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.”
“I can drive myself. I’ll probably do some work beforehand.”
“Marsh will be happy to pick you up. His father is entering a sculpture, and he’ll want his son there. Right, Marsh?” Ginny’s hair, looped on top of her head like an out-of-control waterfall, bounced as she cut a
grin at him.
He looked at Camille, her eyes duskier this evening. They gleamed with what looked like mischief, but he couldn’t tell if she was trying to keep from laughing or waiting for him to come up with an excuse.
“Sounds great,” he said, unable to hold back his own smile. “What time should I pick you up?” His inner rationalizations were as lame as a weak witness in the jury box.
Despite his determination otherwise, this case was personal.
Chapter 14
Camille met Marsh in the parking garage on Saturday morning, hard-pressed to remember this was a business event.
Leaning against the jaunty car in a baseball cap, Marsh looked as casual as he had during their first encounter. His khaki shorts showed off muscular tanned legs, and she wondered what sport took him outside so much. The car’s top was down. A U2 song played at high volume.
“Did you get a lot of work done?” He leaned in to adjust the radio volume as he spoke.
She shrugged. “My mother called to chitchat, and I wound up talking to a friend in Houston.” Allison had called to tell her a volunteer—with a master’s in art—had signed on for Saturdays until Camille’s “situation” was resolved.
“Do you get used to traveling all the time, or does it feel like your life’s on hold?”
With the music playing in the dim garage, she felt disoriented for a moment, almost like she was on a date. “Some of both, I suppose. I plan to settle in Houston.”
“So that’s home?”
“Not yet, but it will be soon.” If she said that out loud, maybe it would come true.
“I would have pegged you as more of a small-town woman.”
“We’ll see. I’ve never lived in one place long enough to know.” She opened the door and crawled in. “Don’t you think we’d better go?”
Marsh turned and pulled a cap out of the backseat. “You’re probably going to need this.”
An odd zap of jealousy flowed through her as she looked at the pink cap with a golf resort logo, but she put it on, pulling the bill down until it shielded her eyes.
As they reached the garage exit, Valerie turned into the other lane, lowering her window to insert her passkey. Her head jerked as she saw them approaching. “My, my. Don’t you two look cozy? Nice hat, Camille.”
“Hey, Val,” Marsh said.
“I didn’t know you were coming in today,” Camille said.
Valerie’s gaze went from Marsh to Camille, unsmiling. “Looks like the new boss won’t be looking over my shoulder.”
“Val …” Marsh’s voice sounded as it had at the party the first night.
“I left a couple of file requests on your desk.” The words gave Camille a perverse measure of satisfaction. “If you can have them to me by Monday, that would be great.”
Valerie’s eyes narrowed, and Camille detected a hint of a grin on Marsh’s face. “We’re off to Sweet Olive,” she added. “Big art show today.”
“I thought that—” Valerie stopped midsentence, and a smirk crossed her face. She slowly raised her window, blowing a kiss just before it closed. “Y’all have fun.”
Marsh reached up to grab his sunglasses from the visor. “You two seem to be getting along well.” This time his grin was full blown.
“You really didn’t have to pick me up.” She frowned
“You mentioned that. At Ginny’s, twice by e-mail and on my office voice mail.” He straightened his cap. “Ginny’s right—this is a good way for you to learn more about us.”
Camille removed the hat and stuffed it in the glove box, silent while Marsh maneuvered through Samford. When they passed Trumpet and Vine, she ran her fingers through her hair.
With the beautiful blue sky and a slight shift in the light, the duplex looked almost … homey.
“You interested in that place?” Marsh’s joking voice interrupted her thoughts. “My friend Ross is the broker, and he’d love to unload it.” He gestured at the intersection. “This corner isn’t the best place to sell a piece of property. Even that church is on the market.”
“The area seems to have potential.” Camille kept her voice steady.
“Local developers have been saying that for years, but it would take a miracle.”
They drove through North Samford, silent except for the radio, approaching the area where Bienville Oil had drilled two new wells.
Marsh’s tiny car scraped bottom on the rutted road. “Potholes,” he said. “Sorry.”
They jostled their way down the parish highway, swerving every few yards. The Saturday traffic included a stream of work trucks, few of which belonged to J&S. The car made a loud thunk, audible even over the music, and Marsh made a face. “Oil-and-gas equipment has wrecked these roads. It’s one reason Sweet Olive doesn’t want wells.”
She turned toward him. “Louisiana didn’t have bad roads before the shale was discovered?”
“Not like this.”
“We should have brought my truck.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I like my car. Don’t let a few potholes spoil your day.”
“I’m not letting anything ruin my day. Ginny says this festival shows a lot about Sweet Olive.”
“I need to warn you—”
“Warn me?”
“This isn’t the kind of art show you’re used to,” Marsh said, his mouth turned up in a small grin. “The wine-and-cheese crowd won’t be around today.”
She studied him as the wind whipped her hair. “I can’t tell if you’re really a snob or just act like one.”
“I’m not a snob! I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”
“What we’ll see today would interest collectors anywhere.”
“You’re expecting too much.”
She shook her head. “A gallery should represent these artists.” She thought of Allison. “Their work’s unusual—especially Ginny’s whirligigs, Lawrence’s glass …” She laughed. “All of it, actually.” She tilted her head. “Which one of your father’s carvings will be on display?”
“He was still trying to decide last time we chatted,” Marsh said, as they pulled in to the park area. He positioned them in a line of cars.
She leaned forward. “Are you close?”
He pointed. “There it is, right there.”
She shook her head with a cough. “Are you and your father close?”
“He’s the best. I can’t imagine where I’d be without him.” Marsh turned the radio down. “How about you and your father?”
“He sounds like the opposite of your dad. He died when I was fifteen.”
Marsh surprised her by taking off his sunglasses and looking into her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Camille could barely think of her father, much less talk about him. “My mom makes up for it. She’s my rock.”
His mouth twisted. “My mother’s not the nurturing type. She’s sort of a cross between Emily Post and Margaret Thatcher.”
“You don’t get along?”
He put his sunglasses back on. “Good question. We disagree on a lot of things.”
“That’s too bad. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t talk to my mom.” The words felt like a confession. “She thinks she made mistakes when I was a kid, but she was doing her best.” The thought resonated in her heart. Camille felt a sense of relief that had eluded her for years.
“My mother never made a mistake,” he said with a grim laugh. “She calls me once a week on her way to get her hair done. And before you ask, yes, she gets her hair done every Thursday afternoon. Funerals have actually been scheduled around that appointment.”
Camille giggled, the sound catching her off guard. “Do you call her?”
“Not as much as I should.” He eased the car into a shorter line, the parking spaces a few yards away. “You’re probably a pro at this, but I’m not quite sure how it works.”
She squinted.
“Have you judged a lot of shows?” he asked after a moment.
“Sweet Olive’s m
y first,” she said. “And I’m only an honorary judge.”
“You actually sound excited about this.”
“I’m thrilled. I want to help Sweet Olive artists connect with a gallery.” She squirmed. “Would you mind if I got out? I’ll meet you in the area where the winners are announced.”
“Sounds like a plan.” He glanced at his watch.
“I need to warn you …” She could not hold back her grin as she mimicked his earlier words. “I plan to look at every single piece.”
“Do your best. I’m in no hurry.”
Leaving the car, Camille wanted to skip across the grass toward the festival site. Balloons and streamers hung from the pavilion, under the Cypress Parish Park sign. A cheerleading squad pranced around adjacent to the driveway with posters advertising corn dogs and lemonade. Their voices were hoarse as they screamed.
Camille caught a hint of the unusual fragrance, the one from Ginny’s yard, as she made her way to a big tent pitched on a baseball field.
She spotted Ginny near home plate. Wearing a flowing skirt and a gauzy peasant blouse, her hair was hidden under a floppy pink hat that shielded her face. A row of five or six bangle bracelets lined her left arm.
Camille smiled. “Isn’t this the most perfect day? There’s even a breeze.”
Ginny responded by dipping her head, the hat flying off to reveal her messy topknot. “Camille.” She snatched the hat before it could hit the ground. “I need to tell you something.”
“I know, I know.” Camille patted her arm. “It’s fine, really.”
“You know?”
“Marsh told me,” Camille said.
“He knew?”
“It’s no big deal.”
Ginny’s nose crinkled. “I thought you’d be crushed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I know this isn’t a big-city show, but unlike some people”—she cast her gaze around until she saw Marsh chatting with Jason Dinkins across the baseball field—”I’m not a snob.”
“I broke my word. I promised if you gave us a chance, we’d give you a chance.”
The sun felt suddenly hotter, and Camille wiped her forehead. “And you are. Being an honorary judge is a big deal for an art lover like me.”
Ginny drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “The artists are boycotting the show.”
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