“Valerie stopped by to get your questions answered, Camille,” Lawrence said.
“My questions?”
Valerie waved her hand, as though drying nail polish. “Don’t worry. I found out what we needed, Camille.”
“Are you an artist too?” Allison asked.
“Only if you consider finding oil and gas an art.” Valerie gave a tinkling laugh. “Camille and I work together at J&S Production.” Valerie released a sympathetic sigh. “We had no idea this deal would take so long.” Her voice dripped southern charm and she drew out the word long.
“Valerie,” Camille snapped. “This isn’t your concern. I’ll see you at the office.” She looked forward to sacking Valerie before she departed Sweet Olive, no matter what Scott said.
Allison seemed to be torn between looking at the glass on display in the yard and at Lawrence, who tugged at his tie.
“The boss has spoken,” Valerie said. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Allison. Will you be in Louisiana long?”
“Only a few hours. I hope I can get out on the last flight to Dallas. The Samford airport’s rather … small.” Her lips narrowed.
“Isn’t it impossible to get here?” Valerie said. “I’m driving over to Dallas myself later today.”
She was?
“Is it possible …?” Allison looked at her diamond-encrusted watch and leaned toward Valerie.
“I’d be delighted for you to ride with me, if you don’t mind small cars.” Valerie pointed at her shiny sportster.
Allison looked from the car to Camille’s pickup. “I expect to be finished here by early evening. That will help me immensely.”
Why have I never realized Allison is a Texas version of Valerie?
“If you’re in a hurry, we’d better head to my studio.” Lawrence pulled off his tie, his face impassive. “Camille, you might want to notify Ginny.”
Ginny’s bright red lips were stern when she sauntered out into the yard to meet Camille and Allison. She wore her rattiest pair of denim overalls, a gigantic bleached spot over the left knee. Her hair was in two fat braids.
“This is the gallery owner I mentioned on the phone,” Camille said.
“You’re the artist?” Camille realized with a start that it was the first true note of delight she’d ever heard in Allison’s voice.
“For better or worse,” Ginny said.
“Where does your inspiration come from?” Allison said.
Camille tensed, waiting for Ginny to respond with her down-home disdain. Instead she gave her hearty laugh. “Most of my ideas come from trying to put the pieces of everyday life together.” She gestured toward the house. “Would you like to see my collection of local art?”
Allison swept past Camille. “That would be lovely.”
“Are Kylie and Randy here?” Camille trailed the two, feeling oddly out of place.
“Evelyn took them to the library,” Ginny answered over her shoulder before launching into a discussion of gallery operations with Allison.
“Camille, you were not exaggerating about these people,” Allison said as she studied one of Bud’s sketches. “We could mount an entire Sweet Olive exhibit.”
“I’m not sure.” Camille was afraid to look at Ginny.
But Ginny seemed intrigued. “What would that involve?”
Allison reached into her handbag and pulled out a small leather calendar. “Camille can catalogue our acquisitions.” She tapped the date with a pink-polished nail. “And oversee the shipping process. With her return to Houston coming up, it’ll be tight, but we’ll make it work.”
Ginny fingered one of her braids, looking at Camille.
Allison glided back through the living room, murmuring to herself and jotting in her notebook. “Camille promised me a treasure trove, and she’s true to her word.”
“That’s a matter of perspective,” Ginny murmured.
“I told you I needed to get back to Houston,” Camille said. Misery sank in her stomach like a brick.
“I thought you were staying until Sweet Olive worked out its leases.” With her fierce glare and overalls, Ginny only needed a pitchfork to look like a country warrior.
“We’ve stalled. I e-mailed my boss today, suggesting we put Sweet Olive on hold.” She was prepared to fight his response.
Allison’s pale lipstick turned into a smile. “I’m looking forward to teaching Camille about the art business. She’s going to owe me big-time.” The playful laugh Allison added didn’t keep Camille from thinking of Valerie.
“This is some coup,” Allison said. “The other Southwest galleries aren’t going to know what hit them.”
Camille could hardly listen to Allison. She put her hand on Ginny’s arm. “I’m sorry—”
Ginny pulled away. “Enough with the apologies.”
Allison gestured at the room—painting, pottery, glass, fiber, baskets, and Bud’s carvings. “Some of these pieces are crude, but I’m willing to take the entire lot.”
Camille’s heart pounded. “These aren’t crude. They’re real. They’re valuable.”
Ginny picked up a pottery vase, caressing it. “Most of these are gifts from friends. I’ll never sell them.” For one of the first times since Camille had met her, Ginny seemed shaken.
“We can hash out details over the phone. I’ll get a commission, but you’ll still come out very well.”
“I’ll need to talk to the other artists … and pray about it.”
“Pray?” Allison rested her chin on her hand and looked Ginny over from feet to braids. “That could give us a hook.” She held up her hands as though framing a sign. “‘The Spiritual Bayou Woman Finds Meaning in Her Metal Designs.’ If we spin this right, we’ll get national press.”
“No.” Camille wished she could shove Allison out of the house. “Ginny isn’t some doll to be paraded around.”
Allison nodded. “We’ll have to work with what we’ve got, but there’s definitely raw potential here.”
“I made a mistake.” Camille’s voice was almost a wail. “Let’s forget this ever happened.”
Ginny gave a grim chuckle. “I’ve been praying for God to open a door for you, and it looks like He’s opened one for me instead.”
“No,” Camille whispered, nauseated at the idea of Ginny’s image in Allison’s hands.
“I don’t understand what’s going on here.” Allison flipped her hair back. “Are you driving up the price? Because that is highly unprofessional.”
“You’re the one who said I should believe in my work, Camille.” Ginny adjusted her black glasses. “It’s time for me to move on with my life.”
Chapter 31
Camille splurged on a collection of watercolor pencils for the children. They could paint the lines with water, giving their work an impressionist look—and she knew Kylie and Randy would love them.
She also picked up several sets of markers and crisp white paper and paid cash out of her own pocket. She was excited to get to Ginny’s to talk about possibilities other than Allison’s gallery. Maybe Camille could convince area hotels and restaurants to display pieces, with information on the artists.
Thinking about the night before, she popped the clutch and killed the truck, something she hadn’t done in weeks.
Valerie had wheeled into Ginny’s driveway like a white knight rescuing Allison from an attack of peasants. “Send me the list of each of the items and the asking price,” Allison said as she climbed in the car. “We’ll make the best of this.”
Camille had sank into the swing, drawing in a breath. She was unable to smell the sweet olive. Even the whirligigs were silent.
“I’m going to miss you so much.” Ginny eased into the swing like she was getting onto a ski lift. “When exactly are you leaving?”
Camille swallowed. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” Scott had called in fury at her suggestion they pull out.
“I shouldn’t have been so rude about Allison. She caught me off guard. I guess I’ve had one too ma
ny surprises lately.”
Camille cleared her throat. “I should have told you I invited her.”
“You really think my windmills are good, don’t you?”
“The best. I’d be proud to sell them—although I’m beginning to think the Houston gallery isn’t going to work out.” Camille cut her eyes at Ginny. “For a variety of reasons.”
Ginny laughed. “Seeing her in my living room was kind of like seeing a vegetarian at a beef convention.”
Camille gave the swing a push with her foot. A breeze blew across the porch, carrying the sweet scent. The yard art rustled in the night.
Camille had left with a promise to return the next night to clear everything up, and she was eager for the visit. Rolling her window down a few inches, she savored the hint of fall, a less-than-stifling breeze, as she headed north on Vine.
The oversized houses on small lots signaled that she was close to her cutoff to Sweet Olive. She drank in the sight of the sun setting in the distance.
Then she narrowed her eyes, her head flying around as she tried to get her bearings. She was looking east; that couldn’t be the sun setting. She stared as the fireball exploded in the sky, leaving a large flame burning in the distance.
Gunning the truck, she hunched over the steering wheel and craned her neck for a better look. A pillar of thick smoke rose into the sky. She frantically tried to pinpoint the location, but the distance made it hard to tell.
She roared on, trying to call Ginny but got a fast busy signal.
Everything looked normal at her first turn, but the fire blazed on the horizon. Even from here, she could see it spitting sparks. She pulled onto the shoulder when two sheriff’s cars, lights flashing, zoomed past her. Before she could get back on the road, a fire truck appeared, its siren sounding like a foghorn.
“Please, please, God. Keep the workers safe. Watch over their families and these first responders. Oh, Lord, please. Not Ginny’s place or Evelyn’s. Not Lawrence’s studio, filled with such beauty, or Lillie Lavender’s. Not the tiny church.”
Her mother’s voice rang in her ears. “Trust the Lord, and do good.”
No matter how bad times had gotten, even with her husband’s abandonment and death, Beth Gardner did not waver. Her faith had fueled Camille through every challenge, and she hoped it would help her handle what she saw unfolding in the distance.
Speeding up, Camille fell in behind the fire truck. A deputy of some sort, wearing a yellow reflective jacket, had already set up a barricade of two sawhorses, conferring quickly with a fireman who stuck his head out of the window.
Camille tried to follow when the truck lumbered through the roadblock, but the man stepped into the middle of the road, holding up his hand. “No civilians allowed.”
“I have friends in there.”
“You need to clear the road.”
A Louisiana state police car was in the process of pulling around Camille’s vehicle, its bright blue lights nearly blinding her. She opened her door and leaned out.
“Lady, this entire area’s being evacuated,” the officer said. “We have another hazardous situation on our hands, so you need to get out of here.”
As he spoke, three pickups turned onto the road, giving quick beeps of their horns and passing on the shoulder.
The officer gave each a quick salute.
“Is it bad?” the last of the drivers asked, rolling as he spoke.
“They’re saying it’s toxic. These well accidents are getting worse.”
The driver gave a wave and peeled out, his taillights almost the same color as the ball of fire over the trees.
“They got in there,” Camille said, her voice ragged. “Why can’t I?”
“Those men are volunteer firefighters.”
A minivan with a young couple pulled up. “What’s burning?” the woman called.
“That new gas well, the one just outside Sweet Olive.”
Camille gasped. The fire was close to the artists’ houses. A small group of cars and trucks gathered on the shoulder, and people got out of their vehicles, their voices pitched high.
The officer unhooked a flashlight from his belt and pointed it at Camille like a baton, but she spoke before he ordered her to move. “That’s my well.” She fumbled for the ID badge the guard at work had insisted she have made. “I work for J&S. I report directly to the owner.” The words flooded out.
“Only authorized personnel allowed.” He shook his head.
“I am authorized.”
She felt almost sorry for him as he studied her. A beat-up pickup had pulled almost to her bumper and was honking. The driver spit a stream of tobacco onto the road.
The officer made a sound in his throat and stepped closer to Camille. “Show me that ID again.” He pulled a small notebook and pen out of his jacket pocket. “Camille Gardner.” He wrote her name as he spoke. “The command center is in the school parking lot. Don’t get in the way of people trying to save fools like you.”
He walked back to the sawhorses, moving one enough for her to drive through. When she looked in her mirror, he was arguing with another driver.
Seeing no lights at Ginny’s or Lawrence’s, she skidded down to Evelyn’s place, the truck fishtailing in her haste. Evelyn answered the door with a washcloth over her mouth and nose, her eyes red, her head bare, the dogs at her feet.
“Lord have mercy, Camille. What are you doing out here?” Evelyn pulled her in by the arm and slammed the door, as though warding off a monster.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, but Lawrence must be sick with worry. He’s at work, and the phones aren’t working.”
“The authorities are evacuating all of Sweet Olive,” Camille said. “I’ll give you a ride. Does anyone else need a lift?”
“I’m not sure where Ginny is.”
“Let me go to the school and see what I can find out.” Camille took Evelyn’s hand. “I’ll get you some water, and I want you to rest until I get back.”
“I do feel shaky.”
Camille helped her to the living room and sprinted into the kitchen for a glass of water. As she opened the cabinet door, she saw a note card stuck to the refrigerator door. Marsh’s name was printed at the top in dark blue, and he’d written a note to Evelyn thanking her for a batch of cookies and for the pleasure of working with her.
“I’m honored to handle your drilling issues,” it said. “Try not to worry. It’s all going to work out.” He’d signed only his first name with a scrawled flourish.
Repeated calls to Ginny’s cell phone didn’t go through. Neither did calls to Valerie, Lawrence, or the J&S corporate headquarters in Houston. “All circuits are busy. Please try again,” a recording said repeatedly.
The school parking lot looked like a psychedelic circus: red and blue emergency lights colored the area. The smoke was acrid, and a handful of people wore surgical masks. Camille walked through the crowd but recognized no one.
“We’ll take statements shortly,” she heard a female deputy say. “First we need to get them to the hospital.”
“Burns?” she heard another officer ask.
“Mostly smoke,” the other said.
Seeing someone go into the gym where the meeting had been held, Camille followed, unsuccessfully trying Ginny’s number again. The folding table sat where it had the other night, but this time a deputy occupied it. A police radio lay nearby, squawking updates Camille couldn’t understand. Every few seconds, the deputy wrote something down.
Unwilling to interrupt her, Camille turned to a man standing nearby, wearing a blue Bienville Oil jumpsuit covered in soot. “Do you know what’s going on?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“A J&S well blew out.”
“Was anyone hurt? The workers—”
“Three guys went to the hospital,” he said. “The others insisted on staying. They can’t get it capped, and a lot of people won’t leave.”
Camille gasped. “We’ll get hotel rooms.”
&
nbsp; “They’re planning a shelter at a church in Samford. These folks can’t afford a hotel.”
“J&S will pay.”
“You’re right about that,” he said.
“Oh, Camille.” Ginny swooped in from the side of the room, carrying an armload of bottled water. “You shouldn’t have come out here. They’re making people leave.”
“Are you all right?” Camille rushed up to hug her around the water.
“For the moment. Janice rushed over for the kids. They were more upset about missing your art lesson than about the fire.”
“I was on my way when I saw a giant flash. I was afraid it might be one of your homes.”
“Have you heard anything about how it’s spreading? We can’t lose the art—”
A voice interrupted. The sheriff shouted through cupped hands, “It’s imperative that everyone vacate the premises immediately. The command center is being moved to the Emergency Response Shelter in Bossier Parish.”
Dropping his hands, he strode over to Ginny and shook his head as he accepted a bottle of water. “Ginny, you need to convince folks to leave. We don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
“Most of these folks have never stayed anywhere other than their own house,” Ginny said. “It would take a bigger blast than this to get them out.”
“Air quality’s poor. The youngest and oldest are at risk for breathing disorders.” He lowered his voice. “That well could burn for days.”
“I’ve got to get Evelyn,” Camille said.
He seemed to notice her for the first time and frowned. “J&S has a mess on its hands, Miss Gardner. We’ve notified your disaster team.”
“The team can handle well logistics, but I need to make sure the residents have what they need.” Her breathing was shallow. “We’ll reserve a block of hotel rooms and set up a conference center where people can contact their relatives.”
Within twenty minutes, Camille pulled back up to Evelyn’s house. Alarmed when Evelyn didn’t answer the door, Camille knocked louder and tried to push it open, but it was locked. She peered through the window, but a sheer curtain blocked her view. She ran around the house and tried the back door, but it was locked too. So she climbed up on the porch rail and looked in the transom, afraid of what she might see.
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