Sweet Olive (9780310330554)

by Zondervan Publishing House

  “Good.”

  “Not good.” She drew in a breath of the humid air. “He’d fire me for telling you this, but his tactics are about to change. He wants me to cut the land bonuses, scare people.”

  She ran her hands through her hair. “I don’t want to push you, but I wanted you to know. If you are going to sign, you need to do it fast or you could lose thousands.”

  The sound of music thumped out of a passing car, and Camille looked up.

  A carload of teenagers whizzed by, yelling out the window.

  But Lawrence’s eyes were focused on Camille. “Why would you risk your job to tell me this?”

  She hesitated. “My mother’s a cancer survivor. I know how expensive treatment is.”

  “Is she well now?”

  “In perfect health—other than worrying herself sick that I haven’t settled down.” Camille thought for a second and continued. “Our family had some rocky times years ago, and she frets.”

  “That’s what mothers do.”

  “Thanks to my uncle, everything turned out fine. He rescued us.” Now that she had decided to open up her past, she couldn’t seem to keep her mouth shut.

  “That’s the kind of man I want to be for my mother.” Lawrence gave a halfhearted laugh. “I should have chosen a better career for starters. Maybe then we wouldn’t be so desperate for this money.”

  She stood, waiting. In the past, she had done it because Scott had taught her to. Tonight she did it because she knew Lawrence was struggling to do the right thing.

  Lawrence leaned forward. “How much?”

  She quoted a higher price than Scott had approved. He would be so thrilled to get a well going that he wouldn’t quibble over a few thousand dollars extra. “That’s per acre.”

  She forced herself to plow forward. “Lawrence, you’ll probably have to decide immediately. I’ll give you as much warning as I can, but this can change in an instant.”

  He jingled change in his pockets. “What about the others? Our neighbors?”

  “They’re free to negotiate their own deals. But it’ll be up to Marsh to help them get the best deal.”

  “When would we get the money?”

  “If you sign the paperwork I have in my truck, you’ll have the check tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I’ll deliver the check myself.”

  “Where will the well be?”

  “If everything goes as planned, we can put it out of sight, away from the main road.”

  “And if not?”

  “I’ll do my best to protect your view,” she pledged.

  “And Mama keeps the land?” he reiterated. “She can live there as long as she wants?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He sighed, an uncertain sound of surrender. “She needs the money,” he said, almost as though talking to himself.

  “Deal?” She extended her hand, forcing a smile.

  “Deal.” He took her hand and held it for a moment.

  When Camille got back to her hotel room, she flung herself onto the bed and cried.

  Chapter 18

  Marsh inhaled the morning air as he headed out for his daily jog. These minutes before sunrise were his favorite of the day, not yet overheated, dark and quiet. A few houses on his route had lights on, but most of his neighbors had yet to stir.

  Setting off through the neighborhood, he sorted out his day, considering the files on his desk. Sweet Olive work required skills as lawyer and counselor, son and friend. He had originally favored a quick deal. But after extensive late-night research and visits with his father and Ginny, he knew a more deliberate approach was called for.

  Marsh had scoffed at their original request—keep the oil companies out of Sweet Olive. He had figured the best they could hope for was a hefty price per acre and assurances about noise, traffic, and their water supply.

  Until Camille had come along. She might be the miracle Sweet Olive had prayed for.

  Turning down the street where his mother lived, he wiped the sweat from his face with the hem of his T-shirt.

  If he could navigate this Sweet Olive maze, maybe he would walk away from the big retainers and direct-deposit salary and explore going out on his own again. He could restructure his schedule. He might get another dog.

  He picked up his pace, glancing at his watch. He had shaved two minutes off his run, pretty good considering he had stayed out later than intended with Ross and Valerie.

  Marsh stumbled on the sidewalk where a large root protruded, but he didn’t slow down. His best ideas came when he pushed himself, and he was in dire need of ideas today.

  Camille Gardner’s arrival had stirred everyone, including him, up. He expected to know exactly how to deal with her, but she was unlike the businesswomen he usually encountered.

  “I certainly didn’t expect to see you two sitting here all chummy,” he had said to Valerie when Camille departed the evening before.

  Valerie smiled and sipped on her margarita, blotting the sweating glass with a napkin. “You don’t know everything,” she teased but didn’t volunteer more.

  Marsh didn’t say anything and glanced at his watch.

  “Do you really have something better to do?”

  “I’d like to catch the end of the Rangers game,” he said.

  “You’re acting like an old man,” Ross said. “Baseball’s about as exciting as counting the chips in this basket.”

  “That’s because you lack the intellect to follow it,” Marsh said, the familiar argument relaxing him. “A man who can’t tell the National League from the American League is not to be trusted.”

  Valerie leaned back in her chair as though watching a show. “This is more like it,” she murmured and signaled for another drink. “Finally, a conversation that doesn’t revolve around land deals.”

  “Who’s driving you home?” Lawrence asked her when he approached the table.

  “You sound like Camille. That woman is so self-righteous she would hardly take a wedge of lemon in her water.”

  Enticing was more the word that entered Marsh’s mind when he thought of Camille, but he shook the thought off. “No drinking and driving. It’s our pact.”

  “It’s only my third,” she said. “I had dinner, and I’ve been here for hours.”

  “You know the drill, Val,” Ross said. “We’re not fooling around about this.”

  “All riiiight. One of you can drop me off, and I’ll pick up my car in the morning.”

  Lawrence gave her an angry look and rubbed the back of his neck as he walked away.

  As Marsh jogged, he realized he didn’t have time for his planned six-mile route. Since he was nearby, he might as well bum a cup of coffee from Valerie and arrange to pick her up before work.

  As he turned onto the boulevard, the first streaks of sunlight inched their way up in the east. Oaks arched over the median, and majestic old homes lined one side of the street.

  Val’s place sat on the other side, among a collection of recent New Orleans–style townhomes. Marsh bent to pick up her newspaper, slipped it out of its plastic bag, and read the headlines as he strolled to the front door.

  A sound caught his ear and he glanced up, expecting to see one of the familiar early morning runners. He prepared to nod and speak—but froze.

  Camille Gardner had great legs.

  She missed a step when she saw him, recovered, and ran on past. Checking her watch, she slowed and turned back, jogging slowly over to where he stood.

  “I didn’t realize you were a runner.” He might as well have been a college student bumping into a cute girl on campus.

  “Depends on what day it is,” Camille said. “You too?”

  “I took up track in high school and decided I liked it.”

  “I’ve never met anyone who actually likes running.” The look on her face was curious. “Did you move?”

  Marsh didn’t quite follow her at first and then looked down at the newspaper and over at the front door of Va
lerie’s house. “Oh,” he said, “this is Val’s place.”

  “I see. Well, tell Valerie ‘hi.’”

  Before he could answer, she had resumed her run, faster than before.

  Annoyed with Valerie, Marsh knew he had only himself to blame.

  Camille had gotten up that morning feeling as though she’d been sick with the flu. Her muscles ached, and her head was stuffy. She’d never been a drinker—her father had cured her of any interest in alcohol—but she thought this must be what a bad hangover felt like.

  Seeing Marsh at Valerie’s house had made her feel worse.

  She rebuked Valerie in her mind, telling herself she was concerned about a J&S employee sleeping with the enemy. But, as she ran, she acknowledged that she was more than a little disappointed. She somehow had expected better of Marsh.

  Checking the time, she cut across a side street and found herself on Trumpet Avenue.

  She turned and headed for the familiar house.

  Sweating by the time she got there, she dashed into the ramshackle convenience store on the northeast corner, now open, and bought a bottle of water. Then she jogged across the street and sat on the front porch.

  While she resented Scott for his controlling nature, she’d been in his debt since she was fifteen. He’d saved her and—more important—her mother.

  She considered how he would handle Sweet Olive, how he’d barge in on Ginny and issue an ultimatum, visit Sweet Olive residents and imply their community association was ruining their future, and whirl through downtown Samford, pounding on desks and reminding the business community how much they owed him.

  Camille sipped the water, her muscles tight.

  For Scott, jobs like Sweet Olive were plain. Make J&S look good. Tie up a few loose ends.

  He liked mud and machines, wildcatting and drilling. His vision for the gas deep in the shale of North Louisiana was all about the prize—and nothing about the people.

  But to Camille, the past few days had been a new look into the untidy world of emotion and money.

  This she knew: With the Martinezes committed, the rest of Sweet Olive would come around in a few days. That kind of money turned heads.

  She felt no pleasure.

  Her run back to the hotel was five minutes faster than her earlier pace, and she sprinted through the back door to the lobby. A man was talking to the desk clerk, his tone querulous. He turned as she drew closer.

  “There you are!” Slattery said. “I wanted to stop by on my way to the office to congratulate you.”

  She adjusted her glasses, buying a moment.

  “I heard you struck a deal last night. That should get everyone else moving.”

  In small towns, word of oil money often spread as quickly as a major illness on the prayer chain at her mother’s church, but this was definitely a record. “That deal has nothing to do with you.” She didn’t blink as she spoke.

  Slattery looked smug. “Every deal in Cypress Parish has something to do with me. I’d encourage you to remember that.”

  Chapter 19

  Marsh rushed out of a long meeting to get to a court hearing—only for it to be postponed again.

  He had missed four calls from keyed-up clients and a vague message from Lawrence.

  Add to that the clumsy jogging encounter with Camille, and this day was officially off to a rotten start.

  He bolted for the elevator at the office building, flashing his badge to the overzealous guard. The elevator stopped on the sixth floor, the doors sliding open to reveal Ross, who grinned when he spotted Marsh.

  “What are you doing here?” Marsh grumbled, catching a glimpse of Camille at the J&S office door. Her brow was furrowed, and she didn’t seem to notice him.

  “Trying to interest Camille in some real estate,” Ross said.

  “Why would she want real estate in Samford? She’s only here for a few weeks.”

  Ross shrugged. “She had a question about a property.”

  “What property?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that,” Ross said. “But I must say, she seems like a nice person.”

  “Don’t forget who she works for,” he snapped.

  “Not a chance of that. A lot of my deals are on hold until we get this gas mess straightened out. Everyone’s nervous about where the wells are going—and about the impact on drinking water.”

  From the corner of the elevator, Marsh examined his friend. Ross wore a sport coat and no tie, a contrast to Marsh’s tailored suit and sedate tie. Ross spent so much time on the golf course that his hair looked like it had been highlighted.

  Noticing that made Marsh feel ridiculous.

  “That land’s going to be just fine,” Marsh said, weighing his words. “You know Ginny’s group. They’re not yielding when it comes to the future of Sweet Olive.”

  “You might want to tell Lawrence that.” The elevator halted and Ross stepped off first.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Marsh said to his back.

  Camille listened to her voice messages, most requesting meetings now that she was “settled in.”

  Scott had sent her an e-mail congratulating her on the Martinezes but saying he hoped for more signatures. He added a P.S.: “Slattery Richmond is an important part of our business there, and, thus, so is Valerie.”

  The thought of the first Sweet Olive contract made her queasy, and after reading the note, she threw her pen across the room and then got up to retrieve it, embarrassed. This was not the time for a tantrum.

  She picked up her oversized mug, a piece of green pottery she had bought from an artist in the Ozarks during a tough Arkansas land deal. It was the one piece of art that traveled with her, the rest boxed up in the spare room at her mother’s.

  She touched the cup, savoring the feel of the glaze, imagining the artist plopping a lump of clay on the wheel. Things take shape in unexpected ways. She chuckled at the thought—her one attempt at pottery had resulted in a lopsided vase her mother had pretended to love.

  Mug in hand, she wandered out of her office and stuck her head in Valerie’s office, wondering how she would react to the Martinez contract, a deal she had been unable to close with a man she had once planned to marry.

  But Valerie hadn’t made it in after her fiesta last night, and Camille turned to leave. And then took a step back into the office. What would a brief look hurt? A narrow window showcased the parking garage, and a cardboard box sat open on the desk. Had Valerie been packing or unpacking?

  She caught a whiff of a man’s cologne and thought it was Slattery’s. She wondered when he had come by the office, shivering slightly at his curious appearance at the hotel that morning.

  Ross Broussard’s unscheduled visit, in response to a brief e-mail she had sent, had been a nice distraction. His upbeat manner steered her thoughts from Lawrence and momentarily erased the memory of the mortifying morning encounter with Marsh.

  She had asked vague questions about Samford property, mentioning several signs she had seen in town.

  “Are you looking for a home or an investment?” Ross asked.

  “Nothing, really. I’m probably wasting your time,” she said. “But I appreciate the information.”

  Now she stared at Valerie’s white desk, adorned by two items. One was a leather date book open to this week, a red ribbon marking the page. The other was a crystal clock with a tiny engraved brass plate: To V: For old time’s sake. M.

  She studied Valerie’s appointment book. Most of the notations seemed personal, from a mani-pedi to having her teeth cleaned. One said, “S.O. folo.” Another from two days before said, “Dinkins? Deal?”

  Why would Valerie have an appointment with the field manager of Bienville Oil?

  A laptop was closed on a nearby table, and Camille approached it cautiously before forcing herself to move to a trio of framed snapshots perched on a large bookcase. One of the photos was of Valerie, Marsh, Ross, and another woman at the beach.

  A second showed a group, inclu
ding Marsh, on skis with a snow-covered mountain in the background. A professionally done portrait of a fluffy white dog in front of a red barn rounded out the grouping. An engraved plate said, Cotton Grove III.

  Camille wandered over to the window, her thoughts jumping around like a pack of monkeys as she examined the view. The river lay to the west and the courthouse across the street, very scenic. If she was going to be here longer, she would search for a painting of downtown Samford.

  “So you not only stalk my clients, but you look through your employee’s office?” Marsh’s angry voice said.

  She whirled, dismayed to find him standing within a few feet.

  He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a folded sheaf of paper. “Lawrence asked me to give you these. You omitted the water clause—among other things. Turns out it wasn’t quite the deal he expected.”

  Camille frowned but didn’t take the contract—or the check, clipped to the top. “That’s not true. I proofed it myself, and he signed it. I hand-delivered the money first thing.” Her mind whirled faster than one of Ginny’s whirligigs in a windstorm. “He took the check.”

  “He agreed under duress,” Marsh said. “We’re declaring it null and void.” He waved the check under her nose.

  She jammed her hands into her skirt pockets. “We can sue to enforce the contract.”

  “Try.” His jaw was set.

  “Every landowner has to make the decision that bests suits him or her.”

  “Is that how you get to sleep at night? You hounded my client after work. I thought you cared about the artists, that you saw them as people and not numbers.” He gave a disgusted snort. “I thought you were different.”

  “Apparently I’m not.” Camille walked past him, her head held high. Valerie had printed the contract a few days earlier, and it wouldn’t take much computer work to see exactly what she had chosen to delete.

  Marsh was furious as he followed Camille.

  “This is unacceptable,” he barked. “It’s unethical.” In addition to professional fury, he felt personally deflated.

  She slipped behind her desk but remained standing. “Why can’t you let these people do what they need to do?” she said quietly.