“Only a few weeks ago. I’m a fighter, though.”
“I’m sorry …”
“It’s nice to meet someone who isn’t focused on when I’m having chemo or if I’m going to kick the bucket.” She made a face and held the aluminum glass to her forehead.
Camille looked around. “Have you considered a window unit?”
Evelyn frowned. “In this creaky old building? The electric bill would cost us an arm and a leg.”
“But you could have plenty of money.” The words flew out from Camille.
“What are you doing?” a stern voice said behind them, and she jumped, bumping the table with her knee. The water sloshed onto her jeans.
While Camille tried to blot up the spill, Evelyn’s eyes lit up, and she stood. “I didn’t expect you on a Saturday afternoon, son!” She craned her neck. “And Marsh.” Evelyn put her hands on Lawrence’s shoulders and looked in his face. “You’d better be staying for supper.”
Camille stood stiffly and turned with dread, noticing water had splattered onto her blouse too. Marsh, in a pair of gray slacks and a crisp blue shirt, sucked some of the air out of the already stuffy space. Lawrence, in his usual black T-shirt, looked bothered.
Evelyn stepped back from her son and Marsh and patted Camille’s hand, which clenched a soggy paper towel. “Camille and I were chatting about art.”
Marsh and Lawrence obviously didn’t share her enthusiasm.
“We couldn’t believe it when we saw your truck,” Marsh said. The formerly inviting room sizzled, and the tea cake seemed to have turned to stone in Camille’s stomach. Each of the men stood rigid.
“I drove out here to clear my head,” Camille said. “The dogs ran into the road, and I needed to turn around.” Lame.
“I was lonesome,” Evelyn interjected.
“Mama, please.” Lawrence turned his attention to Camille. “You can’t come out here trying to talk my mother into signing.”
“Goodness gracious, Lawrence Manuel Martinez,” Evelyn said. “Camille was asking about my folk art. You two can sit down and join us or wait out front.”
She threw her son a look only a mother could give. Marsh looked as though he were facing a stern Sunday school teacher.
“Mama, we agreed on how to handle this. You can’t invite every landman in town in for tea cakes.”
“Does Camille look like a landman to you?” Evelyn raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t ask that fellow from Bienville Oil in.”
Marsh and Lawrence exchanged a glance, and Evelyn cleared her throat. “Are you listening to me, boys?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lawrence said.
She turned to Marsh.
“Yes, ma’am.” He’d probably faced judges easier than Evelyn.
She put her hands on her hips.
“I’m sorry if I was rude, Camille.” Lawrence reached over and hugged his mother. “I’m very protective of Mama.”
“We have to look out for our mothers, don’t we?” Camille said.
Chapter 25
Camille’s soft words made Marsh think of his own mother. She had certainly never been easy to look out for. But something about the topic brought that sadness to Camille’s eyes.
“Lawrence takes such good care of me.” Evelyn patted her son’s hand. “But he can be …” Her laugh was cheerful. “Overprotective, I suppose, is the word I’m looking for.”
“That’s what I’m supposed to say about you,” Lawrence said with a laugh. “Camille, you’ll find her a lot tougher to deal with than me. Mama’s a feisty woman.”
“I give you my word, Lawrence, that I won’t ever ask your mother to sign.” An impish smile came to her mouth. “Nor you.”
The congenial smiles in the room floored Marsh. The other night they’d been furious with Camille.
“You caught me in a weak moment,” Lawrence said. “You won’t get by me again.”
“I’ll be waiting when you come to your senses,” Camille said, but her tone was playful.
A scowl washed across Marsh’s face. “Camille, let’s be clear—”
“I know,” she said, waving her hands, “this isn’t art camp.” Then she had the nerve to wink at him.
Lawrence stifled a laugh. “Marsh, we all know where we stand. I won’t do anything stupid.”
Did any of them know where Camille stood? With her hair tousled and water spots on her shirt, she looked right at home in the messy little shed. He was skeptical about a coincidental visit but had a hard time seeing Camille as cunning.
Evelyn’s expression was delighted. “Y’all have sure cheered me up, right when I needed it. You boys pull out a chair and have a tea cake.”
The wood legs of two ladder-back chairs scraped on the vinyl floor. Evelyn poured Marsh a glass of water and handed Lawrence a Sprite. Camille began to fidget. She crumbled a cookie into tiny pieces and scooted her chair back a few inches.
“I’d better go, Evelyn,” she said. “I make your lawyer nervous.”
Evelyn cackled. “It’s hard to think of Marsh Cameron as a lawyer. These boys used to play ball together.”
“She told me you hurt your knee.” Camille’s voice held a hint of sympathy as she looked at Lawrence.
“I wrecked it.” Lawrence rubbed his knee as he spoke. “Then, like an idiot, I dropped out of college. If it weren’t for the good Lord—and my mama—I might never have finished.”
Evelyn, still standing, patted him on the head. “Not many people can get a degree while working three jobs.”
“That’s quite an accomplishment,” Camille said.
“Marsh is the one who accomplished things.” Lawrence gestured at him. “He set up a program in law school to help homeless families, and it’s being used around the country.”
“He’s always looked out for those in need and never takes a dime for it.” Evelyn jumped in. “He lives by the Golden Rule.”
Marsh pushed his chair back, surprised to feel his face grow warm. He cleared his throat nervously. “It’s not that big a deal.”
“It sounds like a big deal,” Camille said.
“You don’t take enough credit for your generosity, young man.”
“Thank you, Miss Evelyn. But what were you and Camille talking about?” Marsh kept his voice low and easy.
“Art. Camille’s stirred up my thinking.”
Marsh looked at Camille doubtfully. She met his gaze before turning to Lawrence. “Why’d you choose art?”
“Art chose me.”
“God speaks to us through art.” Evelyn placed her hand over her heart. “He touches us with these gifts.”
“Art adds meaning, order even, to my world,” Lawrence added, smiling at his mother. “What does art mean to you, Camille?”
She clasped her hands. “Appreciating a piece of art always feels like coming home.” She squirmed. “I get a weird, giddy, peaceful feeling.”
“That’s what’s cool about Sweet Olive,” Lawrence said. “We use gifts we’ve been given. Money could never buy that.”
“Marsh’s father should be in on this,” Evelyn said. “Bud believes art helps us understand ourselves—and others.”
“You’ve got my clients talking more about their art than settlement checks, Camille.” Marsh was bemused.
She blushed. “That’s not the way it was supposed to work.”
“Sure it was,” Evelyn said.
Camille ran her fingers through her hair, leaving a cookie crumb stuck there. Marsh resisted an unwelcome urge to reach over and brush it out.
Her potent smile turned to Evelyn. “I’d better go, but I’d still like to talk about showing your work in Houston.”
“I can’t imagine anyone would pay money for this stuff,” Evelyn said, but she sat up straighter. Marsh could see the hope in Lawrence’s eyes as he looked at his mother.
After a flurry of farewells, Evelyn ushered Camille outside, their words drifting through the air as they moved out of earshot.
Marsh looked at Lawrence. �
�What was that about showing your mother’s art?”
“She seems to think Mama’s good.”
“No disrespect intended, but don’t you think Camille’s saying that to all the landowners?”
Pursing his lips, Lawrence stared vacantly across the room. “No,” he said after a moment. “Camille cares about art. She’d never mislead us about that.”
“I hope you’re right.”
As he and Lawrence walked around the house, Evelyn was taking Camille’s business card and promising to mail her a cookie recipe. Camille snapped a photo of a metallic butterfly with her phone before climbing into her old truck.
Evelyn, smiling, met them on the porch. “Isn’t she the nicest person? I was wrong about her earlier.”
“Camille’s a nice woman,” Marsh said. “But J&S needs to get a producing well on this land in a hurry.”
“You boys fret too much. We haven’t had money all these years. I don’t know why everyone is so worked up over it.” She peered at Camille’s card. “If you had any sense, you’d try to get to know her better. She’s much more polite than some of those oil-and-gas people who come around, like that old girlfriend of Lawrence’s.”
Marsh took a swig of the lukewarm water, and Lawrence gave a weak laugh.
Camille caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror and groaned at the crumbs in her hair.
She shook her head and backed out onto the road.
What a revelation. Marsh used his legal skills to help the underdog.
Turning toward Samford, she drove to the house at Trumpet and Vine, its magnetic pull growing stronger each day. She pulled into the driveway and cut off the engine.
Before she could get out, her phone rang.
Uncle Scott.
“This is ironic,” she said. “You won’t believe where I am.”
“Wherever it is, it had better involve a contract in ink.”
“I’m sitting in Daddy’s truck where you picked us up that night.”
“I’ve got millions riding on Sweet Olive, and you’re taking a drive down memory lane?”
“I come by here to think.”
“I figured that house would have fallen down by now.”
She peered out the window. “It’s not in very good shape.”
“What kind of shape are the contracts in?”
“About the same as this house.”
Camille climbed out of the truck and wandered through the yard as they talked. “We’re not going to get most of the landowners.” There. She’d said it.
“Unacceptable!” Scott roared the word.
“These are hardworking people with deep roots. They don’t want their community to change.”
“That’s the biggest load of—”
“Sweet Olive deserves to make the decision that is right for it.”
“You sound like the attorney for Sweet Olive. Are you working for me or for them?” She heard the click of a lighter as he lit a cigarette. “J&S has a lot riding on this—all over the state of Louisiana. Slattery’s been gunning for me for years, and he has clout in the Senate. If we don’t do what he wants, he’ll find a way to run us out for good.”
“And what is it that he wants?”
“You’ve seen the files.”
“We can work around that fancy subdivision of his. There’s plenty of land behind it for a well or two.”
“Deal killer.” The words were harsh. “We can’t touch his land.”
“That’s not the way we do business.” Camille spoke through clenched teeth.
“J&S does what it takes. We always have.”
“Is that what my father was doing when he died?”
“Johnny was doing his job, and that’s what I demand of you. Finish it up and head back to your cushy office job.” Scott hesitated. “I’ll even fund that other environmental project you’re so keen on.”
“The new technology?” Camille’s pulse raced. “You said J&S wasn’t in the research business.”
“If it’ll help you get off dead center in Louisiana, we’ll get into the research business. But if you can’t pull this one off, the closest thing you’ll come to an office job is a metal shack in Odessa.”
Before she could reply, Scott ended the call.
Walking around the house, Camille scuffed the dirt with the toe of her boot. Allison’s dream created a fancy gallery. Ginny fought for the people she loved. Marsh helped those in need.
Her own life was going in circles.
How did her mother have faith that things would work out? No matter how much Camille prayed, the answers remained as dim as the dirty glass on the front door.
She kicked a pine cone and headed back to the truck.
Chapter 26
Camille was working with one of the children Monday night when the dogs, inside and out, started barking. In her fifth week in Louisiana, she was used to the children’s chatter but still didn’t see how Ginny got anything done with the overall chaos.
“Aunt Ginny, someone’s at the door,” Kylie shouted.
Ginny, drying her hands on a bright yellow towel, walked in from the kitchen. “Already?” Her gaze darted to Camille. “It’s unlocked!”
A man in his midforties entered first, holding a casserole dish covered with foil. He had scraggly shoulder-length black hair and wore camouflage pants. A short woman of about sixty, with a waist-length gray ponytail, gripped his arm, managing to hold a canvas under one arm and a loaf of French bread in the other.
Scarcely had they stepped over the threshold before two older women—seventy or so—walked in, wearing identical outfits of what looked like homemade scrub pants and tops.
They all looked vaguely familiar.
“Dumplings.” One of the women held up a metal pan.
“Sweet potato casserole,” the other said, holding up a similar pan.
All four were smiling until they caught sight of Camille, who had risen from her seat at the art table.
“What’s she doing here?” one demanded.
“Hello, everyone,” Ginny said with an unusual note of gaiety. “Come in, come in.” She adjusted her glasses.
“Charlene asked you a question,” the man said. “Why is that woman here?”
Ginny looked around as though she didn’t know who they were talking about. A rare silence fell over the children.
“Look at the time!” Camille exclaimed. “I’d better be going.”
Ginny’s brow furrowed. “You said you could stay late today.”
“I forgot …” Camille nervously straightened the pastels the kids had been drawing with. “I didn’t realize you were having company.”
“We’re not company,” one of the twins said.
“Camille’s not company either,” Ginny said. “She’s an excellent art tutor.”
“That’s well and good, but we don’t want her here for the meeting,” the man said.
“It’s not a meeting,” Ginny said. “It’s a potluck. I want Camille to join us.”
“I can’t stay,” Camille said quickly.
“I made plenty.” Ginny’s chin was set at a stubborn angle. “Let me introduce you to the Sweet Olive Artists’ Guild.”
“Hi.” Camille gave a tiny wave.
“This seemed like a good opportunity for you to talk to the group,” Ginny said. “I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d skedaddle.”
“Talk?” Camille’s voice croaked.
“We heard her at that meeting at the gym,” the other of the twins said. “There’s nothing left to talk about.”
“Camille is an art expert.” Ginny looked at the four, who had paused on their way toward the kitchen. “She appreciates our art … and has outstanding ideas on marketing it.”
“Marketing?” The twins spoke in unison.
“Some members would like to sell their work.” Ginny nodded. “Camille understands the Internet and gallery opportunities.”
“We wouldn’t need gas money if we could sell our art.�
��
“Why would she talk herself out of a job?”
Ginny sighed. “Y’all won’t make anything easy. Whether we lease our land or not, some of us want to show our art. We need Camille’s insight.”
As they talked, someone tapped on the door and Lawrence and Evelyn walked in.
“Ahh.” Lawrence flashed his crooked grin. “My favorite landman.”
“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” Evelyn said cheerfully.
Camille was unable to resist smiling at the mother and son. Lawrence wore his usual black T-shirt and his mother was in a pair of bright yellow knit pants, a matching striped shirt, and three strands of hot-pink beads.
“I want everyone to get to know Camille better,” Ginny said. “She has an expertise that we are lacking.”
The next person to drift in was Marsh’s father, Bud, wearing his carpenter clothes. His eyes widened when he saw Camille, and he looked over her shoulder.
“No, Bud, I didn’t invite Marsh.” Ginny gave him a kiss on the cheek. “This is our regular potluck, not a land discussion.”
“I suspect my son won’t see it that way.”
“Camille’s not a secret agent.” Ginny took the two jugs of sweet tea he carried.
Camille smiled. “You’re a wood carver, right?”
Bud’s face creased with a smile that reminded her of Marsh. “I work mostly with a hammer and nails. But I piddle with carving.” He pointed to a bust of Mary and the Christ in the back of the room. “That’s one of mine.”
Camille gasped. “You did that?” She put her hand over her mouth. “That is such an inspirational piece.”
“I love to look at it early in the morning,” Ginny said. “It centers me, reminds me of God’s great love, even on the toughest days.” She smiled over at Bud.
“Ginny’s my biggest cheerleader,” he said.
“Other than your sons,” Ginny replied.
Bud grinned. “Marsh and T. J. are biased.”
“T. J.?” Camille asked.
“We share an interest in carpentry that his mother doesn’t quite understand,” Bud said.
The arrival of a handful of artists, including Lillie Lavender, knitting bag in hand, interrupted them. Each person stashed food in the kitchen and sat in the living room. Their conversation whirled around complaints about overdue dues and laments about a Samford antique mall closing. “Charlene and I did pretty well at that store,” the twin who introduced herself as Darlene said.
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