Camille stepped toward the door before stopping. “Excuse me.”
The man didn’t respond but a tiny, wrinkled woman leaning on a walker gave a nod. “Bill, the young lady needs something else.”
“I wonder if you know anything about that house across the street?”
“Like what?” the man snapped.
“Is it still for sale?”
“Sign still there?” he asked.
“Um … yes, I believe so.” Camille knew it was. She looked for it every day.
“Then it’s still for sale. Will there be anything else?”
“Bill!” the woman said, gliding closer to Camille. “Someone finally made an offer on it.”
“You don’t know that,” the man said.
“I talked to the real estate agent myself,” the woman said. “He was in here for a biscuit yesterday … or was it Tuesday? Are you interested in buying it?”
“Oh no,” Camille said.
“Then why are you taking up our time?” The man turned back to the television.
Camille put her hand on the door.
“He gets wrapped up in the TV,” the woman said apologetically. Her smile was strong, although her body looked frail.
“No problem,” Camille said, but she didn’t open the door. She felt frozen, looking out at the duplex.
“I’m Martha. That mean old coot’s my husband, Bill. His sister used to live in that house.” She scrutinized Camille, her eyes lingering on the cast.
“I’m Camille.” She chewed on her lip. “Was your sister-in-law Mrs. Maxwell, by any chance?”
Martha’s eyes got large behind her thick glasses. “You knew Edie?”
“My mother and I knew her. It was a long time ago.”
“She passed away three years ago,” Martha said. “Heart attack. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her.”
“She was a nice person,” Camille said. When Uncle Scott had offered Mrs. Maxwell a wad of cash, she had shaken her head. But Camille had seen him slip it into the apron pocket while scolding her mother for taking too long to get in the big truck, a red Silverado.
“She was good as gold.” The woman walked from behind the counter, moving the walker steadily with each step. “What was your mother’s name?”
“Beth Gardner. She lives in Amarillo now.”
The woman tilted her head and seemed to be waiting. “And you’re Camille Gardner?” she asked, as though trying to place her. “What brings you to Trumpet and Vine at this time of night? Mostly we do daytime business.”
Camille shrugged. “I’m new to town. I was driving by.”
“This used to be a lovely neighborhood,” Martha said.
“Well, it sure ain’t anymore,” Bill said.
Camille nodded. “Life changes, I suppose.”
“Did you ever go in Edie’s little gift shop?” Martha asked. “She lived upstairs and had the shop on the bottom floor.”
Camille nodded slowly. “Once.” She still had the tiny souvenir pitcher Mrs. Maxwell had given her, its handle now glued together and its spout chipped.
“I hope the new owners are good neighbors,” Martha said. “Wouldn’t it be something if this corner sprang back to life?”
Camille held back a moan. The store owner must be quite an optimist if she held out hope for Trumpet and Vine and the duplex in particular. The yard was mostly dirt, and a big limb lay on the roof. Torn screens were flopping on two windows by the porch, and a cat sat on the wooden ledge.
As Camille exited, Bill locked the front door of the store behind her.
Propelled by dismay that the house had sold, Camille lurched to the duplex. She felt like she had gone back in time and been disappointed anew.
Had she ever gone in the shop? the lady had asked. Once. The place was branded into her memory, despite all of her efforts to forget it. She crept around back for a closer look.
Her mother, a part-time cafeteria worker, had insisted—in a calm, firm voice—that they accompany her dad on a summer wildcatting trip to Cypress Parish.
Even at fifteen, Camille had not complained when they cleared out of their apartment in Abilene and headed east. They had moved so much that she didn’t have friends to part with, and her entertainment was portable—a sketchbook and watercolor paints.
They set up camp at the Takin’-It-Easy RV Park on the south side of Samford, occupied mostly by oilfield workers who didn’t look like they had ever taken it easy. But despite litter and domestic arguments in nearby trailers, the site had appealed to Camille. Magnolia trees flanked the entrance, their big, white blossoms giving off a wonderful scent.
While her dad crawled around on drilling sites, she and her mama sunbathed at the tiny pool at the RV park, a rare treat, and Camille picked up a few dollars watching a smattering of young children while their parents worked.
After only a few days, her short babysitting stints had turned into art lessons. With excitement, she planned an exhibit for the end of summer and saved money to buy treats for their “graduation.”
For the first time in years, her mother didn’t have a job and her father was home each evening, happy and seldom drinking.
Until that day in mid-August, when the scorching sun sent her back to the little trailer for Kool-Aid. Her father, his eyes bleary and his breath foul with beer, was throwing their belongings into two cardboard boxes and a suitcase they had bought at a garage sale when Camille was in fourth grade.
He had shielded his face from the bright light when she opened the door and then fussed at her for surprising him. “Where’s Beth?”
“At the pool.” She ignored the flood of dread in her stomach. “Wanna join us?”
“Go get her. We’re leaving.”
The words themselves weren’t all that different from versions he had uttered a dozen or more times. But his voice sounded different—upset, weary, even defeated.
The next hour was a nightmarish blur, a whirl of shouts, tears, and misery. No matter how hard her mother pleaded, her father wouldn’t budge. A well fire near Tyler needed his immediate attention.
“I’ve got to go now,” he said, “and try to save the company.”
“Isn’t that Scott’s job? It’s his company now.”
Her father popped the top to another beer and took a long gulp before answering. “It’s going to take both of us.”
“Then let’s get going. Camille, run tell the children good-bye. I’ll finish securing our things.”
When her daddy set the beer can on the counter, Camille knew he was leaving them again. He exhaled. “This one’s dangerous. I can’t take you with me.”
For a moment, worry for her father and relief dueled within Camille. She liked this place. She wanted to stay.
“Scott says we’ll need the camper,” her father said. “The well’s isolated and it’ll be the only place for the guys to crash.” He held up his hand when her mother started to speak. “J&S owns it.”
“Owns us,” her mother murmured.
“Not for long. I’m this close to getting out.” He held his thumb and index finger about an inch apart. “I have something in the works, and we’ll never have to move again—but first I’ve got to take care of this fire.”
“You’ve been drinking, Johnny. You shouldn’t drive. You shouldn’t—”
“I only had a couple of beers, Beth.” He rubbed his neck. “The fire’s a bad one. They need me.”
“Where will Camille and I stay until you come back?”
He pulled her mother close and nuzzled her neck. “Scott’s been in Bogalusa overseeing a pipeline leak. He’ll pick you up on his way through Samford and drop you in Longview.”
“Longview?” Camille tried to remember if they had lived there before, the Texas towns running together.
“That’s our next stop, baby girl.” He drew her into the embrace with her mother. “I’ll meet you there.”
Her dad drove the old truck off, camper in tow. He waved and blew a kiss as he left. �
��Draw me another picture, Camille,” he said as he rolled through the gates of the park.
A neighbor whose husband worked in the oilfield too offered to take them to the corner where they were to meet Uncle Scott. “We sure are going to miss y’all. Abby says she’s going to be an art teacher like Camille when she grows up.”
Camille wiped back a tear as the woman, her old car needing a muffler, drove off. Her mother sank onto a concrete bus bench outside the convenience store and tugged on Camille’s arm. “We’ll quit moving around now that you’re in high school. Daddy’s going to find us a house with a yard.”
“Right. And I’m going to own an art studio and you’re never going to have to work again.”
“Oh, sweetie.” For the first time she could ever remember, her mother began to weep. “Everything’s going to work out.”
Camille kicked one of the boxes holding their meager belongings. “If you say so …”
“Your father’s a good man, but he has a job to do.”
“Other people’s fathers don’t leave them on street corners.”
Her mother put her head in her hands and sobbed. Shame washed over Camille, and she wrapped her arms around her mother, wedged against her on the hard bench. “I’m sorry, Mama. Don’t cry. Everything will be all right.”
She kept saying that when they went into the store for a snack. When the afternoon sun blistered their noses. When Uncle Scott still didn’t come.
“I don’t even know how to reach him,” her mother said, a fresh round of sobs coming.
In that moment, Camille vowed never to make her mother cry again.
“Everything’s going to be fine.” She dug out her babysitting money. “How about some ice cream?”
At dark, a woman—“Edith Maxwell, but my friends call me Edie”—came out of the duplex/gift shop and offered them a meal and a place to sleep.
Worried that Uncle Scott wouldn’t be able to find them, Camille taped a sign on the bus bench that said Over There with an arrow. From the pay phone, they had placed calls to every J&S employee they could think of until their change had run out, gaining no information except that the fire in Tyler raged out of control.
Her mother had slowly regained her composure, shelling peas with Mrs. Maxwell, and Camille sat on the steps.
“God knew we needed you, Edie,” her mother said, her smile almost back to normal.
At midnight, when Scott still had not appeared, Mrs. Maxwell pulled out the rollaway bed, and Camille snuggled there until her mother drifted off to sleep. Then she went back to the stifling porch to keep watch.
Uncle Scott’s arrival, at that dark moment before dawn, awoke Camille from the chair, and she ran into the yard to flag him down. Although she had never felt close to him, this morning she rushed to his fancy new pickup and threw her arms around him.
He smelled like cigarettes and sweat and wore an expression she hadn’t seen before.
“Your father’s had an accident, Camy. Where’s your mother?”
From that moment, she was in Scott’s debt, her dreams of an art career blown away by an oilfield fire.
Marsh rounded the corner of Vine with a cramp in his left leg. That’s what he got for waiting so late to run. The well fire had occupied most of the day with a conference call with the Baton Rouge office, the founding partner shouting about the bad press.
Marsh groaned. He must be getting old when a Thursday night jog sounded like the perfect evening.
He glanced over at the convenience store, closed for the evening. Wiping the sweat from his face, he stepped back into the shadows as he saw someone walking around the rear of the house across the street.
Looking closer, he frowned. A pickup that looked like his father’s was in the driveway. Maybe his dad had stopped to check something for Ross—for surely Camille wasn’t there.
He cut across the street and padded around the side of the house, his dad nowhere in sight, the truck shrouded in shadows.
As he looked closer, though, he could barely make out someone on the back steps, jiggling the door handle. The person was obscured by a bush, but it was not his father.
“Finally,” a woman’s voice said softly.
“Camille?”
But she had already stepped across the threshold.
Marsh was curious by nature and good at figuring things out—but this one had him flummoxed. Following her into the house, he watched as she stepped into what must have been a dining room. With her back to him, she stood in the doorway for a long moment. Then she rubbed her hand along the wood trim.
This woman was crazy. Anyone could walk up on her standing there like that.
He took a step. “Hello.”
“Ugh,” Camille grunted, whirling around, coffee flying out of the paper cup in her hand. “Marsh!” She grabbed her hurt wrist. “What are you doing here?”
“That’s the question I was about to ask you.”
She gave a nervous laugh, the flash of a streetlight outside illuminating her face. She wore those same ragged jeans and cowboy boots tonight with an art festival T-shirt of some sort. Her hair was sticking up, and she looked fantastic.
“Did you buy this place?” he asked.
“No.” She stepped back. “I’ve been intrigued by it and couldn’t resist a look around.”
“At this time of night?”
“I’ve been busy,” she said. “Our deal can’t be too far off, and I wanted to see it before I left.” She raised her eyebrows. “You?”
“Ross is the agent for this property, and I thought he had a prowler. I can’t believe it was unlocked.” He reached for his phone. “I’d better let him know.”
“Marsh …” Her voice had a begging tone he had not heard her use before. “Please don’t. Okay?”
“He needs to know it was open. There’s not much to steal in here but nonetheless—”
“It wasn’t open.” She spit the words out. “I broke in.”
He tilted his head.
“I don’t think I damaged the lock. If I did, I’ll pay for it.”
A couple of seconds ticked by. “Say something,” she said. “You’re making me nervous.”
“You weren’t nervous wandering alone through a dark, vacant house?” Nerves made him sweat.
Marsh considered himself a discerning sort of guy. Trying to understand Camille Gardner was like doing a puzzle with his eyes closed. Just when he thought he had her figured out, she did something like … well, break into an old house at night.
He, a man who made his living cross-examining people, floundered.
She moved toward the front of the duplex, looking up at the ceiling.
“What am I missing?” he said, half talking to himself. “What are you doing here?”
She fanned her face. “Let’s sit on the steps.” She pulled on the ornate front doorknob, a remnant of a finer day.
“You’ve been in here before.” Marsh closed the distance between them and put his hand on top of hers.
Her shoulder was right under his chin, her hair damp at the back of her neck. He moved in another notch and drew in a deep breath. She did not move away. Her breathing sounded soft and steady, while his felt uneven.
Camille followed him onto the porch and sank onto the steps. She nudged at an ant bed with the toe of her boot. “We lived in Samford for a few weeks one summer.” She stared off into space.
“I had no idea.”
“Your investigation into my background didn’t tell you that?”
“There’s not much about you online.” He gave a grin. “For example, there’s not a hint of any burglaries.”
“I should have asked Ross to show me the house.”
“That’s what I usually recommend.” He was surprised by how much she made him want to smile.
She looked at him intently, sitting so close that he could watch the way her eyelashes swept down as she talked. “It’s sort of a long story,” she said after a moment.
He glanced down at his
watch.
“That’s an incredibly irritating habit.”
Marsh unfastened the watch, gave her a steady look, and tossed it out into the yard. “I’d like to hear the rest of your story.”
“You’re crazy,” Camille said but moved closer, looking up at the beaded-board porch ceiling. “My father was a wildcatter and always had a well he wanted to check on. Until recently, I thought he cared about the oil-and-gas business more than he did me and Mama.”
She fidgeted with the hem of her jeans. “He was called away to a well fire. He burned to death.” She swiped at her face. “His clothes melted on him.”
Marsh slid an arm across her shoulders and cradled her head. “I’m so sorry for your pain, Camille.”
She put her good arm around herself, drawing into a ball against his chest. “It was worse for my mother. I’d learned to live without him a long time before that.”
“What’d you do?”
“The same thing I always did—called my uncle.”
“Did he help you?”
“Always.” Camille grew still against him and then lifted her face. “I got your shirt wet. I don’t usually cry.”
“That’s what all women say.”
“This place has made me emotional. My mother asked about it.” She shrugged. “I wanted to see it too.”
“Does your mother live in Houston?”
Camille shook her head. “She eventually went back to Amarillo, where she grew up. She has a nice little house and lots of good friends from church. It was sort of a fresh start for her, even though she never remarried.”
Marsh shifted so he could see her face more clearly. “Did you make a fresh start too?”
She gave her head a quick shake. “I’m still working on that.”
“With your interest in oil and gas, you must take after your father.”
“I suppose,” she said.
“Is that a bad thing?” He turned so his face was almost touching hers.
“Before coming to Louisiana, I thought so. I suppose you could say my father was like a good gas well that never produced to its potential.” She gave a choked laugh. “Daddy made some colossal mistakes—including the one that cost him his life … but he loved me and my mother.”
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