Sweet Olive (9780310330554)

by Zondervan Publishing House

  Uncle Scott would have found this hilarious. She wished he would return her phone calls so she could talk about it, about the whole mess.

  With people on the lawn, she thought perhaps she should turn around and hope no one noticed. Cemented to the spot, she heard the jingle of a dog’s collar.

  “Lovely home, isn’t it?” a white-haired woman said, the dog sniffing at Camille’s shoes. “Valerie borrowed my housekeeper for the evening. They’re hosting some big oil guy tonight.”

  Camille gulped for air.

  “Are you hurt?” the woman asked, studying her more closely.

  Camille shook her head. “Catching my breath.”

  The woman threw her a suspicious look and tugged on her dog’s leash.

  Pretending to head the other way, Camille watched over her shoulder. The woman strolled up the walkway of a house across from the Richmond place. The dog sniffed at every inch of ground and the woman talked to him while he peed.

  Camille took a quick inventory of the handful of cars lined up on the driveway, recognizing only Valerie’s. Her gaze moved on along the drive, and her heart plummeted. The little green MGB convertible was at the front of the line.

  She heard the clack of a mallet when Valerie, with a sweater draped around her shoulders like it was February, hit a wooden ball. The shot must have been good because she threw up her hands in a touchdown sign.

  Slattery sat in a brightly colored Adirondack chair, holding a drink. A waiter, wearing all white, was stationed at a portable bar.

  Camille continued to scan the lawn, recognizing a couple of businesspeople. As casually as she could, she positioned herself to see better.

  She’d almost given up when the door of the house opened, and Marsh’s tall body stepped under the porch light. She couldn’t read his expression but he turned to shake someone’s hand. The door swung open farther and a slightly stooped man stepped out, vigorously returning the handshake.

  Camille stepped into the street to get a better look, certain she couldn’t be right.

  Then she sank onto the curb, thankful for the cover of the shrubbery.

  She’d never forgive Uncle Scott—or Marsh—for this.

  Camille marched into the office tower a few hours later, liking the way her cowboy boots clicked on the tile entrance.

  “Must be something important going on,” the weekend guard said. “It’s been like a parade through here. Unusual, especially for a Friday night.” He lowered his voice. “Even saw the big boss.”

  Stepping onto the elevator, she looked down at the jeans she had changed into. Only six weeks had passed since she’d stood here in a smudged skirt and uncomfortable pumps, but she felt like a different person.

  As the door glided open, she stepped off, bumping into Slattery Richmond. He reared back. “Camille … What are you doing here?”

  “This is my office. And you?”

  He gave a nervous chuckle, shuffling a brown accordion file under his arm. “Got off on the wrong floor. Must be getting old.” He punched the button three times and lunged into the elevator when the doors opened.

  But Camille stuck her boot in, jamming the door open.

  Slattery looked startled and moved to the rear.

  “Did you used to work for J&S?” Camille asked, her voice cold.

  He leaned forward and punched the button, but she didn’t budge.

  “Do I need to call security?” he asked.

  She shrugged with her good shoulder. “Your choice.”

  His look shifted, almost admiring. “Scott knew what he was doing when he sent you here. Would you ever consider coming to work for me?”

  “Not if I were stranded on a street corner with nowhere else to go. Maybe I should rephrase my question. When did you work for J&S?”

  Slattery smirked. “It’s old news that I worked as a roughneck with your uncle and your daddy in college. My father thought that job would encourage less drinking and more studying.”

  “That would have been in the early days of J&S,” Camille said, this time her voice less certain.

  “Very early. Those guys weren’t much older than me.” He grinned, showing a hint of the younger man he had been. “I lost more money playing cards than I made on the job.”

  “So you knew J&S from the beginning.”

  “Johnny and Scott,” he said with a nod. “But I moved on to the law business after that. Thanks to Louisiana’s screwed-up mineral laws, I make a living without working in hundred-degree weather.”

  “Does Scott know you were running side deals with my father?”

  Slattery calmly punched the button again. “Thanks to your friend Marsh Cameron, he does now.”

  She stepped back and watched the doors glide shut.

  Walking to the J&S office, she tugged on the glass office door. She half expected it to be unlocked, but it held firm.

  Sliding her badge, she opened it and the smell of Slattery’s cologne hit her nostrils. “Hello? Valerie?”

  She headed into the hall, but the offices were dark, other than the glow of computers. Flipping on the light, she half turned to push the door shut.

  “Working late?” Scott’s voice said from over near the conference table.

  Camille shrieked, her legs almost giving way. She steadied herself, trying not to give her uncle the satisfaction of seeing how unnerved she was.

  “Surprised to see me?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, her voice higher pitched than normal. “Although it would have been nice of you to turn the lights on.”

  “We were in a bit of a rush. Thanks to you, Slattery and I had business to take care of.”

  “After your garden party?”

  “Word travels fast.”

  “Not fast enough,” Camille said. “Why didn’t you let me know you were here?”

  He sat in the chair where Marsh had sat during that first Monday morning meeting. “I heard you were getting a little too chummy with that clan of artists.”

  From across the room, she scanned the maps and other files she’d left out as she spoke. “They’re good people.”

  He rolled his eyes and then gestured at the table. “Despite your soft heart, you’re an ace. By letting that lawyer in on Slattery’s shadow ownership, I struck a much better deal with Slattery. Needless to say, he doesn’t want his legislative buddies—or the IRS—to know what he’s up to.” Scott grinned. “Although it would have been interesting to put a well right in the middle of his fancy golf course.”

  Pulling out one of the heavy chairs, Camille sat, her legs shaky.

  Scott, chewing on a toothpick, walked over to the window and looked out at the skyline. “What a miserable town. I don’t know what your father saw in it.”

  “My father?”

  Scott turned and gave a hollow laugh. “He planned to settle here, but that fire got him.” For a moment, she thought she saw regret on his face.

  “If he’d have stayed with us, he wouldn’t have been killed.” Camille said the words she’d told herself so many times through the years.

  “He didn’t want to leave you, but I didn’t have anyone else to send.” Scott’s words sounded defensive.

  “Daddy always wanted to go. Wherever there was an oil well, wherever he could find a six-pack.”

  “He hated the travel.” Scott strolled to the table and pulled out the chair at the other end. “The booze—and his love for a good poker game—made him easier to manipulate.”

  “Booze didn’t get him burned to death.”

  Scott looked away.

  “He was drinking, and you sent him anyway.”

  “I was needed elsewhere,” he said. “I swore he could stay put if he’d just handle that one last crisis for me.”

  Camille ran her fingers through her hair, not surprised that they were trembling. “All these years you were my hero,” she said. “You made me believe my father was the bad guy.”

  “You take after him. He was a dreamer like you, and he had the best
instincts of any oilman I ever knew.” Scott’s voice was nostalgic. “We were a heckuva team.”

  “You sent him to his death,” she said, her voice cold. “What kind of team is that? And then you used me just like you used him.”

  “Don’t get dramatic on me. I’ve helped you out plenty through the years, just like I helped Johnny.”

  Scott pulled one of the survey maps to him. “I knew sending you here was a risk.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  “When I heard there was a group of people who were willing to walk away from oil money, I knew there was only one person who could make them change their minds.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “Thankfully I had Valerie to help. She was able to work with Drew Cross and one or two others. It’s a start.”

  “Valerie is the kind of person you want working at J&S?”

  Scott chuckled. “Ironic, isn’t it? Slattery’s and Johnny’s daughters squaring off in the same deal. She’s the kind of clever person we need on our team.”

  Camille choked. “Someone you can’t trust?”

  “I trust her. You have to learn how to work with people like Val. They’re invaluable.”

  “Like my father learned to work with Slattery?”

  Scott scowled. “That was a brief misunderstanding—and a poker game that got out of hand. Slattery could tie Johnny up in knots.”

  “Imagine my surprise to see the Gardner name on that lease,” Camille said. “I wonder what happened to the money those wells paid after Daddy died. Did you pocket the royalties before that well quit producing?”

  Scott shook his head. “Slattery got all of that,” he said. “Your dad was a front for him.”

  “You two are despicable.”

  “I tried to teach you to look beneath the surface.”

  “My part in this stops tonight. Now.” She pushed the heavy chair back. “That first interview I did was just the beginning. I’m calling every reporter I can find to let people know what you and Slattery did.”

  “I look forward to watching them,” he said calmly. “You should have a good time telling how your father illegally fronted for those leases, that your family business is neck deep in all of this, that you’ve traveled around for years and talked people out of their mineral rights.”

  He stopped, and the silence thickened.

  “Yep,” he said, popping his knuckles. “You’ll look every bit as bad as me and Slattery.”

  “I very well may, but I’ll take my punishment—unlike you and that coward Slattery Richmond. I did nothing illegal.”

  “You try to make things black and white.” He leaned over the table. “I am, however, willing to make a deal if you’ll help me out.”

  “Why would I possibly help you?”

  “For those goofy artists, of course.”

  She jumped to her feet, her boot toe catching on the carpet as she headed for the door.

  “Camy, slow down and think.”

  Had he deliberately chosen the same words he’d used when she ran to his car all those years ago at Trumpet and Vine?

  “You can make this right with everyone,” he continued. She did not miss the satisfied look that moved across his face. “I’ll honor your wishes for Sweet Olive.”

  “You don’t know the meaning of honor,” Camille said.

  “Easy now. I’ll only put up with so much.”

  She wavered. “What about the location of the wells?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Where do you recommend?”

  She moved toward the table, her mouth set. “Away from the row of artists’ homes, Ginny Guidry’s included.” Leaning over, she pointed to a map on the table. “Put them here, or I’ll see that every deal gets killed.”

  “If you kill the deals, your precious landowners won’t get their money.”

  “Do you think J&S is the only company interested in Sweet Olive land? If it weren’t for me, they’d have gone with Bienville long before.”

  “You sound like their attorney.” Scott arched his brow. “You probably know he crashed our gathering this evening.”

  Camille’s legs felt weak and her wrist ached.

  “Marshall Cameron was mad as all get-out when he found out what was going on,” Scott said, his mouth twisted, whether in anger or respect she couldn’t tell. “He demanded a community grant for some art center—something you had suggested.”

  “Did you agree?”

  “I told him you’d take care of it. Wrap this up, and do whatever you want.” He swatted his hand at her, his gold-and-onyx ring shimmering. “I suspect Johnny would say you’re doing the right thing.”

  Before Camille could reply, Valerie strolled into the office. In tight corduroy jeans and a knit top, she held a leather computer case. “I’m sorry it took me so long, Mr. Stephens.”

  “Perfect timing, Val,” Scott said. “I was about to tell Camy that you’ve been promoted.”

  Camille studied the two, impassive.

  “Valerie has agreed to head up a new community division in Houston.”

  “But …” Camille stopped.

  “Val has a range of experience that will come in quite handy,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir,” Valerie said and gave a mock curtsy.

  “And she’s convinced Jason Dinkins to move over to our side. He’ll run this office, where we’ll be able to keep a close eye on him.”

  “Are you firing me?” Camille asked.

  “I’ll let you finish off the Sweet Olive deal,” he said, “but we both know it’s time you moved on to something else.” He paused.

  “I get my bonus,” she said. “And I keep the pickup.”

  Chapter 37

  Marsh had his laptop on the dining table when the blue-and-white pickup pulled into his driveway.

  The vehicle had barely stopped when Camille leaped from it, charging up to his house. He stepped away from the window and waited for the ding of his old-fashioned doorbell—but loud pounding on the door sounded instead.

  “Marsh, it’s me.” Camille’s voice was urgent. She kicked at the door as he opened it, catching his shin with her boot.

  “Thanks,” he said, resisting the urge to rub the spot.

  She glanced at his leg, and then up at him. “I didn’t know—about my father’s involvement in Sweet Olive and all the deals Scott was working.”

  “I wish you would have confided in me that your father was the J in J&S.”

  “I was wrong not to.”

  Camille stood there, her sling and cast making her look like an upset angel with a lopsided wing.

  Marsh opened the door wider. “Come on in.”

  Camille’s emotions threatened to spill over the moment Marsh opened the door.

  There had been nothing to be gained by keeping the secret—and much to be lost.

  The hallway behind Marsh was warm and inviting, a Persian rug covering hardwood floors. Beyond that, the dining table was scattered with papers and law books. The living room was the way she thought a home should look—with its overstuffed sofa and pine coffee table and original paintings. A messy stack of books and magazines perched on an end table, and lamplight illuminated the entire space.

  Marsh propped against the doorframe, and she couldn’t believe she had ever thought he looked stuffy. His dark brown hair was messy, and he had a five o’clock shadow. He wore tight jeans and a red T-shirt advertising a “Skeeter Run” to eliminate malaria. He glanced down at his bare feet as her eyes lit on them.

  “Another exciting Friday night,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “I would have called, but I wasn’t sure you’d let me in.”

  He tilted his head. “You’re a hard person to keep out.”

  Steering her to the cozy room, he pointed to the sofa, but Camille walked to the mantel. Looking to him for a nod of permission, she picked up a dog carving, stroking the smooth wood. A giddy feeling washed over her, but she wasn’t sure if it was because of Marsh�
��s art—or because of the way he made her heart pound.

  “My father carved that for me right after my dog died.”

  “Oh,” she said quietly. “What was his name?”

  “Boudreaux. He was a good dog.” His voice softened. “Why did you come here?”

  “You talked Scott into giving up a big arts grant. Your work will change Sweet Olive forever.”

  He gave his head a quick shake. “I’d like to take credit, but Stephens agreed to that grant because of you.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “You’re not the most trusting person, are you?”

  She looked him up and down. “I’m trying. This has been the most confusing experience of my life—and my life has included some doozies.” She paused. “But it also has helped me see my entire life more clearly.”

  He gestured to the couch, putting a small cushion under her cast as she sat.

  Her smile broke out. “I want to hear about the look on Uncle Scott’s face when you busted into that meeting tonight. And then I’ll tell you how I negotiated to keep the old pickup.”

  “I thought you hated that thing.”

  “It was my father’s. I thought I’d better hang on to it.”

  Chapter 38

  The paint-by-number of the juggling clown had been the work of Camille’s father when he broke his leg on the neighbor’s roof as a boy. It was the first piece of art Camille remembered, hanging in the ratty travel trailer that went from oil rig to oil rig.

  Camille had tried to sell it in a garage sale after her father died, an unwanted symbol of his life. Her mother had snatched it out of the box and fussed at her.

  The confrontation with Scott had inexplicably brought it to mind.

  “Whatever happened to that clown picture Daddy painted?” she asked her mother on their early call Saturday. She tried for an indifferent note.

  “That thing’s up in the attic somewhere,” her mother said with the soft little laugh Camille loved. “I haven’t thought of it in years.”

  “See,” Camille said. “We could have tossed it after all …”

  “I hoped you would want it one day. We don’t have all that much of your father’s.”

  Camille made a dismissive sound. “What an inheritance, right? That pickup and picture sort of say it all.”