Kylie gave a tentative smile, but the others shook their heads and looked reluctant. Randy nodded. “She likes my pictures.”
“Let’s see what everyone’s working on.” Camille sat at the table as Ginny mouthed thank you.
Camille started the children—four elementary students and two preschoolers—on a colored-pencil project and was charmed by their color choices and design eye. Maybe there was something in the water …
She was so engrossed in the children’s paintings that she jumped when the storm door slammed. “Mommy!” Randy said, and ran toward the front of the house, throwing his arms around the woman’s knees. Camille remembered seeing the children hug the woman at the art festival.
“Hey, buddy. How’s my little man?” The woman took a step toward the art table, Randy clinging to her knees. “Kylie, aren’t you going to give Mommy a hug?”
Kylie ignored her, picking up a black pencil and scribbling bold blobs on the paper.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Camille asked.
The woman seemed to notice Camille for the first time. “Who are you?”
“This is Miss Camille.” Randy tugged on his mother’s oversized purse.
“I’m Camille Gar—”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You’re that woman giving out checks.”
“I work for J&S Production. I’m here as a volunteer today.”
“Where’s Ginny?”
“There was a minor emergency, and she had to leave. Could I help you with something?”
The woman smirked. “More likely, I could help you. I’m Janice Procell, one of the landowners. I watched that fight at the gym, and Drew told me you’re a spitfire.”
“Drew?”
“Drew Cross, my boyfriend,” Janice said as though she’d admitted to dating a movie star. “He says you’re playing us, but that woman who works with you is much more reasonable.”
Camille looked at the children, all of whom had gone back to their projects except for Kylie, intent on drawing what looked like a series of tornados, and Randy, still tugging on Janice’s purse.
“Perhaps we can discuss this when Ginny gets back?”
Janice’s mouth was set in a sour expression. “The land’s mine. She’s using that Saint Ginny act to steal from me and my kids.”
Camille kept her face passive. “I’d be happy to look over your deed another time,” she said, keeping her words quiet.
“Kylie, Randy,” Janice barked, “get your things.” She was a short, thin woman, who looked like life had been hard on her. Her hair was pushed back with an elastic headband, and her cropped pants revealed a tattoo of a dragon on her ankle.
“But class isn’t over,” Kylie said, her face stricken. Randy moved back toward the table.
“Ginny didn’t mention you’d be taking them.” Camille stepped between the children and Janice.
“I hardly need an appointment to pick up my own children.” Janice snapped her fingers. “Don’t make me count, Kylie. We’re leaving now.”
Tears came to Kylie’s eyes as she stood.
Camille looked around, more tense than she’d been in the most hostile of J&S negotiations. She could think of only one thing that might keep the woman here. “Now that I think about it, we do need to discuss your claim. Why don’t we go into the kitchen and discuss the options?”
“That’s more like it.”
As soon as they were seated, Janice began to wring her hands. “Everybody’s going to get money, and I want mine. This is Procell family land, and my children deserve their share.”
“I understood that Ginny was handling that for the family.”
“Todd wouldn’t want it that way.”
“According to our records, the arrangement was stipulated in his will.”
“We were getting back together.” Janice seemed genuinely dismayed. “Then he got himself killed.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. Your children are precious.”
Janice nodded. “Ginny’s been a big help, but I need that money to provide for my babies. It’s hard without Todd.”
Camille merely nodded.
Janice strolled out of the room and gave the children a hurried good-bye. “I’m not going to be able to stay after all. I’ll see you sweet peas later.”
“Will you come back tonight?” Randy followed her to the door.
“We’ll see,” Janice said.
Kylie looked at Camille, her little lips pursed. “That means no.”
“Be good for Miss Camille,” Janice said. As the front door closed, a pall fell over the room.
“I’m glad she’s gone,” Kylie said in a trembling voice. “I hate her.”
“Oh, Kylie,” Camille said, putting her arms around the child, “of course you don’t.”
“I want to stay with Aunt Ginny.”
Camille stroked her soft, curly red hair. “It’ll be all right.”
“I know.” Kylie sniffed as she spoke. “Jesus is watching out for us, even when Mommy can’t.”
Drawing in her breath, Camille pulled Kylie closer. “What a smart girl you are.”
The look on Kylie’s face was like stumbling across a familiar, faded photograph. Camille had worn that look almost constantly until she’d turned fifteen.
Chapter 29
Camille walked up Lawrence’s driveway early Saturday, bypassing the teal-and-brown house.
His studio was nestled between two huge pine trees behind his house, a plain brown metal building. The blue door stood open.
Climbing the concrete steps, she called out, more nervous than expected.
“Camille!” he said, rising from a work table just inside the door.
She looked past him to a row of tiny glass flowers. “Those are gorgeous.”
“I said I’d never design jewelry, but I need to earn more money.” He guided her to a nearby mirror and held one of the flowers up to her ear. “Do you think women might be interested in something like this?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m thinking of signing up for a booth at several of the regional art shows.” He tilted his head, his black hair blowing slightly in the breeze from the doorway. As usual, he wore a black T-shirt—and wore it well. “I just have to figure out my schedule.”
“That’s why I asked to come by.”
“Time on your hands?” He smiled.
“I wanted to follow up on an earlier conversation.”
His expression froze.
“What’s wrong?” Her face heated up, and then she nodded. “Don’t worry. I’m here to talk about art, not gas.”
“I was an idiot to take the check. You’re in the gas business.”
Camille fingered the delicate glass flower. “That’s behind us. I want to talk about the future.”
He nodded toward the open door. “Let’s sit outside and enjoy this day. The sky. The light. Even the temperature is nice. It’s the gift of early October in Louisiana. We’ve actually survived another summer.”
They chatted as they strolled up the drive, sunlight gleaming on his glasswork. The sun had shifted during her weeks here, and it gave a magical glow to a new sculpture of a bird.
She turned to face him. “I heard from the gallery owner in Houston,” she said. “She wants to talk further about your work.”
He sauntered over to the closest of his stunning bottle trees, touching it with what almost looked like affection. The contrast between his big, masculine hand and the vibrant glass captivated her.
“I don’t know about a big-city gallery. I tried selling a piece or two in New Orleans, and it didn’t work out so great.”
“It all depends on the gallery,” Camille said, her energy surging as she spoke. “The right place can connect you with people who appreciate your particular style.”
He smiled. “You sound like a matchmaker.”
“That’s sort of what it is.”
He guided her to the swing where she and Ginny had sat on the first day she came to S
weet Olive. “Tell me how it would work.”
“I’ll send more pictures to the gallery, and the owner will decide what she wants. She’ll pay you—and then sell them at her price.”
He frowned slightly at that and was silent.
Camille turned to look at him. “I don’t want to talk you into something else you’re not comfortable with.”
“I’m not a wishy-washy guy by nature, and I sure don’t think of myself as weak.” He sat up and rubbed a scar on his hand. “I work with molten glass, one of the most dangerous kinds of art.”
She waited.
“When Mama got sick, though, I panicked. I took the head waiter job at the Samford Club, asked Slattery to increase my hours, worked more for Bud Cameron. You name it.”
“And took the check.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “She’d had her first round of chemo the day before.” He exhaled. “I thought that money would make everything all right.”
“But you changed your mind.”
“I’m not much of a word guy, and this is hard to explain.” He paused, and she forced herself not to rush him. “When you came to town, we were all about to give up. Your interest in the art made us take a fresh look at what we’ve got.”
“But I wanted you to take a fresh look at your mineral leases,” she said.
He shook his head. “Up here, we believe things happen for a reason. We needed you to make us consider new possibilities.”
The swing eased back and forth. He smiled over at her. “You understand Sweet Olive.”
Fingering the swing’s chain, she looked out at lawns filled with art as far as she could see. “The strangest thing? I feel like Sweet Olive understands me.”
He wrinkled his brow. “We don’t want you to leave.”
“But I have to.”
“Do you?” he asked.
Scott’s call came Saturday evening.
“Camy! I hope you’re doing something fun.”
“I’m in my room studying the geology maps for the Cypress gas field.” There was a loud cheer in the background. “Where are you?”
“In a bar in El Paso,” he said. “There’s a football game on, and I’m having trouble hearing.”
“Step outside. I have questions that need answers.”
“You’d better have signatures for me,” Scott said. “Tell me you’ve harvested more names.”
“Like I told you the other night, we have to find a way to move the well sites,” she said. “There must be other land available.”
“The records I gave you clearly show the available land.”
“We’ve changed sites plenty of times for powerful landowners all over the country. Why can’t we do that here? I recommend we adjust the plans. Otherwise we’ll be putting them outside someone’s bedroom window.”
“I’ve got an idea.”
“I knew you’d think of something.”
“I’m thinking,” he said, his voice sarcastic, “that these goofy artists can look out their windows and enjoy the view of all that money they’ll be making. We can’t go farther south with them.”
“Really? That’s your answer? Have the engineers looked at the water supply?” she asked. “We’re unlikely to get water rights with this batch of leases.”
“Camille, I sent you there to do one important thing, and all I’m hearing is excuses.”
“These are legitimate concerns.”
“You, of all people, should know how hard it is to make money in oil and gas these days. Lawyers. Environmentalists. Government regulations. Oil deals being fought in some idiot’s kitchen. Give me a freaking break.”
“But we’ve always made money by treating people right.”
“Your head’s out of the game,” Scott said. “I thought you would make up to me for that mess you made on television.”
“I always give you my best.”
“Then let’s see some names on contracts.” The crowd roared behind him. “The Cowboys just scored. I’ve got to go.”
Chapter 30
Allison’s plane was late, giving Camille time to worry that the hasty invitation had been a mistake. And maybe she should have rented a car.
Perhaps she should have mentioned the gallery owner’s visit to Ginny.
When Allison stepped out from the baggage claim area Monday afternoon at the small Samford airport, she pulled a large suitcase, a leather purse slung over her shoulder. She wore a black wraparound dress and a frown.
“Allison! Over here!” Camille yelled, and the frown grew as Allison eyed the truck. Hopping out, Camille smiled and tossed the suitcase into the back.
“Will it be … safe back there?” Allison wrinkled her nose as she spoke. “I’d prefer to put it up front, if you don’t mind.”
Camille reached for the bag. “It’ll be tight, but we’ll make it work.” The suitcase wedged between them, Camille let out the clutch and pulled out. “Thank you for squeezing this stop into your trip,” she said. “You’re going to love these artists.”
Allison gave a weak laugh. “It’s not the artists I care about. I just hope their art is as good as you say.”
“You won’t find work like this anywhere else.”
“I see a great deal of fine art,” Allison said. “Very fine art.” She crossed her tan legs at the ankles and looked over at Camille. “But I admire your enthusiasm.” She looked around with a hint of interest. “Besides, I’ve never been to North Louisiana.”
“The people are friendly. The countryside is beautiful, full of trees and lakes. The food’s outstanding and—”
“I didn’t realize you had such deep ties to this place.” Allison arched her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “You sound like a travel brochure.”
“I don’t have ties here, but it’s been a nice stop.”
“So tell me about Lawrence Martinez. I’m oddly pulled in by the photos of his work—and he’s had web exposure.”
“He’s phenomenal,” Camille said. “He lives next door to his mother in Sweet Olive and—”
“Next door to his mother? I can’t imagine a mama’s boy being much of an artist.”
Camille couldn’t hold back her laughter. “I wouldn’t call Lawrence a mama’s boy. Every woman in Cypress Parish has a crush on him.” She paused. “He’s exceptional, but I also want to introduce you to Ginny Guidry. She makes whirligigs that would be an asset to any folk-art collection. She doesn’t realize how good her work is.”
“She’s undiscovered?”
“She’s shown a piece or two at small local shows, but her work’s not been sold in a gallery.”
“I prefer to deal with people who have already been vetted.”
Camille ran her fingers through her hair. “I thought you wanted fresh talent.”
“I seek artists who have already made it through the lowest levels and are moving up. My goal is to snatch them right before they hit it big.”
“But your gallery has a reputation for finding unknown artists.”
Allison’s shoulder-length black hair scarcely moved as she nodded. “They are unknown until I represent them. Beginners can be so unsophisticated and needy.”
“Ginny’s not needy, that’s for sure.”
“The thing about new artists,” Allison said, letting loose a dramatic sigh, “is that they hound you. They want to show their work. They want to know if you’ve had any nibbles. They want to know if you’ve sold something. It’s exhausting.”
Camille thought of Ginny, rushing off to her day job, coming home to teach classes and moderate community meetings, sandwiching her own art in between. “I suppose it’s just as well you’re not interested.” Camille added a fake sound of regret to her words. “Ginny’s stonewalled other attempts to show her art. She probably wouldn’t be a good fit anyway.”
“Other people have been interested, you say?” Allison perked up.
“At least one collector that I know of.” Camille figured it was acceptable not to mention she was ta
lking about herself. “Ginny’s particular about how her work is shown.”
“So it’s exhibited privately?”
“You might say that.” Camille hid a smile.
“Perhaps I was too hasty.” Allison threw her hands up. “I’m yours for the next few hours. Show me whatever you like.”
Saving Ginny’s artwork for last, Camille drove through Samford, past the intersection of Trumpet and Vine.
Allison pressed her lips together in a stark straight line, her carefully shaped brows following suit. “I bet you’ll be happy to get out of here. This place is a—well, let’s say it’s seen better days.”
Camille looked at the vacant house and deserted church, both forlorn in abandonment. The shabby convenience store and park weren’t much better. “The area has charm,” she said, surprised at her rush of defensiveness. “And the people are extremely creative.”
As they drove around the curve into Sweet Olive, the row of bright houses ahead, Camille held her breath.
“How quaint,” Allison said. Then she caught sight of Lawrence’s work. “This is more like it.” She grabbed the door handle, and for a split second, Camille thought she was going to jump out of the truck.
“Lawrence blends a folk-art approach with a modern twist.” Camille pulled to the side, distracted by the sight of Valerie’s BMW.
“It’s very effective,” Allison said.
“I’ve never thought of art as being ‘effective.’”
“Don’t worry. You’ll learn.”
“But—”
Before she could continue, Lawrence rounded the corner from his studio, in a pair of slacks and a shirt and tie. “Oh my.” Allison opened the door in a rush. “He is a hunk.”
Camille couldn’t suppress the thread of disappointment that ran through her at the sight of Lawrence dressed up. She preferred his black Ts and cargo pants.
As Lawrence clasped Allison’s outstretched hand, Valerie appeared. She wore a black silk blouse, tight black jeans, and bright red heels, her hair piled on her head in artful confusion. Her smiling gaze passed over Camille, focusing on Allison.
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