knee. His father patting Ginny’s knee?

“Is the art foundation paperwork all set, Marsh?” Ginny interrupted his thought and gave her booming laugh. “Listen to us, talking like we’ve got good sense. But if we want gallery space and room for classes and meetings, we need the foundation.”

“Are you sure we shouldn’t mention this to Camille?” Marsh asked.

“Don’t frown, son. We wanted you to get the legal part done first.”

“It’s risky, bypassing her,” Marsh said.

“You do your part,” Ginny said, “and we’ll do ours.”

“And we’ll trust the good Lord to do His.” His father winked at Ginny.

As his father spoke, Camille stepped into the doorway, a big smile on her face, and they all turned guiltily toward her. “We didn’t hear you,” Ginny said.

“We were discussing how the art grant will work,” Marsh mumbled, feeling heat creep up his face. “And we hope you’ll
agree to be on the Cypress shale field oversight committee—it will meet occasionally for citizens to voice their concerns.”

Camille looked troubled. “I’m not going to be here for meetings.”

Ginny shushed her with a wave of her hand. “You can do most of it by phone and e-mail.”

Camille’s emotions were more jumbled than Ginny’s art supply area as the room filled with familiar faces.

She wiped her eyes behind her glasses—she’d given up her contacts altogether since coming to Louisiana—and tried to compose herself.

“Ready to go?” Marsh slipped into the metal chair next to her.

“I think so. I hope we’re doing the right thing by springing this surprise on Ginny.”

He draped his arm around the back of her chair. “This bunch seems to like a surprise more than most,” he said, trying to keep worry out of his voice.

Tonight he wore a light blue oxford-cloth shirt, making his eyes more startling than usual. Instead of his starched khakis, he wore a pair of jeans.

Camille could not resist reaching up and touching his hair, which had grown long enough to brush against the collar. “You look nice,” she whispered.

“So do you. I like that new artist look you’ve got going.”

She laughed, swishing the long skirt. “Between Ginny and Goodwill, I’m building a whole new wardrobe.”

“I’m sorry we haven’t gotten to spend more time together.
With the changes at work and the last of the J&S paperwork, I seem to meet myself coming and going.”

Ginny interrupted the moment by appearing by their side. “Come on, Camille,” she said. “It’s showtime.”

“Wish me luck,” Camille said to Marsh, and he leaned down and surprised her with a quick kiss on the mouth.

Kylie and Randy, dressed in their church clothes, stood near the front of the crowded room, which grew quiet as Camille made her way to their side. “Thank you, all, for coming,” she said. “I’ll admit that tonight’s a lot more fun than the meeting we had at the gym.”

“That’s for sure,” Drew Cross yelled out, LSU cap in place.

“Oh, shut up, Drew,” one of the twins—Darlene, Camille thought—said, and everyone laughed.

“Tonight we’ll distribute bonus checks to the three landowners who decided to sign,” Camille said.

“Boo,” someone said, and a few peopled hissed.

Holding up her hand, Camille smiled. “Everyone has to do what is best for him or her.” She shook her head slowly. “I’ve had such a hard time learning that, but it’s true.”

She put her hands on Kylie’s and Randy’s shoulders. “Tonight is about the future and the many good things God has in store for Sweet Olive.”

Lawrence let out an ear-piercing whistle, and most people clapped.

Camille knelt before the two children, a check in her hand. “Are you two young artists ready?” They beamed, and Camille looked to her side to see Janice snapping photographs.

“It is my pleasure,” Camille said, reaching for the oversized check, “to present this money to the Sweet Olive Artists’ Guild
for the development of a regional folk-art center, including art classes and a gallery.”

The audience jumped to its feet, clapping loudly, yelling, and whistling.

“It wouldn’t have been possible without your unwavering love for your neighbors and your joyful use of the creative gifts you’ve been given,” she said.

Camille posed for a few more pictures with the giant check and the children, and then raised her hand. “Now, if I may, I’d like to make one more announcement.”

Murmurs ran through the crowd.

“Marsh, would you join me?”

A few catcalls rang out. “You go, boy,” someone said. “You’d be crazy to let her slip away,” someone else said.

Ginny, sitting in the front row by Bud, looked puzzled.

“You too, Ginny,” Camille said. “Will you come forward?”

Fiddling with her hair, in a fat braid slung over her shoulder, Ginny stood. “What are you two up to?” She pulled Marsh aside. “I thought we were waiting until it was final,” she whispered loudly.

“Just go with it, Ginny.” He pulled her back to the center of the room.

Camille reached behind her and picked up a manila envelope, similar to the one Uncle Scott had given her when he had sprung the Sweet Olive case on her.

“Ginny, everyone agrees that your leadership has made the difference these past few weeks.”

“Thank you,” Ginny said, “but everyone has done more than enough. I have casseroles to feed us through next summer.”

The curious crowd twittered.

“This isn’t a gift exactly,” Marsh said.

Camille opened the envelope and pulled out a sheaf of paper.

“Some of you may have heard,” Marsh continued, “that Ginny’s mineral rights were signed over years ago.”

The crowd grew quiet, as though a gift had been promised and then yanked from their grasp.

“But, as it turns out, the one well in that section, quite a ways from Ginny’s home, has not produced in decades,” Camille said.

“Louisiana’s mineral laws are, shall we say,
different.
” Marsh looked at Camille, his blue eyes glowing, while the audience began to squirm.

“Here’s the deal.” Camille looked at Ginny. “Through a lapse by J&S, your well became available again. Because Louisiana allows a race to the courthouse to claim such rights, we were able to get yours back.”

Camille extended the papers. “No one can drill on your land without your permission. And if you decide you’re okay with drilling, the money will be yours.”

Ginny rushed to the front but ignored the papers, sweeping Camille and Marsh into a bear hug.

The library erupted with clapping and tears.

T
he night after the community meeting, Ginny insisted Camille ride with her to take the children home and then head to the artists’ meeting.

Camille climbed into the front passenger’s seat, moving a fast-food sack and a pile of newspapers before she sat down. Paper cups, coffee mugs, and a dried-out plastic bag of clay littered the floor. She appreciated that Ginny didn’t apologize for the mess.

Ginny packed the artists into her minivan like a veteran school bus driver and played an art game as they drove. She asked questions about colors and shapes, and the children yelled over each other to answer.

“What’s your favorite color for a butterfly?” she asked.

“Yellow,” a child in the middle row of seats said.

“Orange,” another yelled from the backseat.

“If you could draw a butterfly a different color, what color would you choose?” Ginny asked.

“Purple,” a little girl said.

“Blue,” a boy said.

“Did you know there are blue butterflies?” Ginny glanced in the rearview mirror. “They mostly live down in South America.”

Watching the last child dash into his house, Camille sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. “I’m going to miss them so much. My two months here feel like two years.”

“Are you sure you have to leave?” Ginny asked.

“I’m sure I have to find a job.”

“Couldn’t you do that in Samford?”

Camille gave her head a shake. “Sadly, I don’t think so,” she said. “After the debacle with J&S, I doubt I’d be high on a hiring list.”

“You won’t consider it?”

“I’ll consider anything,” Camille said, “since I’m partial to food on the table.” She looked out the window as they approached Ginny’s colorful house. “I’ve been praying about it.” Her voice was quiet.

“So have I.” Ginny turned slightly in her seat. “You did your best, Camille.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“Of course it was.” Ginny put the minivan in gear. “Our best is always enough.”

They pulled onto the small road. The lights of the closest drill rig shone like a skyscraper, but otherwise the setting was pastoral. The sun sank behind a stand of tall pine trees, and the air was almost cool when Camille let her window down a few inches.

“This is my favorite time of year,” Ginny said. “You can almost feel change in the air.”

Camille sniffed. “That’s why I’ve never cared for it.”

“Really?” The note of amazement in Ginny’s voice surprised Camille.

“I like for things to stay the same,” she said. “Change is overrated.”

“Even when it’s good?”

“I’m always waiting for something to go wrong.” Camille hesitated. “Like your land deal. It seems like life’s waiting to pounce.”

“It worked out,” Ginny said. “Most days things go right.”

Something poked her, and Camille shifted in her seat, pulling out a paintbrush.

“You never know what you’ll find around here,” Ginny said with a laugh.

Camille rubbed the bristles on the brush between her fingers and cocked her head. “Where are we going?” Camille asked when they passed Ginny’s driveway.

“Oh, didn’t I mention it? We’re doing the Artists’ Guild meeting differently tonight. We’re taking a field trip.”

“To look at art?” Camille asked.

“Not exactly.”

“You’re acting weird. Are you sure you’re all right with me springing that on you last night?”

“Beyond all right,” Ginny said. “When you came here for our mineral rights, I couldn’t have guessed you’d hand mine back to me.”

“Neither could I,” Camille said.

They drove down the road through the artists’ colony, porch lights on. Ginny slowed the van as they cruised by each house, going about as fast as the golf cart had during her first tour. Remnants of the “Art with Heart” day remained—signs in driveways, random tables not yet moved.

“Do you still think this art is special?” Ginny asked.

“Of course I do.” Camille shifted to face Ginny. “One of these days, I’ll work in a gallery, and I’ll introduce Sweet Olive to the world.”

“I sure hope so,” Ginny said, driving on.

“Where’s the meeting again?”

“In Samford,” Ginny said, gesturing vaguely. “The artists want to show you something.”

Dusk had settled by the time they reached the corner of Trumpet and Vine, and Camille was having a hard time catching her breath.

Bud’s truck and Lawrence’s car were in the driveway, and five or six of the artists had gathered on lawn chairs, a folding table covered with white sacks and cups. The For Sale sign was propped up against the house.

“I’ve always loved this house,” Ginny said. “A lady from my church used to live here.”

“It’s nice,” Camille said, “but I’m confused.”

“It’s the Guild meeting. I told you that.”

“But you didn’t tell me we were having supper at a vacant house.”

Ginny waved her hand. “Wait until you taste the muffuletta sandwiches from that store across the street.” She glanced around. “Parking might be a problem, but I guess we’ll figure all that out.”

“There’s plenty of room there behind Bud’s truck,” Camille said.

“I didn’t mean parking was a problem now. I mean it has the potential to be.”

“Ginny, are you all right?”

“I’m great!” she chirped. “How about you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“There they are!” the artists exclaimed as they climbed out of the minivan. “We were beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

“It took awhile to deliver the children,” Ginny said.

“Maybe it’ll be more convenient when we can have the lessons here,” Lillie said.

Ginny threw her a frown, while Evelyn handed Camille a paper sack. “I hope you don’t mind eating on your lap, Camille.”

The round Italian bread and olive mix was delicious, and Camille chewed for a moment, trying to push the location out of her mind. She dabbed at the mustard on her mouth and ran her fingers along the coarse bread.

Ross’s black pickup pulled up to the curb, and he strolled over to the table. “Here are the keys.” He dangled one of Bud’s carved key chains.

“For what?” Camille asked.

“We want to show you around …” Ginny’s voice faltered. “We know there will be obstacles, but we think it can work. There’ll be room for a small apartment.”

Ginny nodded at Bud, who rose and walked over to the For Sale sign against the house.

“We think we’ve had an answer to our prayers,” Ginny said.

Evelyn nodded. “We hope you think so too.”

Bud turned the sign around, which had been repainted.

“Future Home of the Sweet Olive Folk Art Gallery.”