Sweet Olive (9780310330554)

by Zondervan Publishing House

  “Boycotting? The show?”

  “What’s boycott mean, Aunt Ginny?” Randy approached with a hot dog in one hand and a balloon in the other. His red hair glowed in the fall sunshine. Kylie was behind him with a corn dog, smiling with an orange mustache.

  “It’s like when you take your toys home because you don’t want to play with one of your friends anymore,” Ginny said, then looked to Camille. “More or less.” Ginny took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “They’re a bunch of stubborn coots.”

  “I’m not following you,” Camille said, her face frozen.

  “Apparently they’re not following me either.”

  “But what—?” Camille ran her fingers through her hair.

  “The anti-drilling crowd said it would be disloyal to the heritage of Sweet Olive if they showed their work. The prodrilling crowd said they want to remain neutral.”

  Camille threw her hands up. “Ginny, you’re going to have to spell this out for me.”

  “They’re mad at me, mad at you, and trying to stay on Bienville’s good side.” She shook her head as Camille gasped. “I’m doing my best to keep the art and gas separate, but most folks didn’t think you should be a judge.”

  “If I’d only known—they must be devastated.”

  Ginny’s face crinkled. “You’re worried about them?”

  “They’ve worked on their exhibits for months.”

  “You had every right to judge. You’re way more qualified than most.”

  “They deserve to show their art,” Camille said.

  Marsh wandered toward them. He had a relaxed look on his face and stopped to shake hands, hug babies, and chat, looking like a candidate for office. “Where’s this soon-to-be-world-famous art?” he asked as he drew near.

  No one spoke for a second, and then Randy piped up. “They don’t want to play today.”

  “O-kay,” Marsh drawled. Sunglasses shaded his eyes, making his expression hard to read.

  “A misunderstanding,” Camille said.

  “The artists pulled out of the show,” Ginny said. “You may be wasting your time on us. We can’t get Sweet Olive to agree on anything.”

  “Is my father around?” Marsh’s brow furrowed.

  “He’s working the hot dog stand, but he didn’t bring his work either.” Ginny’s tone was sorrowful. “Lawrence is here too, but he pulled his glass pieces a few minutes ago. Said it didn’t seem right to go against the group—even if he does like Camille.”

  Camille scuffed the ground with her boots. “I’m going to look at the children’s booth.”

  “May I go, Miss Camille?” Kylie scurried from across the packed playground and grinned as she spoke, showing her missing front teeth.

  “Me too,” Randy said. He had seemed glued to Ginny’s side until this moment.

  Camille summoned a smile and, after a nod from Ginny, took the children’s hands. “Lead on. Which drawings did you two decide to enter?”

  “I painted the funny flowers,” Kylie said. “They make me happy.”

  “The dog picture, the one that’s your favorite,” Randy said shyly.

  As they wandered toward the funeral home tent housing the exhibit, she saw a sign with a giant X over the words mineral leases, and a woman wearing a T-shirt that said “Water Wells, Not Gas Wells.”

  She squeezed Kylie’s and Randy’s hands and hoped they didn’t notice.

  A few yards from where they strolled, Lawrence sat alone at a picnic table, looking at a newspaper. Pretending she hadn’t seen him, she veered to the left, but Kylie spotted him too.

  “Hi, Lawrence,” she said, her voice high with delight. “Lawrence!” At the sound of his name, he turned and smiled, the children climbing up on the bench next to him as he started to stand. Wearing a pair of cargo shorts and a black T-shirt, he folded up the arts section of the New York Times as they approached. With a pair of aviator sunglasses and no cap, he would have been at home on the cover of Vanity Fair.

  “Well, if it isn’t the best artists in Cypress Parish. I saw your entries.”

  “Where’s your bottles?” Randy asked, looking around.

  Lawrence made a small clicking sound. “I left them at home today.”

  “Aww, man.” Kylie glanced up. “Are you mad at Miss Camille?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Aunt Ginny said people took their art home because they couldn’t get along with each other,” Kylie said.

  “That’s not nice.” Randy stuck his lip out in a pout.

  “You’re right.” Lawrence produced a few dollar bills from his shorts pocket. “But it’s a grown-up thing.” He offered them the money. “Would you guys like a snow cone?”

  “Please, Miss Camille,” the two children pleaded together.

  Camille looked over at the stand. “Stay where we can see you,” she said, and the children dashed off.

  He patted the bench. “Have a seat.”

  She sat as far to the end as she could without falling off. “How’s your mother?” she asked, after a moment.

  Lawrence drew back. “That wasn’t the question I expected.”

  Camille’s mouth twisted. “I should have known better than to come today. No matter how hard Ginny tries, the landowners aren’t likely to be my friends.”

  “I don’t know,” he said with his crooked grin. “You’re one of the most interesting things to happen to Sweet Olive in years—and a lot better looking than Jason Dinkins.”

  “Right.” She snorted. “That’s why you yanked your glassware out of the exhibit.”

  “I didn’t know what to do, so I went along with the crowd.” He grimaced. “That makes me sound like a junior high wimp.”

  “You could have let me know. I would have stayed away.”

  “I considered calling, but after our visit at the Samford Club, it didn’t seem like a good idea.” He put his hands behind his head and stretched his legs out. “The Sweet Olive artists vowed to stay together, to decide together what was best for Sweet Olive.”

  “And my putting a blue ribbon on a piece of art threatened that?”

  “I’ve been Mr. Adamant about not signing. With Mama sick, though, I’m afraid I’m going to be the first to cave.”

  “Is your mother worse?”

  “We’re waiting for more tests.”

  “I’m not good at waiting,” Camille said. “Would it be okay if I asked my mama to pray for your mom?”

  “She’d do that?”

  “She’s always got me praying for people from Maine to Miami.” Camille was unable to hold back her smile. “She’d be delighted to add your mother to the list.”

  Watching Kylie and Randy playing in the distance, Camille put her hand on Lawrence’s arm. “Take it a step at a time. Don’t worry about anything but getting your mother well.”

  He threw her the same surprised look he’d had when she sat down. “Why aren’t you swooping in, telling me how the gas money will solve all our troubles?”

  “I probably would have a week ago, but seeing all this …” Camille’s voice trailed off as she gestured at the kids squealing, a clown making animals out of balloons, and the line at the corn dog stand. “Your decisions go beyond the J&S money.”

  “I thought you had a deadline.”

  Camille shrugged. “You have to do what works best for you.”

  “And your boss accepts that?”

  She stood, the sun suddenly unbearably hot. “I’d better get Kylie and Randy.”

  Lawrence rose slowly to his feet and wrapped her in a hug. “Thanks for listening, despite what we did to you today.”

  Camille, at odds with Lawrence and his friends, felt a strange sense of belonging.

  Chapter 15

  Marsh was restless and ready to leave.

  The absence of the artists might actually strengthen his bargaining power in the long run, but he couldn’t forget the hurt look on Camille’s face.

  He had been ridiculously pleased when Ginny asked him to
give Camille a lift to the festival and had gotten such a kick out of her excitement at being asked to judge the exhibits.

  Scanning the crowd, he tried to convince himself that his interest was all in the name of business. The better he and Camille got along, the more likely he was to strike the best deal.

  This could turn out to be a career-making case for him—even change the way deals were handled throughout the state. He could be known as the lawyer who helped the little community fight big oil. If the state appointment came through, he might help unravel Louisiana’s arcane mineral laws.

  But the most fascinating thing about the skirmish at the moment was standing across the dusty baseball field, talking to a client.

  “She’s something, isn’t she?” Ginny asked from behind him.

  Marsh adjusted his cap. “It’s turned into a hot day, hasn’t it?” he asked.

  Ginny rolled her eyes as she stepped to his side. “Camille’s special.”

  “At least one of your artists seems to think so.”

  “Lawrence’s got better sense than some of them,” she said.

  “Will he fold?”

  “I hope he’ll vote with the group,” she said. “Sweet Olive’s under his skin.”

  Marsh watched as Lawrence stepped closer to Camille. “Apparently that’s not all that’s under his skin.”

  “Interesting.” Ginny put her hands on her hips. “Come to think of it, they do have a lot in common.”

  “Such as being on opposite sides of a major issue?”

  “Camille’s coming around,” she said. “She’s aware of our concerns.”

  “The deal you want—no gas wells in Sweet Olive—is not going to work for her,” Marsh said.

  “You’ll come up with something. You’re too much like your father not to.”

  Marsh adjusted his Ray-Bans. “He probably wouldn’t like hearing that, but I take it as a compliment.”

  “I hate it when you do that,” Ginny said.

  “Do what?”

  “Act like a smart-alecky lawyer.”

  “I am a smart-alecky lawyer.”

  Her lips, outlined as always in bright red lipstick, turned up slightly. “You can play that role pretty well, but you don’t fool a one of us who grew up in Sweet Olive.”

  He put his finger to his lips and grinned. “Keep those opinions to yourself or we’ll lose.”

  She shook her head, the brim of her hat swaying. “I don’t want a penny,” she said. “I want the kind of spirit Sweet Olive had when my grandfather started making windmills.”

  “Isn’t that what all the artists want?”

  “Some days,” she said. “Until their roofs leak or they can’t pay their car insurance. Do you know how hard it is to walk away from money?”

  “I most certainly do.”

  Camille didn’t speak as they walked to the car, a cute pair of tortoise-frame glasses perched on her sunburned nose.

  “This is unusual,” he said. “You’re actually quiet for a change.”

  “Not much to talk about after today’s incident.” She ran her fingers through her already-mussed hair.

  “You and my client certainly seemed to have a lot to talk about.”

  “You’re spying on me now?”

  “Merely observant.”

  “Turns out Lawrence and I have a lot in common,” she said. Marsh felt another flash of irritation.

  “You should have figured that out earlier, and he might not have boycotted the art show,” Marsh said as they reached the car. He slammed his door, started the car, and reached for the radio.

  Her hand stopped him. “Is that really necessary?”

  “I like music. Loud music.”

  “I meant is it really necessary for you to goad me?” Camille said, her hand still on his.

  Looking at her closely, he noticed tight lines around her mouth, the same mouth that had been so lively that morning.

  “Can we please go?” she added.

  He looked down at her hand, and she jerked it back as though it were on fire. “I’m not myself,” she said. “It’s been a rough day.”

  Marsh pulled out of the lot, heading in the opposite direction from which they’d arrived.

  “I want to go home,” she said, her voice soft.

  “Let’s take the scenic route. It’s only a few minutes longer, and it always makes me feel better.”

  She slumped down in the seat without answering.

  He fished for benign conversation, hating her dejection. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  “Then tell me something. Who knows? Maybe you and I have something in common.”

  She remained slouched down. “Of course we do. Both of us work for companies that like to win.” Now she looked at him. “Sometimes that means people get hurt.”

  “Camille, I’m sorry about today.”

  She sat up straighter and clasped her fingers in her lap. “I’m sure you were delighted. Isn’t that the solidarity you’ve been aiming for?”

  “Perhaps,” he admitted.

  “There you have it. You won this round.”

  “I disagree with how they handled it.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “And I’m not divulging secrets because I intend to tell them the same thing.”

  She exhaled, once more combing her fingers through her hair. He had seen many more sophisticated women—even dated some—but Camille conveyed … He shoved the thought aside. “May I offer you a piece of advice?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “You’re a good listener. And you seem to like Sweet Olive.”

  “I do.”

  “But you won’t get very far throwing money at people who aren’t motivated by money.”

  “Eventually people will want the money,” she snapped. “And you’ll make more if they lease than if they don’t.”

  “In Sweet Olive, the money’s not the point.”

  “You know how this works.” Urgency flowed through her voice. “J&S doesn’t have to have Sweet Olive’s permission to drill. There are wells all over Cypress Parish, and we can put more nearby. Then it might be years before your clients received a payment.”

  While he considered her words, she jumped back in. “Your clients need to sign—and sooner rather than later.”

  “Why the rush? That gas has been down there for centuries.”

  She adjusted her body in the seat so she was almost sitting sideways. “This business is volatile. The offers are high now. And J&S employs hundreds of people in Louisiana.”

  “And?”

  “Our country needs the fuel. Rumor has it you have political aspirations, and you could get clout from a deal.”

  “We’re a patriotic bunch, but something tells me you’re not doing this for Uncle Sam.”

  She made a small noise.

  “More likely for the good of Slattery Richmond,” he said. “He’s been trying to encroach on Sweet Olive since I was in high school.”

  “Marsh, help me understand this. I’ve done deals with the richest and poorest, and I’ve never seen anything like this. No one … and I mean no one … turns down money.”

  “Folks in Sweet Olive decided years ago to live simply. That goes back to my grandparents and great-grandparents.” He waved his arm at the pine woods adjacent to the road. “As silly as it may sound to someone like you, if Sweet Olive fades away, the world won’t be the same.”

  Camille gave an awkward laugh. “We want their mineral rights, not their souls.”

  “Art is what they were called to do. That is part of their souls.”

  “Aren’t you a corporate attorney?”

  “Most of the time,” Marsh said.

  “Then why are you handling this?”

  “Because I never say no to my dad.”

  Chapter 16

  When Camille stepped into the blessedly cool office tower, the guard greeted her as though she had worked i
n the building for decades rather than two weeks and chided her for not having had her ID photo taken.

  “Miss Richmond told me she scheduled that.” He shook his head as he had done every day since she arrived. “Security is of utmost importance to tenants.”

  She bit her cheek to keep from smiling. She would be surprised if as much as a pack of chewing gum ever went missing around here. But he seemed so distressed that she let him take her photo and slip the badge around her neck.

  Scarcely had she made it upstairs before Valerie surfaced, a scowl on her face. “I don’t know what you’re looking for in those records.” She sunk into an upholstered office chair, her floral scent wafting across Camille’s desk. “Everything’s fine.”

  “We need to find people willing to sign leases, or we both stand to lose our jobs.”

  “You’re not going to lose your job,” Valerie retorted. “You practically have an oil-and-gas halo.”

  “I’m not putting up with this anymore.” Camille stood. “The landowners in Sweet Olive haven’t caused half the headaches you have. If things don’t change immediately, I’ll have you fired.” Just saying the words made her feel better.

  Valerie crossed her arms, uncrossed them, and gripped the arms of the chair, her knuckles white. She reminded Camille of a coworker in Houston who had just quit smoking.

  “It’ll be you against the powerful Senator Slattery Richmond. I wonder who Mr. Stephens will side with?” Her eyes opened with the innocence of Shirley Temple as her voice trailed off.

  Camille moved back around her desk, torn between fury and amazement. “If you were as good at your job as you are with your attitude, Mr. Stephens would probably side with you. But as of today, he’s depending on the person he always depends on—me.”

  “Louisiana’s mineral laws are so confusing that even Daddy can barely keep them straight—and he’s the best oil-and-gas lawyer in the business.” Valerie’s tongue darted out to touch her pearly lips. “Scott Stephens knows I’m important.”

  Valerie leaned closer. “You had just been given a cushy corporate job when you got booted to Samford,” she said. “I was close to getting this office, and they sent you in. I doubt either of us is very happy about that.”