Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (5 page)

M
arsh started his vintage MGB convertible in the parking garage, appreciating the hum of the engine for a moment before he cranked up the classic rock and roll. Maybe the clash of loud guitars could blast him out of the confusion that had settled over him last night.

He had slipped out soon after Camille left, the party flat with the same people telling the same stories and his guts churning at finding out who Camille was. For those few minutes in his driveway, he had felt a spark long missing in his life.

Then Slattery’s gut-punch announcement came.

Gossip about Camille had zoomed around church that morning with a flurry of opinions on why she had come to town. He hadn’t needed the sly looks to know his job had gotten more difficult.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite attorney,” a familiar voice said over the music. Marsh put the car back in Park and turned off the radio. He glanced at his watch, then unraveled his tall body from the car.

Leaning in for a hug, Val gave him a broad smile. Her straight, white teeth so close to his face brought to mind the day she’d gotten her braces off. He’d kissed her that day, a mistake that led to years of disastrous on-again/off-again dating and his mother’s relentless hope, even now, that he and Valerie would marry.

“You got away in a hurry last night,” she said. “Your mother was disappointed.”

The sentence wasn’t worded like a question, but Marsh could tell Val was waiting for an explanation. A familiar pout appeared when he didn’t reply.

“You know we always have an after party with our close friends.” She moved nearer as she spoke the word
close.
“I missed you.”

“It was quite the shindig.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Valerie straightened his collar. “Did you really not know J&S was springing some awkward cowgirl on us?”

Marsh shook his head. Camille Gardner, with her pixie haircut and sparkling amber-colored eyes, was about as far from an awkward cowgirl as he could imagine. She exuded spunk, moving through the crowd with an intriguing warmth. “You, of all people, know I’m not on the J&S grapevine. I was as surprised as you.”

“I doubt that.”

“Camille seems nice enough.” Or at least she had when she’d wrestled with that Chevy pickup in his driveway. “Your father was pleased to see her.”

Valerie’s mouth curled. “Daddy’s all excited because she’s supposedly the best of the best and that kind of rot.”

“I look forward to the challenge.” He rubbed his hands together and added a teasing grin.

“She doesn’t belong here any more than you belong on that Sweet Olive case.”

Valerie might be right. Despite his best intentions, he had let himself become entangled in the Sweet Olive drama. He tried to shake the case, citing everything from an overloaded calendar to a potential family conflict of interest.

Ruthless litigator or not, he had lost every argument—in part because of paternal arm-twisting and in part because in his heart he believed in them.

The artists had latched on to his time within hours of his acceptance, marching up to his office like a ragtag band to say there was no one they’d rather have on their side. Their compliments were liberally laced with outlandish notions about how to fight big oil and fervent notions about not taking oil-and-gas money.

Marsh glanced at his watch again, agitated. “Are you hanging around the parking garage for a reason?” He threw in one of the smiles that usually soothed Val’s nerves.

“Picking up a couple of files for Daddy.” She didn’t meet his eyes. “How about you?”

“Playing catch-up for a few minutes before lunch.”

“I hope you’ve got some paying customers. You’re getting the shaft on Sweet Olive.” She made a noise that sounded feminine and condescending at the same time. “How soon can you drop it?”

“You know I don’t talk about my cases. Especially this one. Especially to you.”

“You’re not going to make a dime off of this. The consensus after the party was that Sweet Olive doesn’t have a clue how to handle J&S or Bienville Oil.”

“Thanks for the feedback.”

“I wish you’d reconsider Daddy’s offer.” Valerie reached toward him for another hug, and he leaned in and patted her arm. The interaction resembled an awkward move at a school dance from their junior high days. “You’d make an excellent partner.”

He watched as she glided toward the street. Valerie was a beautiful woman with her long hair and shapely figure. She looked like the southern royalty she was. She turned and spoke in a voice that echoed through the garage.

“Let me know if you find out anything interesting about Ms. Camille Gardner.”

Everything about Camille interested him—her surprise appearance in Samford, her oil-and-gas know-how, that old Chevy, just like the one his father drove, and the way her eyes sparkled when she talked.

He turned up an Eric Clapton song and headed for lunch, readying himself for more questions.

Marsh had promised to stop by his mother and stepfather’s house for a late lunch, but office voice mail and his encounter with Valerie knocked his appetite down a notch. One of his biggest clients already needed placating over his Sweet Olive work, and his e-mail inbox overflowed with work that demanded attention.

He sat in his car for a moment, surveying the two-story classical brick house where he lived during his teen years. Even then it didn’t feel like home.

Summer yard decorations had been replaced with full autumn regalia—bales of hay, pumpkins, even a scarecrow, all artfully arranged. Bronze mums filled a little wooden wagon,
probably an expensive antique. He shook his head. How much had the landscape designer charged for that?

His stepfather opened the door before the knocker hardly landed on the wood door, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes.

“Hi, Doc.” Marsh gave him a half hug. “Did I miss the food?”

Roger Aillet, one of the state’s preeminent ophthalmologists, smiled. “You know your mother never has lunch on the table this soon. She keeps hoping your brother will show up.”

“He’ll get here sooner or later.”

His stepfather nodded. “We don’t see as much of him as we’d like.” Marsh laid his keys on a silver tray that sat on an ornate walnut table inside the door.

“Is that Marshall or Thomas?” his mother called from the back of the house.

“It’s me, Mom.”

Doc lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I stashed snacks in the den, and the game’s on. Come on in when you can.”

Marsh smiled and strolled toward the kitchen. His mother wore the beige suit she’d had on at church, covered with a frilly apron that was as impractical as his mother’s meal preparation. The only sign that Minnette Aillet was cooking was the brocade house slippers she had changed into—her kitchen shoes.

An array of take-out dishes from the Samford Club and a casserole the housekeeper had cooked earlier—he’d recognize that squash anywhere—were lined up on the granite countertop. Lunch assembly was underway.

“I’m running a little behind.” She moved forward to give him a peck on the cheek, and her hand moved to his shirt collar. Her mouth turned down. “I wish you’d keep your tie on.”

Marsh came to his mother’s house for Sunday lunch at least
twice a month, and each time she said the same things: Lunch would take awhile. He should have worn his tie. Thomas—never T. J.—was wasting his life as a carpenter, and Marsh should move to a bigger house.

He grabbed the lapel of his suit coat and gave her the smile that usually softened her. “I did leave my jacket on.”

She shook her head. “You youngsters are more casual than we used to be. I can scarcely get Thomas into a tie.”

Marsh risked her wrath by nibbling on a celery stalk from a vegetable tray. “His church is more laid-back than ours.”

“Hmm,” his mother grumbled. “I still don’t see why he left First Church.” She paused. “And how can a
handyman
business be that difficult?”

Marsh’s temper rose, despite the talking-to he’d given himself on the drive over. “T. J.’s in high demand.”

“He could have been a doctor, like his father.”

“The world needs carpenters too.” He shot her the grin he’d used in T. J.’s defense for years. “People love T. J.”

“He’ll never make anything of himself.” She looked at Marsh, her gaze lingering for a split second on his open collar. “At least you went into law—and you’re here for your stepfather, even if his own son isn’t.”

Marsh reached for a carrot and rubbed his shoulder.

“Have you hurt yourself?” She walked over to the counter where he stood. “Do you need your stepfather to look at your arm?”

“I pulled a muscle working in the yard yesterday. I’m fine.”

“I don’t know why you refuse to hire a yardman. Those Mexicans are very reliable.”

“Mother …” Her condescension troubled him, but he hated to get into yet another argument.

“You could use the help.” She opened the silverware drawer. “Especially when you move into a bigger house.”

Marsh reached for another carrot, plotting his exit. Before he could vacate the room, his mother moved on. “Did Val tell you we’re planning a party to celebrate your state commission post?”

He chewed slowly. “That’s in the early stages, and I asked you not to talk about it.”

Her hand fluttered. “We can’t throw something together at the last minute. By the time the governor makes the announcement, we’ll have the invitations ready to print. I’ve already got a calligrapher lined up.”

“Calligrapher?” A dull ache throbbed at his temples.

“Don’t worry, Marshall. It’ll look elegant.”

“No invitations, no calligrapher. If an announcement is made, we can discuss it.”

“Maybe by then you’ll have washed your hands of that silly Sweet Olive mess. Who in the world is that woman J&S sent in?”

Marsh bit his cheek to keep from groaning. “You know I can’t talk about my case.”

“It’s not like it’s a secret after that show she put on at the Richmonds’ last night.”

His resolve shattered. “What show?”

“She marched in there like she owned the place. I’m just thankful Claire was out of town. She would have been mortified.”

Valerie’s mother stayed at the Richmond beach house when she wasn’t at the family condo in Colorado. His mother pretended like Claire and Slattery still lived together, and Val commented on her rarely.

“Ms. Gardner comes in acting all warm and friendly. Why would they send someone like her to Samford?”

“I suspect they want to finish up the Sweet Olive leases.” He glanced at his watch, and his mother held up her hand.

“Don’t rush me. You know as well as I do that your father will be sitting on that porch whenever you get there.”

She was right. Bud Cameron would be in the porch swing, whittling or visiting with a friend. He would tell Marsh to change out of his “monkey suit” and regale him with stories about the neighbors, some amusing, some sad. Not one word would be critical. Marsh looked over at his mother, setting crystal water glasses on the countertop.

“I’m going to see Doc,” he said and hurried from the room.

T
he aluminum door creaked as Ginny opened it, a rusty noise like fingers on a chalkboard. A dog, smaller than the one in the yard, sauntered in from another room, tongue out, tail wagging. He nudged his head between Camille and Ginny.

“Aunt Ginny, come see what I drew,” a childish voice called from across the room, and a “me too, me too” joined in.

“Camille, meet North Louisiana’s future Picassos.”

“I … I didn’t realize you were in the middle of a class,” Camille stammered.

Ginny made a dismissive noise. “This is my niece and nephew. They’re used to interruptions. We’re quite popular lately.”

“I could make an appointment for another time. I don’t want to bother—”

“We’ll look at their drawings,” Ginny cut in, “and you can tell me what you’ve got on your mind.”

Before they could reach the little art table, however, Ginny’s cell phone, clipped to her pocket, rang. She glanced at
the number while a classical tune blared. “This’ll only take a minute.”

Camille stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by art. The two children, both with curly red hair, painted at easels next to a small, splattered table. A wall full of drawings was displayed behind them, and a shelf of misshapen pottery sat on a bookcase in the corner.

To the side was an array of carvings, glasswork, and figures that looked like they were made from fancy gourds.

“Do you like my picture?” the girl of about six asked.

Squatting, Camille nodded. “Those look like the trees across the road.”

“That’s what they are!” the girl exclaimed, her missing front teeth obvious in her big grin. “How’d you guess?”

“You drew those angles perfectly.” Camille smiled. Her own brief stint as an art teacher pierced her heart.

“That’s what Aunt Ginny said.” She twisted her head to look into Camille’s eyes. “What’s your name?”

“This is Miss Camille,” Ginny said, hanging up the phone.

“My name’s Kylie,” the girl said.

“Look at my picture.” A boy of about four held out his drawing, his eyes downcast. His hair curled into a sweet sphere around his head.

“That’s my brother, Randy,” Kylie said. “He’s shy.”

Camille sat on the floor beside him. “I’m shy too.”

Ginny raised her eyebrows as she put the phone on a small table cluttered with art books and paintbrushes. “They don’t usually take to visitors. I guess they know you appreciate fine art.” She gave Camille a small smile.

“They’re gifted.” Camille forced herself to stand and back
away from the table, although the setting made her want to sit down and draw something. “You are a fantastic teacher.”

“I can’t take credit for any of this.” Ginny put her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Folks say there’s something in the water out here.”

“Whatever causes it, keep it up.”

“We’re doing our best,” Ginny replied, her voice losing some of its warmth.

“All of this work is … I’m at a loss to describe it.” Camille gestured at a display of primitive oil paintings on a massive piece of Peg-Board, similar to one in her dorm room in college.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Ginny said. “That’s why my house looks like a gallery.”

Camille picked up a small basket made of woven pine needles. “This is one of my dreams—a house filled with original art.”

Ginny’s eyes widened and Camille walked over to a muted painting of a Louisiana swamp, murmuring her praise.

“My brother did that, only a few weeks before he died. He saw nature differently than most Louisiana men. Todd said we shouldn’t expect everyone to see the world the same way.”

“That’s why I love art,” Camille said. “There’s more going on beneath the surface.”

“Sort of like your oil-and-gas business, I suppose.”

“They’re nothing alike.” Camille’s voice was abrupt.

“We’re blessed with more than our share of fine artists out here,” Ginny said. “And apparently we have a lot of gas too.”

“All of this was done by local artists?”

Ginny looked like a parent bragging on a child. “Neighbors on a one-mile stretch of road created all of this.”

Camille raised her eyebrows.

“Paintings. Pottery. Carving. Weaving. Sculptures.” Ginny gestured to a series of stands Camille had not seen. “We fire that raku in the backyard.”

The black clay showed through the colors in vases and geometric sculptures, and Camille spent a few seconds looking at each piece.

“Go ahead. Pick them up.”

“I’m afraid I might break something.”

Ginny tsk-tsked. “You’re not the kind of person to break things.”

Camille picked up a rectangular vase. “This is beautiful.”

The classical tune blasted out of Ginny’s phone again, and she motioned for Camille to follow her into the kitchen.

Camille set the vase down, giving it one last gentle touch.

“No news,” Ginny said into the phone. “I plan to send out a group e-mail tomorrow.”

A voice sounded angry on the other end.

“Feel free,” Ginny said. “The children are here this afternoon, so I’m going to have to cut you off.” More loud words erupted. “Let me know. I’ve got to go.” Ginny frowned before laying the phone on the table. “I vowed I wouldn’t do business on the Sabbath, but it is hard to shut people up.”

Moving a stack of papers out of a chair, she motioned for Camille to take a seat. “The neighbors call this my command center. It’s a mess.” Her voice held amusement instead of embarrassment.

Sinking gracefully into a chair that resembled something from a 1950s diner, Ginny glanced at the phone, buzzing again, but didn’t answer it. She moved a pile of file folders and a yellow legal tablet to the side of the Formica table.

Camille could not keep from glancing at the papers.

“Perhaps we—” Camille was interrupted by the children
squabbling in the other room, and Ginny gave a loud sigh and headed back into the living room.

Camille watched her disappear before straining to read the paperwork. Three or four names were listed under a heading that said
INTERESTED.
On the right side of the sheet was a list of a few more names, individuals and couples, some scratched through.

Ginny’s phone squirmed as it simultaneously rang and buzzed. The caller’s name flashed.
Marshall Cameron.
Camille apparently wasn’t the only one working Sunday.

“I thought I turned that thing off.” Ginny strolled back into the kitchen with an oversized tabby cat under one arm and Randy under the other.

How she opened the back door, Camille wasn’t sure, but she dropped the cat outside, accompanied by a dog’s barking, and sat at the table, the child in her lap.

The phone dinged again, and a text message popped up.

Camille looked out the kitchen window at the whirligigs. She was beginning to see where Ginny got her inspiration for art in motion.

“Where were we?” Ginny pushed the hair off her face with a harried shove.

“I think you’ll be pleased with the new J&S offer. Could we set up a meeting for tomorrow?”

“I don’t want to waste your time, Camille. We don’t want a bunch of gas wells messing up our community. J&S will get our mineral rights, drain our water supply, and tear up our land. We’ll be stuck with what’s left.”

“Once the wells are drilled, you’ll hardly notice they’re there,” Camille said. “And the money can help families, schools, churches. Will you at least meet to explore possibilities?”

“I teach school. Children come afterward for Kids’ Art Club. I can’t meet until later—or on Saturdays. And I have to tell you again—we’re not signing over our land.”

“We don’t want the land. J&S wants to lease the mineral rights. You’ll receive a payment up front and retain use of your property.”

Ginny was silent. A clock shaped like a cat, tail moving, ticked so loudly that Camille felt like she could hear her new job slipping away. “Will you at least consider it?”

Exhaling, Ginny leaned over the table. “You seem like a nice person, but you don’t know anything about Sweet Olive, do you?”

She spoke the words
Sweet Olive
not with reverence, as Camille half expected, but with pure affection.

Camille considered for a second and shook her head. “Not much.”