“I’m not at the head table,” Camille said as they stepped away. “I should have waited my turn like everyone else.”
“Of course you’re at the head table. All of our speakers sit up there.”
“But I’m not a—” Sweat poured off of her. “Are you telling me I’m on the program?”
He gave a small frown. “Only briefly. You’ll lead into the keynote.”
Camille swallowed. Her mind felt like the one time she had tried ice-skating. Her thoughts slid around, and she feared she might land on her rear. “I don’t speak before large groups.”
Slattery’s response sounded like a growl. “All you have to do is say hello.” He looked at her as though she were a preschooler who didn’t want to go down the tall slide.
With his hand on her back, he guided her to a corner near the front, effectively blocking her from other guests. “You’re underwriting this event.” He pointed to the discreet J&S Production sign attached to a lectern at the head table. “You’re also a club member. Working for J&S has plenty of perks.”
“I don’t like public speaking.” Camille restrained a nervous laugh. “And I’m supposed to offer perks, not take advantage of them.”
“I get it.” He nodded slowly. “You don’t want to throw your weight around until the right time. That’s a smart strategy.”
“It’s not a strategy.” A pulse pounded in her head. “It’s good manners.”
Slattery’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded again. “We need someone with charm to clear this mess up.”
Marsh stepped into the outdated club and greeted the headwaiter. An army of helpers lined up behind him with trays of food.
“You’re right on time, Marsh. They just started their salads.”
“Thanks, Lawrence.” Marsh lowered his voice. “I hope to have an update for you soon.”
“Mama’s cancer may change things.”
“It’ll work out.” Marsh halted as Slattery stood to open the meeting. Camille sat to the left at the head table. She laid her fork down and shifted to watch as Slattery lounged against the lectern.
Looking for an open seat, Marsh saw Valerie wave him to a chair next to her. He headed for the table, his mood lowering after Lawrence’s mention of Evelyn’s health.
Slattery, never missing a beat in his good-old-boy opening remarks, acknowledged Marsh subtly as he worked his way to the table. Marsh tilted his chin up in return and allowed his gaze to drift over to Camille, who tapped her fingers lightly on the white tablecloth.
He slid into the chair next to Valerie, and she gave him a big smile. He turned his chair to face the head table, and Val shifted her chair so their knees nearly touched. “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered. “My dear father is long-winded today. He wants to impress Camille.”
“Shh,” Marsh said softly. “You know he hates it when we whisper.” Marsh focused his eyes on the head table, staring at the woman who had drawn him to the meeting despite his overloaded schedule.
Slattery was in the midst of an enthusiastic litany of Camille’s qualifications, including her degree, with honors, “in geology and—get this—a double major in art.”
Her double major in science and art from SMU had come up in her background check, but he had dismissed it as unimportant. Hearing Slattery’s introduction called to mind Camille’s cheerful volunteer work at Ginny’s. Maybe art was the key to getting the right deal for Sweet Olive.
When Camille stood, she seemed nervous, running her hand through her hair, leaving one strand sticking up. She adjusted the microphone, looked across the full room—and offered a super-sized smile.
Camille was one of those women whose face was transformed by a smile. While Valerie was glamorous, Camille was enchanting—and the smile made her glow.
Marsh felt certain he wasn’t the only man in the room who hoped her look might be directed at him.
“Thank you, Slattery.” She glanced at him before surveying the others at the head table. “I’m certain I shouldn’t be up front with all these distinguished folks, but I’m delighted to be in North Louisiana.”
“I bet she is,” Valerie said in Marsh’s ear.
Camille seemed to gaze right at him at that moment, and her smile faltered for a split second. She paused and gripped the lectern.
“I’m not a public speaker, so you may notice I’m perspiring,” she said, drawing a few chuckles. “I didn’t expect the honor of speaking today, so I’ll keep it brief.” She glanced out toward Marsh and Valerie again. “But I appreciate the chance to say thank you for what you’ve done to make Samford stronger.”
“She’s more polished than I realized,” Valerie murmured.
Marsh ignored Val, watching the way Camille’s eyes darted around the room, as though seeking a friendly face.
“I especially thank Valerie Richmond, who many of you know.” A smattering of applause went through the club.
“Unbelievable,” Valerie said through clenched teeth. “Doesn’t she know I hate her for taking my job?”
Marsh sighed. “Val, people are looking at you. Smile, and be quiet.”
“You’re right, as always.” She put her hand on his shoulder.
Marsh moved his chair away from the table a couple of feet for a better view of the podium.
An out-of-town marketing consultant followed Camille’s brief comments, giving a PowerPoint presentation on how North Louisiana could improve its image. Marsh wasn’t all that interested in image, but he did hold on to the idea that Samford could be more than it was.
For that to happen, companies like J&S would have to learn they couldn’t always get their way.
When the meeting ended, he walked to the front, Valerie at his side. A mass of attendees surged forward, reaching the head table to welcome Camille and slip her their business cards.
Ross Broussard, his oldest friend, made his way across the room, looking like a golf pro instead of a real estate genius. He gave Valerie a quick hug and shook hands with Marsh. “Late night?” he asked as Marsh rubbed his eyes.
“Way too late.”
“Tell us more.” Ross grinned. “A new romance?”
Val frowned.
“Hardly. I worked until three this morning trying to unravel archaic statutes.”
“If you’d gone to law school in Louisiana instead of at Hahvod,” Ross mocked, “maybe you’d have it figured out by now.”
“Not this one,” Marsh said. The choices in this case were murkier than the water in the Red River.
The law he had studied—and practiced so successfully these past nine years—had been law of the intellect. This case involved the heart.
Landowners needed the money.
But that money carried a high price for the row of neighbors he held in such regard. They wanted an art colony in Sweet Olive, not an oilfield.
“Did you doze off on us?” Ross asked.
“You poor man.” Val wrapped her arm around his waist, as though holding him up. “You’re asleep on your feet.”
“Val,” he said, edging away.
“Your competition gave a good speech,” Ross said.
“My competition?” Valerie raised an arched eyebrow.
“He was talking to me,” Marsh said dryly. “Camille seems to know what she’s talking about.”
“Good thing because she’ll need that and more when she heads out to Sweet Olive,” Valerie said. “They’ll eat her alive.”
“Didn’t happen,” Marsh said. “She’s been out there a couple of times—that I know about.”
Valerie flipped her long, blond hair back from her shoulder, irritation etched on her face. “Daddy says you’re as hardheaded as the rest of Sweet Olive. She hasn’t caused them to go with Bienville Oil, has she?”
Marsh looked across the room where the Bienville Oil manager had been trying to catch his eye. “No comment,” he said. “How’s the real estate business, Ross?”
As his friend laughed, Marsh shifted his gaze to Camille, whose
outward nervousness had vanished. She laughed occasionally and mentioned her delight with the Sweet Olive community. She didn’t refer to Samford, except in polite generalities. Although she wasn’t talkative, she leaned in to listen to each person who approached.
Valerie had gotten it right—sort of. Camille was polished. But it went deeper than that. She radiated an affection for the artists. She seemed right at home, which troubled him.
Camille’s heart was still pounding from the impromptu speech, and she tried to concentrate on the civic leaders welcoming her to Louisiana.
But even with their kind words and hearty handshakes, Camille couldn’t keep her eyes from veering to Marsh. She told herself it was because she needed to know what he was up to, but she also enjoyed the assured way he moved through the room. In his tailored suit, he looked as though he had been born for the private club.
Leaving Valerie’s side, he stopped to greet a variety of people but seemed to be looking for someone and stayed in conversations only a moment or two. His longest chat was with a middle-aged man in a sport coat and golf shirt.
Marsh was animated as they spoke and pulled out a card, wrote something on it, and passed it to him before walking to the side of the room where Lawrence cleared a messy table.
As Marsh approached, Lawrence wiped his hands on the edge of the tablecloth he had just removed and stepped into a corner by a row of windows.
Camille’s position on the platform gave her a good view of the two, but she regretted that she couldn’t hear their conversation. Marsh pulled another piece of paper out of his jacket pocket, wrote on it, and handed it over. They shook hands and exchanged smiles before Marsh strode toward the elevator.
Disappointed that he hadn’t shown her the courtesy of a hello, Camille shifted her attention to Valerie, smiling and talking to nearly everyone who strolled by—until her father approached. Walking away with Slattery, she paused for a brief look at Lawrence, and her father nudged her.
The clatter of dishes being cleared from the round tables rang through the room. Camille drew a deep breath and faced the last of the well-wishers, the man in the sport coat who she had seen talking with Marsh.
“Welcome to the best oil state in the country, Miss Gardner,” the man said, his voice scratchy, like a heavy smoker’s. “I’m an old friend of your uncle’s.”
Camille had wondered how long it would be before someone made the connection between her and Scott, half expecting it every time she encountered Marsh.
“I hope you won’t hold that against me,” she said with a silly little laugh.
The man’s smile didn’t work its way up to his eyes, but his yellow teeth flashed at the quip. “Scott and Slattery and I worked together in the oilfield one summer during college. I’m Jason Dinkins.”
Camille studied him for a moment, trying to figure out how much he knew about those early days. “It’s nice to meet you, Jason. I’m sure Scott will be tickled to hear I ran into you.”
“I doubt that. I’m the field manager for Bienville Oil.” He waited a beat, as though to ensure the words sank in. “I’m sure I’ll see you out in Sweet Olive.”
Chapter 13
As 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.”
“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.
Sweet Olive (9780310330554) Page 9