Ginny grabbed Camille’s arm and pulled her closer. “These two paint Creole primitives.”
Lawrence stepped closer. “You’ll never see anything that captures local life as well.”
“Did all of you sell pieces at the antique mall?” Camille asked.
“It was hit or miss,” Lawrence said. “We’ll never earn a living selling art in Cypress Parish.”
“Let’s talk about that over supper.” Ginny shooed Kylie and Randy to the front of a makeshift buffet line.
Evelyn handed Camille a heavy paper plate. “Try the broccoli and rice.”
“And peas,” Darlene—or was it Charlene?—added.
The artists filled their plates until it looked like a Thanksgiving feast and returned to the living room. They sat on the couch, chairs, and hearth, plates in their laps. The group ranged from a young math teacher to a clerk at a feed store.
Lawrence talked about working in the oilfield before college, and Evelyn argued with the twins over who was the oldest member of the club. Even the shyest people talked freely when asked about their art.
Keeping a mental tally, Camille thought Allison could fill a gallery with their work—metal sculpture, watercolors, glass, pottery, wood carvings, and oil paintings. One woman made exquisite figures out of red Louisiana clay. Another did sculptures from cypress boards recovered from Lake Bistineau.
As they talked, Camille’s enthusiasm grew. “Whatever happens with your land, you have to share your art with the world.”
“You’re an artist?” Darlene asked.
“I appreciate art,” Camille said.
“She’s a wonderful mentor,” Ginny said. “The children love her. She wants to own a gallery someday.”
“Down the line,” Camille stressed quickly.
“What kind of gallery?” Lawrence asked.
The artists leaned in, waiting as Camille shaped an answer. “I plan to work with a gallery back home to learn more about the business and then decide.”
“We could use a gallery around here,” Lawrence said. “When we try to work with galleries elsewhere, the results are inconsistent.”
“In fact—” Evelyn turned to look at Ginny with a question in her eyes.
Ginny nodded.
“Have you thought any more about helping with our art center?” Evelyn said.
“I thought J&S didn’t go for projects like that,” Bud said.
“Val decided that,” Lawrence said. “More likely J&S didn’t go for projects like me.” A few people chuckled.
Camille looked around the room and back at Evelyn. “J&S will be happy to help—even if you don’t wind up signing. We’ve found that our business does better when our communities do better.”
“Marsh put a proposal together,” Lawrence said. “In fact, he’s been our best fund-raiser so far.”
“That boy works hard for Sweet Olive,” Bud said. “He can deliver the papers to you.”
Camille tapped her fingers on the coffee table, her nails free of polish, gauging her words. “I also hope you’ll allow me to connect you with a gallery in Houston.”
The artists murmured among themselves, their indistinguishable words reminding Camille of a dramatic scene on a television show.
“I don’t think we’re quite ready for that,” Ginny said after a moment. “We need to start smaller.”
“But, Ginny, the art here is stunning.” Heads around Camille bobbed their approval. “Your whirligigs, for example—they’re original and evocative. Collectors will be thrilled.”
Ginny shook her head vehemently as the people around her nodded theirs. “That’s a hobby, nothing more.”
“It could be fun, Ginny,” Lillie said, knitting as usual.
“Wouldn’t you like to know what the outside world thinks of your work?” Lawrence asked.
“Absolutely not.” Ginny looked flustered. “Can we talk about somebody else for a while? That’s why I invited Camille.”
“There’s warm bread pudding in the kitchen,” Evelyn said.
The group laughed and moseyed toward the door. Camille moved over to where Ginny stood. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Ginny.”
“It’s foolish to talk like that. Lawrence is the professional artist, not me.”
“Can’t you see how good you are?”
“I play at it.” Ginny shrugged. “My role in Sweet Olive is to hold the artists together, not to sell a piece of welded metal.”
“Why not do both?”
“You’re more pigheaded than I am,” Ginny said. “Now will you please find someone else to bother?”
Camille grinned and accepted the dessert Evelyn offered her, then took a quick bite. “My mother would love this.”
“You could have invited her,” Evelyn said.
“Amarillo might be a little far to come for supper. Although, this is excellent bread pudding.”
They laughed together. “Maybe your father will bring her one of these days,” Evelyn said.
Camille pursed her lips. “I lost my dad a long time ago.”
“That’s hard.” Evelyn’s eyes were kind as they settled on Camille. “That’s how a lot of us got into art. We’re our own crazy support group.”
Camille stood and made an excuse about getting another napkin. Lawrence followed her into the kitchen. “They’re a nosy bunch, but they mean well.”
“I like them,” she said, leaning against the counter. “They are … refreshing.”
He grinned. “I’ll have to remember that. It sounds nicer than crazy or bossy.”
She smiled in return. “What are you working on these days?”
“Other than getting up the nerve to ask you out?”
Camille moved back, banging her elbow on the sink.
“Is that a ‘no thanks’?”
Camille shook her head. “It’s an ‘I’m not sure I should go out with one of the landowners.’”
“Think of it as reconnaissance.”
“Maybe.”
“I’d hoped for a yes, but that’s a start.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Besides that, I’m working on a chandelier.”
“Camille, there isn’t anything my son can’t make out of glass.” Evelyn walked into the kitchen with a stack of plates.
“They did a whole display at a museum in Samford,” Ginny said, joining them. “Some of his work was even put in an online gallery.”
“Did the party move in here?” Bud asked, his hands full of empty glasses. His gaze lingered on Lawrence and Camille.
“We were talking about Lawrence’s chandelier,” Camille said.
“And I was trying to get Camille to go out with me.” Lawrence smiled.
Camille’s face grew warm as those in the kitchen—with the exception of Bud—chuckled.
A sweet scent wafted through the October evening as the artists departed.
“Every now and then I catch a whiff of a fragrance I can’t describe,” Camille said to Ginny, sniffing. “It seems to be growing stronger.”
Ginny inhaled and exhaled with a soft, “Ahh.”
She pointed to a plain green bush at the corner of the porch. “Sweet olive. It’s especially wonderful when the weather changes.” She breathed deeply. “A front must be coming through.”
“That?” Camille stood and walked closer to the plant. It had tough, waxy green leaves and small, light-colored flowers. She leaned over and inhaled, but the smell eluded her.
“It doesn’t overpower you,” Ginny said. “You have to stand back and be aware. And it’s a slow grower.”
“Are you talking about a plant or a spiritual experience?”
Ginny gave one of the hearty laughs Camille loved. There was nothing subtle about this woman. “You’ll have to decide that,” Ginny said.
“I smelled this the other day in Evelyn’s yard.” Camille breathed in and out and in again. “It’s a delicate scent.”
“That’s how the Sweet Olive community got its name. You plant them by your door or p
orch, or you’re apt to miss the smell.” Ginny sat in the swing, her clogs clapping the wooden porch as she jiggled her legs. “I’ve always thought it was the perfect symbol for our community—tough, dependable, not flashy.”
Camille sat down as well, sliding into a rocking rhythm on the swing. “And stubborn?”
Ginny gave her loud laugh. “We’re ornery, aren’t we?”
“You have your moments.” Camille inhaled again. “I wonder if these grow in Houston.”
Chapter 27
Allison Carney,” a polished voice said. “May I help you?”
“Allison, hey,” Camille said, feeling like they were back in college. “It’s Camille Gardner.”
“Tell me you’re back in town.”
“Not quite yet.”
“I trust there’s not a problem.” Allison’s words became frostier.
“Not exactly,” Camille stammered. “I—”
“You are going to honor your volunteer commitment, are you not?”
“Of course.”
“But …?”
“I’m looking forward to working at the gallery,” Camille said in a rush, still not pulling out the correct words.
“And we’re looking forward to having you … if you ever get here.”
“I’ll give 100 percent when I get back. I’ve already identified a group of unique folk artists for your consideration.”
“That’s sweet,” Allison replied. “But you know that Carney & Associates doesn’t represent many folk artists.”
“These aren’t ordinary folk artists. They use an array of media with striking results.”
“I’m sure they’re lovely, but—”
“There are incredible whirligigs, primitive paintings with a fresh eye, and glass that reminds me of Chihuly’s work.”
“Glass, hmm,” Allison said, her tone less terse. “That’s quite marketable right now if the quality’s good.”
Camille was encouraged. “It’s excellent. May I e-mail you photos of the work?”
“We’re very select in what we present.”
“You’ll like it,” Camille said, clenching her fist. What if Allison didn’t like the Sweet Olive work?
Camille paced around the hotel room, sick of cable television. She’d hoped to go to Ginny’s to work on art projects with the children, but since it was Wednesday, they had prayer meeting.
Ginny had invited her to go along. “We can always use another pair of hands in the mission class. The children would love to see you.”
Camille declined. Helping would only make her departure that much harder.
“Well, if you won’t come with us,” Ginny said, “do you have any prayer requests?”
“Prayer requests?”
“People you want us to pray for. That’s what we do at prayer meeting,” Ginny said with a chuckle.
“I know what a prayer request is.” Camille gave an embarrassed laugh. “I don’t think I really have any …”
“Would it be all right if we prayed for you?”
“Why would you pray for me?”
“We pray to do the right thing about our land,” Ginny said. “We can add you to that list.”
“Absolutely,” Camille said.
Sitting on the end of the hotel bed, she dialed her mother, but the line was busy.
With phone in hand, she looked around the room. For the past seven years, she had lived in rooms like this, and she had photographed every piece of hotel room art she’d seen. Most of it, like the mass-produced European landscapes in this room, were mundane, and she wondered why hotels didn’t feature local artists.
Scrolling through the photos, she found the handful of pictures she’d taken Sunday in Sweet Olive. She attached a few to a note to Allison and smiled as she hit Send. Then she dialed her mother again.
“Hey, sweetie,” her mom said. “How’s my one and only precious girl?”
“I’m okay.”
“That’s not very convincing. What’s going on?”
Camille considered her mother’s question. “Work’s sort of an extra hassle lately, but I think Ginny and I have patched things up.”
“I remember the people in Louisiana being extra friendly.”
“Mama, we were only here part of a summer.”
“You’ve only been there this time for a few weeks.”
“Good point,” Camille said with a little laugh. “You’re making me feel happier already.”
“Are you still ready to quit traveling?”
“Beyond ready. But this is taking longer than I thought.”
“I’m praying about your new job.”
“Everyone’s praying for me today. I must need it.”
Her mother cleared her throat. “Scott called again tonight.”
“What’d he want?”
“It was odd. He was asking about you, said he was concerned when y’all talked. Wanted to know if you’d mentioned anything about the Sweet Olive deal.”
“He asked about my work?”
“I thought it was strange too. I told him I wasn’t sure what was going on but that you are doing a fabulous job.”
“He’s up to something.”
“Your father used to say that Scott came out of the womb negotiating a deal.”
“These people are special, Mama. I don’t want him to hurt them.”
The line was quiet for a moment.
“Then don’t let him.”
Chapter 28
Marsh held up the cup of fancy coffee and gave Valerie a questioning look through the glass wall of her office. A week had passed since the community meeting, and he wondered what she was up to.
She cradled the phone on her shoulder and was writing a lengthy message on a legal pad. Gesturing him in, she slid a file folder over the yellow tablet.
When he handed her the coffee, she mouthed a thanks and took a sip. “Ahhh,” she said as she wrote on the back of an envelope. Marsh gave a thumbs-up and pointed toward Camille’s office. She shrugged and motioned toward the phone.
As Marsh left, he glanced back. Val had already resumed her note taking.
Glancing down the hall, he took a sip of his dark roast. Somewhat to his chagrin, he had found himself looking for ways to run into Camille. He had only talked to her once since the encounter at Evelyn’s studio, deliberating over contract details.
Marsh started to leave. Then he turned back. If this were any other businessperson in town, he’d drop in. He stepped toward Camille’s office, and Val aimed a small frown his way.
“May I help you?”
The voice startled Marsh, and he turned to see Camille walking in from the lobby.
“I stopped by to see Valerie, but she’s busy.” For good measure, he nodded in the direction of Val’s office, his coffee sloshing. He felt foolish.
“I can have her call you.” Camille followed his gaze. “She’s been on the phone with her door closed most of the morning.”
He gave his head a quick shake. “We’ll connect later.”
Camille ran her fingers through her hair, which was always mussed enough to show she didn’t pay strict attention to it. She looked more like a schoolteacher than an oil-and-gas deal maker. Her only jewelry was a pair of turquoise earrings, and Valerie would have gone naked before she wore those rumpled pants. A pair of heels brought Camille just about to his shoulder, but he liked her better in her beat-up boots.
He cleared his throat. “Have you thought any more about how the contract might read?”
She nodded slowly. “We’re doing the last of the title searches. I should have a document for you to review within a couple of days. I don’t expect to get everyone, but maybe we can come up with a compromise.”
“My father told me about your art center funding idea. You got their attention with that one. That’s a … generous offer.”
Camille cocked her head. “If it sounds ‘generous,’ why do you sound suspicious?”
He gave a spurt of laughter. “In my experience
, oil-and-gas companies don’t usually offer quite so much.” He studied her more closely. “Everyone in Sweet Olive is speculating about you.”
“Speculation is the business I’m in.”
On impulse, he reached out and touched her arm. “I have a question.”
“Yes?” She tilted her head.
“You had to know some of my clients would ultimately give in,” he said. Her face gave nothing away. “So why are you offering them such a good deal?”
Her shrug was so brief he nearly missed it. “Timing’s everything. Your clients benefited from our deadlines.” She started past him. “And it’s the right thing to do.”
Camille’s knock on Ginny’s door Thursday evening was deliberately tentative. She liked to watch the students draw before they noticed her.
However, no one was seated at the art table today. A child wailed from the direction of the kitchen, and two or three children played an unusually frenetic game of chase.
She knocked louder. The dog walked up to her, licked her hand, and ambled off, and Randy, a smear of blue paint on his face, wandered to the door. He stared at her for a second. She picked up the cowbell and rang it, laughing, but he ran off, chasing a ball that rolled across the room.
The crying intensified, and Camille opened the door. “Hello. Ginny?”
At the sound of her voice, the yard dog ran at her in an unexpected barking frenzy. The inside dog skidded around the corner and reared up on the door, his shrill yaps adding to the noise.
“What in the world are you barking at?” Ginny’s voice was agitated. She held a child of about eight or nine—too large to be carried—in her arms.
Camille gave a wave. “It’s me.” When she pushed the door open further, the dog on the porch dashed inside and started wrestling with the smaller animal. A cat darted through Ginny’s legs, hissing.
“Can you stay with the students until my sister-in-law gets here?” Ginny said, perspiration shining on her forehead. “Sammy’s cut his arm.”
As Camille looked closer, blood oozed down the child’s arm and onto the smock-like shirt Ginny wore. “Certainly,” she said, noticing the children’s scared expressions as they looked at Sammy. “We’ll have fun.”
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