Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (9 page)

A
s Camille looked around at the gold-and-green flocked wallpaper, old light fixtures, and heavy molding, the weight of the elite club pushed at her, and she imagined the index card in her purse pulling her down further.

She shoved open the heavy door of the restroom and stepped into a sitting room, the kind of spot where heroines in romance novels went to swoon. The air smelled of potpourri, and the bamboo design on the wallpaper matched the rattan settee.

She propped her hands against the marble vanity and stared at her pale face in the mirror. Jason Dinkins’s approach was perplexing since Scott’s notes indicated Bienville Oil was losing interest in Cypress Parish. Despite being waylaid by an unplanned speech and Dinkins, though, she was surprised at how much she enjoyed the enthusiastic greetings. She regretted, for the blink of an eye, that she wouldn’t be in Samford long enough to become friends with them, a pattern she was all too used to.

She flopped down on the little couch and fingered the silky fabric on the cushion. She thought it was a pattern from an
Impressionistic painting and wondered why people did things like that. The art on the wall was a poor quality print that looked like it had been ordered from a supply catalogue.

Camille pulled the card from her purse and looked at the ink-written notes on the front and back. She reread the notes. Front and back. And again.

Although she didn’t know why she bothered.

In the past five days, she had memorized each word. She could flush the card down one of the nearby toilets and still recite the names when she lay in her bed unable to sleep.

With a deep sigh, she put the card between two fingers on each hand and turned it over and over, as though practicing a card trick. She chewed her bottom lip, postponing the meeting she needed to have.

On the three-by-five-inch index card was the list of names Uncle Scott had given her. On the front were the men she was to impress. On the back were families she was to court.

Scott had described the list as “vital landowners in the race for gas production in Cypress Parish,” and she attempted to think of them as the number of acres they had to offer. But in a matter of days the numbers had morphed into real people, individuals more interested in art than gas.

On that list were Ginny’s deceased brother, people she hadn’t met such as B. B. Cameron, who she assumed was Marsh’s father, and the Martinezes, the reason she was sitting here at this moment. She put her head in her hands, the card flat against her forehead.

The door of the restroom flew open, bumping against the counter. Camille wasn’t sure who was more startled—the elderly cleaning man or her. “Oh, miss, sorry,” he mumbled, backing out the door.

“Wait! Sir!” she called. He stopped, his mop bucket holding the door ajar.

“I was leaving.” She brushed her skirt. She looked at the card again for courage. “Do you know where I might find Lawrence Martinez?”

The worker looked surprised.

“I’m a new club member,” she said. “I need to ask him a question.”

The look turned from suspicious to deferential. “He’s in the hall.”

“Thank you,” Camille said, and the door clunked shut as the man backed away. Sticking the card back in her handbag, she gave herself one more look in the mirror and stepped out.

Lawrence stood a few feet outside the restroom, handsome even in a waiter’s uniform. He turned as soon as Camille appeared, the janitor disappearing into the men’s bathroom.

“You get around.” His face lacked the flirtatiousness of their Sunday afternoon meeting.

Camille twisted her mouth. “So do you.”

“Art’s not exactly the most lucrative career.” He finally revealed his crooked smile.

“About that. I wondered if you have a few minutes …” Her voice trailed off.

“Only a sec.” He pointed to a pile of dirty dishes. “As you can see, I’m busy.”

“I’d like to ask you about the community needs you support.”

The amusement on his face was obvious. “Camille, you need to take that question up with someone else. My worthwhile causes are keeping my bills paid.”

“Please.” She touched his sleeve as he turned to walk away. “I
want to ask you again to consider leasing the Martinez mineral rights. I think you’ll like what we’re offering.”

“As I said Sunday, you seem like a nice person. But I will not have some oil company hurt my mother.”

“I … I’d never hurt your mother.”

“She’s not in good health.”

“I’m so sorry. I truly am.” Camille felt a lump in her throat and hoped she wouldn’t cry.

“Right before her diagnosis, J&S offered her a fraction of what her land’s worth. How’d you feel if someone did that to your mother?”

“I’d be furious. That was wrong.”

“Mama doesn’t think leasing the land is the right way to go.” He swiped at a table with a white cloth, but the action didn’t cover the doubt in his voice.

“Perhaps I could talk with her. We could visit, like you, Ginny, and I did. No pressure.”

“Like we told you, we don’t want to give up our property.”

She rushed on. “Your homes won’t be affected, and surely you could use the money.” She tried not to look at the tables waiting to be cleared.

“I’ve thought about this endlessly. Our land won’t be worth a dime if J&S ruins the water or kills the livestock.”

“We won’t do that.” Camille knew she was speaking too fast.

Lawrence studied her, his dark eyes anguished. “We’re part of the Artists’ Guild. We’ve always stuck together.” He motioned to the tables. “Lots of chocolate mousse dishes to clear. You’d better discuss this with Marsh.”

She stepped toward the stairwell.

“Camille,” he said in that baritone voice. “If we were to sign, we’d get the money right away?”

“I’ll write the bonus check the day you sign. Royalties will be paid as the well produces, which could be within a few months.” She debated prodding him again but settled on a smile. “You’ll call me if you have other questions?”

He nodded.

Camille pushed open the door to the stairs but turned back. “I apologize for anyone who troubled your mother in any way.”

The sun beat down on her as Camille walked to the parking garage, her feet burning in the blasted heels. They weren’t one bit more comfortable today. As she walked, she thought of Lawrence cleaning out pudding cups. She had been unable to push to close the deal, even though he was waffling.

She tried to force her thoughts away from the purple-and-gold golf cart and the tour of Sweet Olive. She despised the idea of hurting Ginny and the two children—or any of the artists who had created such a place.

Looking up at the nearby buildings, she soaked up the personality of downtown Samford. Mostly old, it had personality with a small southern-city feel. Downtown Houston felt like business to her, while Samford seemed like a college campus.

As she studied her surroundings, a town bus slid by, painted in bright colors with a public art logo. She stood in the shade of an office building to examine the bus, its mishmash of geometric shapes making her smile.

What an ideal project for J&S community funds—and an assignment for Valerie, who spent too much time surprising Camille. As the bus pulled away from the curb, three waiters
from the Samford Club walked out and yelled. The bus stopped and the door opened with a whooshing sound.

Lawrence, behind the trio, waved to the driver and headed toward the parking garage, rubbing his neck.

Camille shook her head. His mother was sitting on six figures’ worth of mineral rights, and he was working two jobs.

Usually people like that grabbed the money first thing.

By the beginning of the next week, Camille’s nerves were as frayed as the upholstery in the old truck.

Scott called daily and sent dozens of texts and e-mails, demanding to know when he would have signatures. Allison phoned twice, marginally placated by the assurance that this was a short-term project. Valerie evaded Camille on a daily basis, calling with vague reasons for frequent absences from the office.

Even Camille’s mother, always cheerful, had begun to fret. “You deserve a home and a family,” she said on the phone one evening, Camille at her desk deciphering convoluted mineral records.

“I’d settle for a dinner that wasn’t take-out.”

“Honey, you don’t sound like yourself.”

“What if they don’t sign, Mama?”

“Things work out for the best.”

“I’m not sure what is right.” Camille flipped through a file as she spoke. “For the first time in my career, I almost wish they’d turn us down flat.”

“Is that what’s best for them?”

“Possibly.”

“Have you told Scott?” Her mother’s voice was calmer than it had been when their conversation started.

“Of course not. He’s looking for an excuse to snatch that Houston job from me. If Sweet Olive signs, he’ll say I need to stay in the field. If they reject our offers, he’ll want to punish me.” She ran her fingers through her hair.

“What’s the latest from the landowners?”

“That’s part of the challenge,” Camille said. “I’ve had one brief e-mail from their lawyer since the beginning of last week.”

“How about that lovely woman with the art classes?”

Camille laughed. “That’s the only bright spot. She invited me out to visit at the first of next week.”

“I thought you were volunteering with her students.”

“I quit going.”

“Oh, honey …”

“I got attached to them so fast.”

“Sweetie, it’s good to get close to people.”

“But I’m leaving.”

“Then enjoy them while you’re there. At least you’ll have happy memories to take with you.”

Camille forced a chuckle. “You’re so soft-hearted. I love you.”

“I don’t want to see you make the mistakes I made when I was your age,” her mother said, her voice quieter. “You need a place to call home.”

“I know, Mama. I know.”

Unsure what was going on, Marsh wore a tie and brought copies of a revised contract to the meeting Ginny had called with Camille.

Ginny had refused to give details over the phone, but his father said he knew of no settlement. Lawrence, probably at one of his jobs, hadn’t returned a call.

Marsh had learned as a law clerk in New Orleans that when it came to legal matters in Louisiana, anything could happen. Add to that the state’s unique blend of European law, and contracts like this could be free-for-alls.

But despite his legal training, he predicted Sweet Olive artists would never sign away their mineral rights. The beauty of their Louisiana land, earned through hard work and family tradition, would not be sacrificed for oil company cash.

Even the delightful Camille Gardner wouldn’t change that.

Marsh pulled into Ginny’s drive, looking up at a barnyard whirligig swirling around. As he looked to the side, he noticed Camille had climbed out of her truck and was watching it too.

“An American original,” she said. “I want to see one of those in the American Folk Art Museum in New York City one of these days.”

“That’d be something.” He glanced at his watch. “But first let’s see what the artistic genius has on her mind tonight.”

Camille, wearing a dress and a pair of high heels, carried a leather briefcase, but her business attire was softened by the lithe way she moved.

Walking onto the porch, she picked up the cowbell and gave it a shake, prompting the usual cacophany of dog barking and the excited rise of children’s chatter.

“Have your clients made a decision?” she asked as they waited.

“I probably shouldn’t admit this, but your guess is as good as mine. For some quaint reason, they don’t always keep their lawyer in the loop.” He smiled, hoping it sounded more like a joke than it was.

“They probably don’t want to bother you since you’re generous with your time.”

He leaned closer, looking for sarcasm but saw none. “I suppose.”

Camille ran her hand through her hair at his scrutiny and shook the bell again.

When Ginny answered, she had her cell phone to one ear. Motioning them in, she made an “okay” sign with her fingers. “Yes,” she said. “That’s right. Absolutely. Perfect.”

Shooing them toward the kitchen—with Camille detouring past the children’s art table—Ginny dug around in one of her folders, a mass of paper flying. “I know it’s in here somewhere.” She put the phone down. “I am so excited.”

Camille met Marsh’s gaze. He shrugged.

“Here it is.” Ginny held up a piece of paper that Marsh assumed contained the group’s decision. He reached for it, marveling that the case was coming to a head this easily.

Then his brow furrowed. “This is a flier for a festival at the park.”

“What?” Camille reached for it.

“Not just
a
festival,
the
festival for local artists.” Ginny’s collection of bracelets banged together as she clapped. “Camille, you’re invited to be our honorary judge.” She clapped again, with more jangling of jewelry. “Won’t that be perfect?”

Marsh could not keep from putting his head in his hands for a second or two. “You called us out here to talk about this?” He looked over at Camille. “So much for your theory about my time.”

Camille looked as though she was trying to hold back a smile.

“This is not frivolous.” Ginny looked at them suspiciously. “It will be the optimum chance for local people to get to know Camille and for Camille to see a representation of our best art.”

“But I’m not an artist,” Camille protested.

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.” Ginny dismissed Camille’s comment with a wave of her hand. “You have an art education and appreciate art. Bienville Oil and J&S always have a big presence at this event, so it makes perfect sense.”

“J&S is part of this?” Camille’s brow crinkled.

“They throw money around like crazy for community events,” Marsh said.

“They’re sponsoring a tent and paying for a clown,” Ginny added.

“That’s appropriate,” Marsh murmured.

That earned him glares from both Ginny and Camille.

“I would love to see everyone’s work,” Camille said, her face softening.

“Outstanding!” Ginny said with another clap. “Marsh, I’m going to need you to give Camille a lift Saturday, and I’ll meet y’all there.”