Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (3 page)

I
f it weren’t so late—and if the stupid pickup wasn’t prone to overheating—Camille would leave Louisiana tonight. She could be in Houston in five hours or in Amarillo by daylight, having breakfast with her mother.

Camille rolled down the Richmond driveway with a prickle of anxiety and attempted to appreciate the big oaks arching over the street. Shifting gears, she turned down a neighborhood boulevard.

Her recollections of Samford were of an older, more rundown place, but tonight it looked like a bayou village. Spanish moss draped from a few trees. Lights shone from inside lovely old homes. She especially liked the screened porches, a feature seldom seen on Houston homes.

But the charm did not lessen her urge to get back to Texas, and she was beyond peeved that Scott hadn’t returned her three calls, each placed surreptitiously from the bathroom at the Richmond house.

A wave of homesickness hit Camille, sweeping from head to heart.

She didn’t even know what she was homesick for.

Her mother’s brick house in Amarillo, where she’d seldom lived? The familiar, if sterile, corporate efficiency in Houston? Mostly she yearned for a home of her own, filled with art, a spot where she would finally put down roots.

She blamed the sentimentality on being back in Samford and pulled to the curb and dialed.

“How’s my girl?” her mother’s soft voice asked.

Camille paused. “I’m in Louisiana.”

“Oh my. North or south?”

“In Samford.” Her heart gave an extra beat. “The trip came up at the last minute.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m good, Mama.”

Her mother cleared her throat. “Does Samford look the way it used to?”

“More or less. I drove in from Houston and didn’t have much time to look around.”

“Have you been over to Trumpet and Vine?”

Camille snorted. “No, and I don’t intend to.”

The line grew silent for one moment, then two.

“I know it can’t be easy on you. I wish you were here so I could take care of you.” Her mother’s voice trembled. “I’m so sorry, sweetie, that I let you down that day.”

They had not spoken of this in years, and Camille’s stomach fluttered. “It was a bad day, but you didn’t let me down. You never have.”

“You’re my best girl.”

“You’d better stock up on the good groceries, Mama, because I’m visiting as soon as I wrap this up.”

“And you’re sure you’re okay?”

“I will be if you make chicken and dumplings and buy ice cream for the cobbler.”

Her mother gave a small laugh. “It’ll be waiting for you … but why are you in Samford?”

“We hit a snag, so Scott decided I was needed to clear up a few things. It shouldn’t take long.”

“Hmm … I know you’re disappointed, honey.”

“It’s not so bad.” Camille hoped she was telling the truth. “Scott says I’ll learn a lot about dealing with the executive side of things on this assignment.”

“I don’t like you gallivanting all over the country by yourself.”

“You fret too much.”

“You never let me take care of you.”

“Give it up, Mama.” Camille chuckled, comfortable with this familiar nagging. “I’m the most careful thirty-year-old in the world.”

“Did they work out that bug in your fancy company car?”

“It should be ready by the time I get back to Houston.”

“I wish you’d fly. It’s much safer than driving. You could spend some of that money you keep sending me—”

“Mama,” Camille said, drawing the word out. “Once I’m settled at headquarters, I’ll travel less.” She infused her words with cheerfulness. If Camille sounded happier, her mother was happier—and Camille never wanted anything to hurt her again.

“Scott called today. He was traveling and had time to kill.”

Her mother’s words landed in Camille’s brain with a thud. “What did he say?”

“He bragged about you and said he’d rather have you out in
the field. I told him you’d earned a chance to settle down … He’ll come around.”

Camille watched a light go out in a house down the street. “Did he happen to mention where he was?”

“Not that I recall. He did say he was headed out of the country.”

“Off the continent would be better. I need as much distance as possible until I get settled in Houston.”

Her mother was quiet, and Camille rubbed her neck. “Am I doing the right thing, Mama?”

“What do you think?”

“I’m afraid that if I don’t do it now, I never will.”

“Maybe that’s your answer.”

“But I’ve always done what Uncle Scott expected …” Camille tried to put the words together. “He’s been so good to us.”

“Once he sees how good you are at headquarters, he’ll take credit for the idea.” Her mother laughed. “My brother may be stubborn, but he’s not dumb.”

“I haven’t ever worked the desk side of things. What if it doesn’t work out?”

“Change is tough,” her mother said softly.

“Is that supposed to reassure me?” Camille added a little laugh to take the edge off her words.

“You’re my smart, creative girl. Trust God, and do good. It’ll work out.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It can be.”

“You need to get to bed, Mama.” Camille held back a sigh. “And I need to track down Uncle Scott.”

Clicking off the phone, Camille leaned against the door and surveyed the street, dreading the conversation ahead.

Everything she had seen that night made her new life seem further away.

Even the stars, shining through the old trees, reminded her of a painting she had on hold at her favorite art gallery.

Once more Camille’s frustration with her uncle flared. During the past few years, her rare vacation days had been split between her mother’s house and the gallery, where she volunteered as much as possible. Her new corporate job would allow time to attend Allison’s art classes and help with openings—plus, she would build her personal collection. The idea brought a sense of excitement long lacking.

The gallery owner, Allison Carney, had been a graduate student when Camille was at SMU and had pursued her art dream while Camille paid her family debt.

Allison was holding her latest purchase since Camille had offered to run Allison’s new community program in the spare time she was so hungry for. “I’ll display it until you find a house,” Allison had said. “But I don’t want to hold it too long.”

Camille had fallen in love with the oil painting, a landscape of a marshy coast with offbeat colors. Allison had come across this latest artist on a buying trip to Miami and predicted he’d be famous one day.

“I knew you’d like his work,” Allison said. “You always go for the primitive stuff.” She prided herself on snapping up inexpensive artwork and “building art careers.”

“It’s charming.” Camille put her hands on her hips, her khaki slacks and oversized shirt a contrast to Allison’s standard black dress.

Allison put on a pair of half-glasses from the counter and studied the piece. “I never cared for amateur clichés.” She sighed and removed the glasses. “But a handful of my customers want primitives, so I keep an eye out for them.”

Camille couldn’t hold back a grin. “Not everyone grew up in Highland Park and spent summers in Beaver Creek. These artists show life from a different angle.”

“Now that you’re going to be around the gallery more, you’ll grow to appreciate the new classics. They’re the future of art.”

“I like it all.” Camille drank in the array of paintings, placed where the lighting was perfect and the variety enticing. Her eclectic taste was a mystery to her, but it enriched her life in a way few things did. A blessing, her mother called it. A gift for art, her father had said before he left them.

Art was permanent and lovely, what Camille longed for. What her life thus far had lacked.

She had scrimped and saved from high school on to buy pieces from flea markets, art fairs, and the occasional gallery.

With the corporate position, she could retrieve her collection from her mother’s house and hang it in carefully chosen spots in the home she planned to buy within a matter of weeks. She had narrowed her search via the Internet, during long, lonely nights on the road, and knew the cozy cottage she wanted.

Before she had unpacked the boxes in her new office, she’d signed up for Allison’s weekly art lectures and started planning the new community program, something Camille had longed to do since college.

The news that she would have to leave after working only two Saturdays and one reception didn’t please Allison. “I thought you were committed to this,” she had said, her sleek black hair
not moving as she shook her head. “I suppose I’ll have to go to my Friends of the Gallery list.”

“I’ll only be gone a couple of weeks. I have one more deal, and my promotion will be sealed.”

“You’ve had ‘one more deal’ since college.” Allison picked up an empty frame. “You have a little gypsy in you, don’t you?”

“Absolutely not.” Camille snatched the frame from her hand and placed a watercolor in it as if putting a baby to bed. “I just need to wrap up this Louisiana job.” She fiddled with the print for a moment before looking up. “Is this right?”

Allison adjusted the print by a fraction of an inch, her pink nails tapping against the ebony frame. “I held off on the new docent program because you said you would be available in the fall. I’ve set things in motion, and I need someone to run it.”

“Just give me a couple of weeks, and I’ll be around here so much you’ll get sick of me.”

From the Samford street, Camille closed her eyes and thought of the new painting. She imagined herself following the narrow dirt road through a stand of thick fir trees, coming out on the marshy coast.

The image eased her tension. She would not let this job keep her from her dreams again.

She pulled out her phone and did an Internet search for Marshall Cameron, attorney-at-law.

T
he fluorescent lights of the hotel lobby were harsh after the dimness of the parking lot, and Camille halted inside the heavy wooden door so her eyes could adjust.

She’d spent so many nights in homogenized places like this that she could have navigated to her room with her eyes closed. Breakfast area on the right. Desk clerk on the left. Seating area straight ahead with the ubiquitous businessman on a computer.

Her eyes widened as she got a better look at the businessman. “Uncle Scott!” The young woman behind the desk jumped at Camille’s exclamation. “What are you doing here?”

Wearing his uniform of wrinkled khakis and a knit shirt, her uncle set his laptop aside and stood.

Scott Stephens looked more like a middle-aged door-to-door salesman than the head of a flourishing oil-and-gas company. His once-blond hair had turned into a mix of gray and brown, and his face was leathery from years of outdoor labor. Short and muscular, he exuded a cocky confidence that some people labeled arrogant.

“Camy! I was beginning to think you had decided to stay out all night.”

She stood just past the registration counter, unable to make herself step forward. For a split second, her mind was filled with unwanted images of the last time he had met her in Samford.

She shook her head, desperate to dislodge the picture.

“That party you sent me to was like a horror movie,” she said after a moment. “Senator Slattery Richmond’s a cross between Boss Hogg and Napoleon.”

Scott gave a bark of laughter. “That’s exactly the way I remember him.”

She stared at him without blinking, a technique he had taught her. “What are you up to?”

“Not even a hug for the old guy before we talk business?” Scott, favoring his bum knee, lowered himself into a chair.

Camille strode over to the sofa but didn’t sit.

“You look nice,” Scott said. “High heels and everything.”

She crossed her arms. “This is part of my new
corporate
wardrobe.”

“I prefer you in jeans and boots, with a little less attitude. Maybe you’re not cut out for an office job.”

“I messed up. Message received, loud and clear.” She sank onto the couch. “I make one mistake, and you kick me to Samford.”

“That interview made us look like a bunch of weak tree-huggers.”

She bristled. “It made us look like we have a heart. People care about the environment. If you want the Louisiana leases, J&S has to show it’s not like Bienville Oil.”

He didn’t reply, popping his knuckles, one by one. He twisted each of his wrists for an added pop.

She ran her fingers through her hair. “Did you know they’ve hired a lawyer?”

“The Cameron fellow, right?” Scott’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve not dealt with him before. What’s he like?”

“Charming. Handsome. Confusing.”

“I’m not trying to get a date with him,” he snapped. “What kind of negotiator will he be?”

“Ambitious,” she admitted. “Determined. He’s tight with the Samford movers and shakers, works for an elite firm based in Baton Rouge.” She tried to reconcile the friendly guy in shorts with the lawyer at the party. “His name has come up as a potential candidate for a state commission. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of lawyer to take a little case.”

“That bothers me.”

“I don’t get it either. We know the Sweet Olive land is only a small piece of the Samford field. Even if he gets top dollar for them, he won’t make much.”

“Maybe he thinks he’ll get on national TV.”

She glanced down at the floor, moving the toe of her shoe on the floral carpet. “With any luck, there won’t be any more publicity. I’m going to sit at my desk, keep my mouth shut, and make sure all of our leases are in order.”

Instead of responding with one of his usual smart-aleck comebacks, Scott rose and walked to a tray of cookies on a fake-marble counter. He picked one up and broke it in half, standing over her as he chewed. “You’ve dealt with his kind a dozen times.”

“And hated every one of them. I like working with good-natured landowners who know I’ll treat them right.”

Scott chuckled. “They never expect someone as sweet as you to strike a hard bargain.”

He popped his knuckles again, the sound reverberating through Camille’s nerves, and glanced at a manila envelope on the top of his briefcase.

Her heart jumped into her throat. “No. Nope. No way. N.O.”

“Camy,” Scott said in the cajoling tone he used on no one else. “It’s more complicated than expected.”

“No. I’m the new executive-in-training, remember? You gave your word.”

“This won’t take long. We have a nice office here, and you’ll be through in a few weeks.”

“Weeks!” she exclaimed, earning a chiding look from the desk clerk.

“In this economy, Sweet Olive’s crucial.” Scott’s lowered voice sounded like he was quieting his favorite mare at his West Texas ranch. “I have everything you need right here.” He patted the familiar, oversized envelope. “It’s only a dozen, maybe fifteen tracts.”

“I was sent here for a dog and pony show. A fund-raiser, a luncheon or two, buttering people up so you could close the deal. You’re much better at these tricky ones.”

“I can’t stay in Louisiana. I’m just making a quick stop on my way to Calgary.”

“A quick stop in Louisiana. On your way to Canada.”

“You’re the person I count on.”

She gasped. “The pickup. That’s why the garage gave me the old truck. You planned this all along.” She practically spit the words out. “You told Slattery I’m in charge of this deal, didn’t you?”

“I might have mentioned it. I can’t recall.”

“You haven’t forgotten an oil deal since you were in college.” She swallowed. “Please don’t ask me to do this. I screwed up by
talking to that television reporter, but I’ll become the best VP in the history of oil and gas.”

“You’re thirty years old! You have years to sit in an office.”

“I’m tired of living out of a suitcase. I’m tired of arguing with lawyers and trying to make men like Slattery Richmond happy.” She closed her eyes, knowing they were heading into a familiar argument. “I’ve been on the road for seven years. I want a normal life.”

“
Boring’
s more like it. You’re worse than my sister. I can hire anyone to handle a desk job, but you have a special touch with the deals. They’re in your blood.”

She plastered on the expression that had made the company so much money. “If you push me, I’ll leave J&S.”

Scott’s eyes widened, but then he gave a sheepish smile. “You had me there for a minute … You’re good.”

Camille gave her head a quick shake. “I’m not bluffing this time.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He plopped back into the chair. “I know you don’t like Louisiana, but I’ll make it worth your while. A few weeks, Camy. Is that asking too much?”

“You’ve promised me a Houston job every year since college. I don’t love this like you want me to.”

Scott made a sound almost like a growl. “You owe me.”

“I know.” She recited the litany for the thousandth time in the past few years. “You’ve given me one opportunity after another. You’ve been there for me every step of the way. You rescued me from a dump at a street corner, kept Mama and me from being homeless.”

“Surely that’s reason enough to—”

“Not Samford.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Your father would be ashamed of you.”

Her head jerked, bouncing off the back of the couch.

“He may have had his weaknesses, but he did everything I ever asked of him.” Scott faltered for a split second. “He cared about this company.”

“As my uncle, you should understand. I want to buy a house, make friends.”

“You’re talking about that craft store, aren’t you? You’d throw away everything we’ve built for
art.
” He snarled the word.

“I’m not throwing J&S away. And it’s an art gallery—one of the finest in the Southwest. I want to own a gallery one day. You know that.”

“Of course I know. I’m the one who paid for that art degree.”

“
After
I finished the geology program.”

“Which I also paid for.”

“I know you paid for my college. I know you rescued us when Daddy abandoned us. I know you bought Mama that house. I know. I know. I know.” She paused for a breath. “But I’ve paid back my obligations.”

“Come on, Camy.” Scott switched to a softer tone. “A handful of rinky-dink landowners are making us look bad. At least take care of Sweet Olive.”

“J&S has more than enough wells.”

“There are never enough wells. You’re going soft on me.”

“In the past seven years, I’ve closed some of J&S’s biggest deals. I’m done.”

“I need Sweet Olive.” He clenched his teeth.

“Bypass Sweet Olive. Cut the landowners off. Drill on a neighbor’s land. Make them wish they’d signed.”

He was shaking his head before she finished the sentence.
“We need their water and locations for the well pads. Without those, we’ll lose millions. We’ve got a use-it-or-lose-it lease down here, and I need to stay in Slattery’s good graces.”

She held up her hand. “Don’t tell me this is another of your questionable deals.”

“That’s another good reason for you to stay. You can make sure things are done on the up-and-up. And you can throw around J&S money, host parties, sponsor those worthy causes you love. You can make us look good, even explore some of that environmental mumbo jumbo.”

“I can help from Houston,” she conceded. “I’ll do computer research and develop an exit strategy for Sweet Olive. We can spin it.”

“How are we going to
spin
a roadblock that costs us millions?”

“‘J&S Bows Out in Deference to Landowners and Environment.’ Think of the headline. We’ll be heroes, instead of corporate thugs.” Her voice rose with each word.

“I won’t
bow out
, as you so poetically put it. I intend to drill there. I need you—my best—to buzz in and get the mineral leases and surface agreements.”

“Why not a local person?”

“She botched it by trying to push the landowners around.”

“Imagine that,” Camille murmured.

“The news coverage made it worse.”

“I was trying to improve our image,” she said. “I made a bad situation worse and I’m being punished. So fire me.”

“This isn’t punishment. This is the perfect deal for you.”

“You’ve said that about the last ten deals I’ve handled.”

“This one’s different. You’ll deal with a small group of cranky artists who think we’re ruining their
heritage.
Your kind of people.”

Camille tried not to show her interest.

“Once you do this, you can waste your skills in an office and play at that craft store for as long as you want.” Scott patted his heart. “Do this one for the family. Call on a few little old ladies. Sign them by the end of September. Think how much fun you’ll have tearing that attorney apart.”

Even through her irritation, she felt herself wavering.

“I’ll match the bonus from the Fort Worth and Muskogee jobs.”

She stood. “If I do it—and I’m not saying I will—my bonus will be double what it was last time. And if that truck breaks down, you’ll owe me triple.”

Scott pushed himself out of the chair, a satisfied smile on his face. “My office has taken care of all the details. That truck’s going to make us a lot of money.”

Camille grimaced, Marsh’s words in her mind.

“I’ll expect you down here at eight tomorrow to develop our strategy.” He stepped into the elevator and turned to face her. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Camy.”

She watched him disappear as the door closed.

For fifteen years, she had done everything he asked.