Before she had her footing, the house seemed to bounce, as though it had sprung off a trampoline. A shelf of empty jars rattled nearby. Camille was falling when the door crashed open.
“Oh my word, child.” Evelyn rushed over to where a stunned Camille lay. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” Camille croaked. Holding her left arm, which felt like someone was sticking hot needles in it, she got to her feet, her legs wobbling like a newborn colt. “I’m so happy you’re all right.”
“Did you feel the house shake?” Evelyn looked around, her eyes wide. “Did the well explode?”
“I don’t know.” Camille tried to stand. “We’ve got to get you out of here. The well fire’s a health hazard.”
Evelyn looked as though she might argue but nodded. “We’ll leave as soon as we wrap your arm.”
Camille’s arm hurt so badly it brought tears to her eyes, and she shook as she followed Evelyn into the house. “We’re getting you a hotel room. Sweet Olive neighbors will be on one floor, so you can stay informed.”
“We don’t need to spend money on a hotel room. I don’t plan to be gone from home long, and I can’t leave my dogs.”
Camille’s energy drained with every throb of her arm, so she merely smiled and agreed, while Evelyn chatted and put ice on her arm. Loading Evelyn’s suitcase, she fished in her purse for ibuprofen, swallowed four, and herded the terriers into the truck.
By the time they got to the barricade, which had now turned into a full-fledged checkpoint, the pain was so bad she felt faint. The noxious fumes from the fires, which were bigger now than when she’d first seen them, made her queasy.
She pulled over to speak to the deputy, who made a tsking sound when he saw the bandage. “I told you not to go in there, ma’am. Were you injured during the earthquake?”
“Earthquake?”
“Three-point-three on the Richter scale,” he said.
“Is everyone accounted for?”
“Is that Ms. Martinez you have with you?” he asked.
“Hey, Jonas, it’s me,” Evelyn chirped, brushing against Camille’s arm as she leaned over to speak. Camille tried to smile.
“She’s the last one coming out tonight,” he said. “Half are already out, and half say they’re not leaving.” He waved a hand, as though trying to clear the thick air. “Like I told Mr. Cameron, I wish they all had the sense to get out.”
“Most of us old folks like to sleep in our own beds.” Evelyn smiled.
By her headlights, Camille could see the crowd had grown. Regional television stations had set up satellites and were doing live feeds. Bright lights illuminated reporters speaking urgently into microphones or scrolling through notepads. Drew Cross was talking loudly to Marsh.
Camille leaned back on the headrest and closed her eyes.
“Look at that Cross boy,” Evelyn said. “He’s probably stirring up trouble.”
Pulling the truck around the deputy, Camille edged onto the grass. “I’d better get an update. I’ll be right back.”
She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as she approached the lawman.
“Camille!” Marsh’s voice was close—and startled.
She stumbled, hitting the ground hard.
Chapter 32
The hospitality suite was chilly and impersonal.
Valerie had lined up a row of dining room chairs from a banquet room along one wall. To Camille, they conveyed the look of a firing squad.
Which might be appropriate.
An urn of coffee brewed on a small table, and soft drinks were iced in an oversized plastic bowl. “I still don’t see why we needed a fruit tray and cheese,” Valerie grumbled, plopping down on a small couch that looked like a dorm-room futon.
Camille winced, both at Valerie’s tone and the pain. Not only had J&S disrupted an entire community, but Camille had managed to break her wrist and dislocate her shoulder. “Are you certain everyone got word about the free rooms and the vet for their pets? I can’t bear for anyone to be stranded without a place to stay.”
“Why are you so obsessed about that?” Valerie said. “Mr. Stephens said we should only put up the people who were forced to evacuate, not those who want a fancy vacation.”
“You spoke to Scott? I texted him from the emergency room, but the service was so poor.”
“He’s asked me to keep him informed,” Valerie said, hesitating. “He checked on your condition a dozen times overnight. He acted … almost worried about you.”
Camille exhaled the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “When will the pizzas be delivered?” She arranged the napkins Val had left in the packages.
“Within the hour.” Valerie grabbed her phone out of her purse.
“Maybe we should have gotten fried chicken instead,” Camille said. “We still could.”
Making a production out of fluffing a throw pillow, Valerie huffed. “I don’t think these people are going to be all that interested in food.”
Camille adjusted her sling.
Valerie looked at her phone. “Here’s a new report. Wind has shifted. Woods still burning. No houses on fire. My father’s about to have a fit about smoke at his Cotton Grove subdivision.”
“And the workers at the well?” Camille’s voice bordered on hysterical.
“Everyone’s accounted for, and Evelyn’s been released from the hospital. A couple of workers were held overnight, but they’re out now.”
“Thank You, Lord,” Camille murmured.
“Are you praying?” Valerie said.
“If this won’t make you pray, nothing will,” a thin voice said from the door, and Camille whirled so quickly that her arm felt like she had held it in the fire. Her head spun.
“Evelyn!” She rushed to the door. “Let me help you sit down.”
“I’m better off than you are.” Evelyn nodded at Camille’s sling.
Lawrence was behind his mother, his eyes concerned. “A cast and a black eye?”
Camille touched her cheek with her uninjured arm. “I think we’ve proven I’m not good in a crisis.”
Neither he nor Evelyn appeared amused. “You scared me to death,” Evelyn said.
“The media’s having a field day with that one.” Valerie looked at Lawrence. “Worst injury of the day goes to the J&S executive.”
“She rescued me,” Evelyn said. “She could have headed back into town and left me out there.”
“That’s not Camille’s style,” Valerie said, and the words did not sound like a compliment.
“You two put all this together?” Lawrence walked over and took a cube of cheese. “Is it true that Camille called a caterer from an operating table?”
Camille rolled her eyes. “I was waiting for a doctor so I set a few things in motion.” She pulled a grape from the tray and nibbled on it to keep from chewing her fingernails. “Valerie told me that half of Sweet Olive camped near the road last night.”
“We’re a stubborn bunch,” Lawrence said. “But Marsh convinced people to come here today. He said we might as well get a shower and a good meal—and let you pay for it.”
“Are they furious?”
“I’ve seen them madder—the time they closed schools for a week for a hurricane that never hit.” Evelyn paused and captured Camille’s gaze with her own. “They’re upset, but they don’t blame you for this.”
“It’s my fault,” Camille said. “I represent J&S, and we brought this pain into your lives, into your homes.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lawrence said.
“Where’s Ginny?” Camille asked.
“She and Marsh are meeting.”
“We’ve got meals and other vouchers,” Camille said. “Can you think of anything else?”
“A few big, fat liability checks,” Valerie muttered.
As the residents trickled in that afternoon, the room took on the air of a funeral parlor visitation. At moments, people were distraught, demanding answers and tearfully recounting the even
ts of the night before and the long day. At other times, they joked and snacked, greeting neighbors as though they had been apart for weeks.
They bombarded Ginny with questions when she stepped into the room early in the evening, but she seemed intent on reaching Camille.
“You should sit down,” she said, hurling herself across the room, her hair bouncing on top of her head. She wore a long skirt and an oversized purple T-shirt, and her eyes were tired.
“Has someone else been injured?” Camille gasped the question.
Ginny shook her head and moved in for a careful embrace. Camille tried not to wince, the sling and cast in the way. “Are you all right?” Ginny asked.
“I’m heartbroken. I’m so sorr—”
“Stop with the apologies, Camille.” Ginny spoke over her words. “They say it was a faulty piece of pipe. It overheated and blew up.” She put her hand at the small of Camille’s back and nudged her toward the couch, putting a pillow under her arm.
“I’m supposed to take care of you, not the other way around,” Camille said.
“I don’t need taking care of.”
“You’re exhausted,” she said, as Ginny sat down next to her. “Where are Kylie and Randy?”
“That’s one of the blessings out of this.” Ginny leaned her head back on the couch. “Janice was terrified when she heard about the fire and got to my house before anyone else. She’s taken them to her sister’s house in Alexandria for a couple of days. She acted … better.”
“I bought them some new art supplies,” Camille said, her voice thin.
“It could have been so much worse. The fire’s nearly out. We should be able to go home tomorrow. Now we need to put you to bed.”
Camille started her usual denial but stopped midsentence as Marsh walked in. He wore faded jeans and an oxford-cloth shirt, untucked, sleeves rolled up. He had no socks on with his loafers.
The careless clothing was offset by the serious look as he strode over. “How are you, Camille?” He looked her up and down.
“Thanks for driving me to the hospital.”
“It was the least I could do.” He grinned. “It’s been a long time since a pretty woman fell at my feet.”
“I doubt that.”
“What’d they say at the hospital?” Marsh said.
“That I should be more careful when I peek in someone’s window.”
“I hated to leave you in the ER, but I had to get back to Sweet Olive to make sure my father was all right.” Marsh pulled up a chair, sitting knee to knee with her. “In case you’re wondering, you’ve called the sheriff so many times that he’s about to block your number.”
Camille’s chuckle was weak. “At least they restored phone service.”
“You could have been seriously injured.”
“Then I would be out of your hair.”
“Don’t joke about things like that,” Ginny said.
Camille looked from one to the other. Business would intrude soon enough, but she liked the way they huddled close to her. She turned slightly, bumping Marsh’s knee.
“I slipped and fell. It was my own fault.” Camille attempted to sit up straighter. “We need to discuss how long it will be before people can get back into their homes—and what we’ll need to do to compensate them.”
“The fire inspectors have to sign off on letting people back in,” Valerie said, walking up, her eyes glued to her phone. “They haven’t gotten the fire completely out.”
Everyone in the room flocked to where she stood. “I knew it was a bad idea to come here,” Charlene, the bossy one of the twins, said. “I’m not sitting around while my home burns.”
“You are not going in there,” Darlene said.
Camille got to her feet slowly, steadying herself with the hand that wasn’t bandaged. “Please, stay here where it’s safe.”
“We’re not getting enough information,” Drew Cross said. “We don’t know any more than we did last night.”
“We’ll relay it as quickly as it arrives,” Valerie said.
Camille held up her hand, swaying slightly. “I’ll go to the site and give everyone regular reports.”
“Absolutely not,” Marsh said, and Camille noticed Valerie’s head jerk back slightly.
“I’ll go.” Valerie lifted one shoulder, her gauzy shirt flowing with the movement. “Mr. Stephens requires constant feedback anyway.”
“I’ll go with you,” Lawrence said.
Within a few hours, the residents had scattered to their rooms with the promise they would be notified in person if there were any changes.
Marsh had gone home to let his father into his house.
The fire smoldered on, pictures from Valerie dinging on Camille’s phone.
Two firefighters were taken to the hospital for burns and smoke inhalation, and Valerie had set up a communication center on the road where a deputy was stationed.
“I appreciate your help with this,” Camille said in a broken-up cell call.
“The Houston office sent an e-mail with emergency protocol, and my father insisted businesspeople deserve to know what is going on.”
For the first time, Camille was relieved when the call dropped. Leaving Sweet Olive would be heart wrenching. Leaving Valerie would not.
In the hotel suite, Camille paced until Ginny complained that she was making her nervous. Then she stared out the window at the parking lot and paced more. She was so tired she hardly felt her wrist and shoulder.
Ginny, the only other person in the room, was sandwiched between the arms of the small sofa, eyes closed and breathing steady. Camille couldn’t imagine how she slept in that awkward position, her arms up under her head and her legs bent. Her long hair hung over the couch arm.
Camille had never seen Ginny slow down. In the wee hours of the night, she looked vulnerable, like one of the children she cared for.
Getting a blanket and pillow from housekeeping, Camille covered Ginny. “Sleep well,” she murmured.
“Shouldn’t you be doing likewise?” a voice whispered in her ear.
A sharp pain ripped through Camille’s shoulder as she jumped back into Marsh.
“Careful.” He put his arm around her waist.
“What are you doing back?”
“You don’t like to accept help, do you?”
Camille let him guide her to the other side of the room. His touch was light, his voice kind. “How’s the arm?”
Resisting the urge to shrug, she twisted her mouth as she sank into a chair. “Not too bad.”
“You’re a tough thing.” He sat in the seat next to her. “No wonder you wound up in the oil-and-gas business.”
She snorted. “If I were tough, I wouldn’t be in this business.”
“You risked your life for Sweet Olive.”
She closed her eyes and put her hand on her neck. “I owe my life to Sweet Olive.”
At this moment her future seemed as unclear as the smoke-filled sky, but whatever happened would be tinged with lessons from the wise artists.
Camille’s mother called for the third time early the next morning. “I saw you on television again. Your interviews are gripping.”
Camille moaned softly.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Mama, like I told you six times yesterday, I’m good.” She glanced down at the sling and cast. “I’m worried about what Uncle Scott’s going to do when he sees all those news reports.”
“Quit worrying about Scott. You need to come home.”
“Home? I have a job to do. And another one in Houston.”
“I want to take care of my girl for a while.”
Camille smiled. “You always take care of me.”
The next call was from Allison, who alternated between excitement at seeing Camille on national news and concern that the art had been damaged. “If there’s a silver lining to this, it’s that you’ll have time to crate the Sweet Olive art.” Allison gave an exasperated sigh. “But let’s figure out ex
actly when that will be.”
“I don’t know, Allison.” Camille adjusted her arm. “I don’t know.”
“We might work this into a dramatic marketing piece. Did any of the art burn?” Allison stopped, as though she had just realized the jeopardy. “Ginny’s house was not damaged, was it?”
Camille drew in a deep breath, feeling as though she could smell the thick smoke. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to fill in at the gallery anytime soon.”
“Are you serious?” Allison shrieked. “Are you taking the artists to another gallery?”
“I’m not taking the artists anywhere at the moment,” Camille said tiredly.
“You’d better not steal them away from me,” Allison said. “We had a deal.” She hung up.
Chapter 33
The house at Trumpet and Vine looked different at various times of the day.
At dawn, when sleeplessness forced Camille out of bed, it had a calm dignity. The street corner wasn’t noisy yet, and the sun wasn’t bright enough to show its flaws.
By lunchtime, it looked like a middle-aged aunt, sagging but approachable.
For some reason, Camille liked it best in the evening.
Tonight the traffic was steady enough to be lively but not so heavy as to be intrusive. With the days getting shorter, the house had already fallen into shadows.
She pulled the truck into the drive and leaned her head back, favoring her injured arm. The quiet darkness calmed her after another day of dealing with fire fallout, including a nasty scene with Slattery and a terse voice mail from Uncle Scott.
At least everyone was safe and back in their homes, ready to resume their lives during the weekend ahead.
Taking a deep breath, she got out. The traffic light had switched over to flashing yellow and she stood there as it went bright, dark, bright, dark.
As a car slowed nearby, she looked around self-consciously and crossed the street to the convenience store. She thought the same old man watched TV behind the counter tonight as he had done when she was fifteen.
He didn’t speak when she bought a fried pie and a cup of decaf coffee, half looking over his shoulder at a news program as he took her money.
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