Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (11 page)

Lawrence drew back. “That wasn’t the question I expected.”

Camille’s mouth twisted. “I should have known better than to come today. No matter how hard Ginny tries, the landowners aren’t likely to be my friends.”

“I don’t know,” he said with his crooked grin. “You’re one of the most interesting things to happen to Sweet Olive in years—and a lot better looking than Jason Dinkins.”

“Right.” She snorted. “That’s why you yanked your glassware out of the exhibit.”

“I didn’t know what to do, so I went along with the crowd.” He grimaced. “That makes me sound like a junior high wimp.”

“You could have let me know. I would have stayed away.”

“I considered calling, but after our visit at the Samford Club, it didn’t seem like a good idea.” He put his hands behind his head and stretched his legs out. “The Sweet Olive artists vowed to stay together, to decide together what was best for Sweet Olive.”

“And my putting a blue ribbon on a piece of art threatened that?”

“I’ve been Mr. Adamant about not signing. With Mama sick, though, I’m afraid I’m going to be the first to cave.”

“Is your mother worse?”

“We’re waiting for more tests.”

“I’m not good at waiting,” Camille said. “Would it be okay if I asked my mama to pray for your mom?”

“She’d do that?”

“She’s always got me praying for people from Maine to Miami.” Camille was unable to hold back her smile. “She’d be delighted to add your mother to the list.”

Watching Kylie and Randy playing in the distance, Camille put her hand on Lawrence’s arm. “Take it a step at a time. Don’t worry about anything but getting your mother well.”

He threw her the same surprised look he’d had when she sat down. “Why aren’t you swooping in, telling me how the gas money will solve all our troubles?”

“I probably would have a week ago, but seeing all this …” Camille’s voice trailed off as she gestured at the kids squealing, a clown making animals out of balloons, and the line at the corn dog stand. “Your decisions go beyond the J&S money.”

“I thought you had a deadline.”

Camille shrugged. “You have to do what works best for you.”

“And your boss accepts that?”

She stood, the sun suddenly unbearably hot. “I’d better get Kylie and Randy.”

Lawrence rose slowly to his feet and wrapped her in a hug. “Thanks for listening, despite what we did to you today.”

Camille, at odds with Lawrence and his friends, felt a strange sense of belonging.

M
arsh was restless and ready to leave.

The absence of the artists might actually strengthen his bargaining power in the long run, but he couldn’t forget the hurt look on Camille’s face.

He had been ridiculously pleased when Ginny asked him to give Camille a lift to the festival and had gotten such a kick out of her excitement at being asked to judge the exhibits.

Scanning the crowd, he tried to convince himself that his interest was all in the name of business. The better he and Camille got along, the more likely he was to strike the best deal.

This could turn out to be a career-making case for him—even change the way deals were handled throughout the state. He could be known as the lawyer who helped the little community fight big oil. If the state appointment came through, he might help unravel Louisiana’s arcane mineral laws.

But the most fascinating thing about the skirmish at the moment was standing across the dusty baseball field, talking to a client.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” Ginny asked from behind him.

Marsh adjusted his cap. “It’s turned into a hot day, hasn’t it?” he asked.

Ginny rolled her eyes as she stepped to his side. “Camille’s special.”

“At least one of your artists seems to think so.”

“Lawrence’s got better sense than some of them,” she said.

“Will he fold?”

“I hope he’ll vote with the group,” she said. “Sweet Olive’s under his skin.”

Marsh watched as Lawrence stepped closer to Camille. “Apparently that’s not all that’s under his skin.”

“Interesting.” Ginny put her hands on her hips. “Come to think of it, they do have a lot in common.”

“Such as being on opposite sides of a major issue?”

“Camille’s coming around,” she said. “She’s aware of our concerns.”

“The deal you want—no gas wells in Sweet Olive—is not going to work for her,” Marsh said.

“You’ll come up with something. You’re too much like your father not to.”

Marsh adjusted his Ray-Bans. “He probably wouldn’t like hearing that, but I take it as a compliment.”

“I hate it when you do that,” Ginny said.

“Do what?”

“Act like a smart-alecky lawyer.”

“I am a smart-alecky lawyer.”

Her lips, outlined as always in bright red lipstick, turned up slightly. “You can play that role pretty well, but you don’t fool a one of us who grew up in Sweet Olive.”

He put his finger to his lips and grinned. “Keep those opinions to yourself or we’ll lose.”

She shook her head, the brim of her hat swaying. “I don’t want a penny,” she said. “I want the kind of spirit Sweet Olive had when my grandfather started making windmills.”

“Isn’t that what all the artists want?”

“Some days,” she said. “Until their roofs leak or they can’t pay their car insurance. Do you know how hard it is to walk away from money?”

“I most certainly do.”

Camille didn’t speak as they walked to the car, a cute pair of tortoise-frame glasses perched on her sunburned nose.

“This is unusual,” he said. “You’re actually quiet for a change.”

“Not much to talk about after today’s incident.” She ran her fingers through her already-mussed hair.

“You and my client certainly seemed to have a lot to talk about.”

“You’re spying on me now?”

“Merely observant.”

“Turns out Lawrence and I have a lot in common,” she said. Marsh felt another flash of irritation.

“You should have figured that out earlier, and he might not have boycotted the art show,” Marsh said as they reached the car. He slammed his door, started the car, and reached for the radio.

Her hand stopped him. “Is that really necessary?”

“I like music. Loud music.”

“I
meant
is it really necessary for you to goad me?” Camille said, her hand still on his.

Looking at her closely, he noticed tight lines around her mouth, the same mouth that had been so lively that morning.

“Can we please go?” she added.

He looked down at her hand, and she jerked it back as though it were on fire. “I’m not myself,” she said. “It’s been a rough day.”

Marsh pulled out of the lot, heading in the opposite direction from which they’d arrived.

“I want to go home,” she said, her voice soft.

“Let’s take the scenic route. It’s only a few minutes longer, and it always makes me feel better.”

She slumped down in the seat without answering.

He fished for benign conversation, hating her dejection. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Then tell me something. Who knows? Maybe you and I have something in common.”

She remained slouched down. “Of course we do. Both of us work for companies that like to win.” Now she looked at him. “Sometimes that means people get hurt.”

“Camille, I’m sorry about today.”

She sat up straighter and clasped her fingers in her lap. “I’m sure you were delighted. Isn’t that the solidarity you’ve been aiming for?”

“Perhaps,” he admitted.

“There you have it. You won this round.”

“I disagree with how they handled it.”

Her eyes widened.

“And I’m not divulging secrets because I intend to tell them the same thing.”

She exhaled, once more combing her fingers through her
hair. He had seen many more sophisticated women—even dated some—but Camille conveyed … He shoved the thought aside. “May I offer you a piece of advice?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You’re a good listener. And you seem to like Sweet Olive.”

“I do.”

“But you won’t get very far throwing money at people who aren’t motivated by money.”

“Eventually people will want the money,” she snapped. “And you’ll make more if they lease than if they don’t.”

“In Sweet Olive, the money’s not the point.”

“You know how this works.” Urgency flowed through her voice. “J&S doesn’t have to have Sweet Olive’s permission to drill. There are wells all over Cypress Parish, and we can put more nearby. Then it might be years before your clients received a payment.”

While he considered her words, she jumped back in. “Your clients need to sign—and sooner rather than later.”

“Why the rush? That gas has been down there for centuries.”

She adjusted her body in the seat so she was almost sitting sideways. “This business is volatile. The offers are high now. And J&S employs hundreds of people in Louisiana.”

“And?”

“Our country needs the fuel. Rumor has it you have political aspirations, and you could get clout from a deal.”

“We’re a patriotic bunch, but something tells me you’re not doing this for Uncle Sam.”

She made a small noise.

“More likely for the good of Slattery Richmond,” he said. “He’s been trying to encroach on Sweet Olive since I was in high school.”

“Marsh, help me understand this. I’ve done deals with the richest and poorest, and I’ve never seen anything like this. No one … and I mean no one … turns down money.”

“Folks in Sweet Olive decided years ago to live simply. That goes back to my grandparents and great-grandparents.” He waved his arm at the pine woods adjacent to the road. “As silly as it may sound to someone like you, if Sweet Olive fades away, the world won’t be the same.”

Camille gave an awkward laugh. “We want their mineral rights, not their souls.”

“Art is what they were called to do. That is part of their souls.”

“Aren’t you a corporate attorney?”

“Most of the time,” Marsh said.

“Then why are you handling this?”

“Because I never say no to my dad.”

W
hen Camille stepped into the blessedly cool office tower, the guard greeted her as though she had worked in the building for decades rather than two weeks and chided her for not having had her ID photo taken.

“Miss Richmond told me she scheduled that.” He shook his head as he had done every day since she arrived. “Security is of utmost importance to tenants.”

She bit her cheek to keep from smiling. She would be surprised if as much as a pack of chewing gum ever went missing around here. But he seemed so distressed that she let him take her photo and slip the badge around her neck.

Scarcely had she made it upstairs before Valerie surfaced, a scowl on her face. “I don’t know what you’re looking for in those records.” She sunk into an upholstered office chair, her floral scent wafting across Camille’s desk. “Everything’s fine.”

“We need to find people willing to sign leases, or we both stand to lose our jobs.”

“You’re not going to lose your job,” Valerie retorted. “You practically have an oil-and-gas halo.”

“I’m not putting up with this anymore.” Camille stood. “The landowners in Sweet Olive haven’t caused half the headaches you have. If things don’t change immediately, I’ll have you fired.” Just saying the words made her feel better.

Valerie crossed her arms, uncrossed them, and gripped the arms of the chair, her knuckles white. She reminded Camille of a coworker in Houston who had just quit smoking.

“It’ll be you against the powerful Senator Slattery Richmond. I wonder who Mr. Stephens will side with?” Her eyes opened with the innocence of Shirley Temple as her voice trailed off.

Camille moved back around her desk, torn between fury and amazement. “If you were as good at your job as you are with your attitude,
Mr. Stephens
would probably side with you. But as of today, he’s depending on the person he always depends on—me.”

“Louisiana’s mineral laws are so confusing that even Daddy can barely keep them straight—and he’s the best oil-and-gas lawyer in the business.” Valerie’s tongue darted out to touch her pearly lips. “Scott Stephens knows I’m important.”

Valerie leaned closer. “You had just been given a cushy corporate job when you got booted to Samford,” she said. “I was close to getting this office, and they sent you in. I doubt either of us is very happy about that.”

“This is business, not corporate espionage,” Camille said. “The next time you sabotage me, I contact Scott.”

“That’s a good idea. You can remind him about that interview you gave to a network reporter—on camera. Great job, Camille—if you wanted to raise questions about our image.”

She slid her perfect coral nails back and forth on the desk,
the noise matching the grinding of Camille’s teeth. “You were demoted—and you know those Sweet Olive yokels stand between you and your fancy job. You’re no different from me.”

“You seem to have it all figured out,” Camille said. “So maybe you can enlighten me on why I have this office and you don’t.”

“My interim work as the head of this office was outstanding. How was I to know they’d think I was cheating them? I offered more money than they’ve ever had. Then Marsh went all soft and took the case.”

“I don’t even know why J&S let you go out in the field.” Camille was half thinking out loud but couldn’t deny she wanted to prod Valerie.

“I know the well-to-do landowners in North Samford—and was … friends … with the Martinezes. If you ask me, they should take the J&S money and bulldoze every one of those tacky houses.”

“That would be terrible,” Camille said. “There’s quite possibly not another place like that in the South … maybe in the entire country.”

“That’s what Larry says, but it would give them a new start, bring them into the modern world. They could even send some of the money to all those relatives they still have south of the border.”

Camille raised her eyebrows. “Are you talking about Lawrence Martinez?”

“He was Larry when we were engaged, and I’m not going to call him anything else.” Valerie stood. “Do you have more to say, or am I free to go?”

The Samford Club grill was packed for South by Southwest Night, a contrast to its staid lunch personality. Scott believed in making business friends over dinner, and Camille was reluctantly employing that technique on Valerie.

After today’s blowup, she figured she had to try something.

The place was so noisy that Camille strained to hear Valerie across the table and watched with amazement the action at the adjacent bar.

She passed on the offer of “the best margarita you’ve ever had,” although the idea of numbing this meeting with Valerie was tempting.

Valerie ordered a beer but changed her mind after Camille declined alcohol. “I’ll have a Diet Pepsi with a real lime, extra ice,” Valerie said. “And we need chips and hot sauce.”

As the server walked away, Valerie leaned in, as though they were having a girls’ night out. “I hope you didn’t take our talk this morning personally.”

Camille, who had spent the rest of the day wondering if everyone in Samford knew about her botched TV interview, stared into Valerie’s eyes. “Everything that J&S does is personal to me.”

“Would you really complain about me to Mr. Stephens?” Valerie asked.

“In a heartbeat. But I don’t need to.”

Valerie gave a smug smile before Camille continued. “He depends on me to take care of problems like you.”

Drawing back, Valerie’s heavily made-up eyes opened wide. “You
are
good,” she said, and Camille thought she stopped just short of a thumbs-up sign. “So you work closely with him?”

“Certainly.” Camille kept her face passive, as though reading from her résumé. “I interned at drilling sites and started
as a landman right out of college. I’m returning to Houston as soon as I wrap up this assignment. To keep you from asking, I’m thirty.”

Valerie gave Camille a rare smile, her perfect teeth gleaming. “I’d rather tell you my weight than my age, but I’m ahead of you by a couple of years.”

She positioned her elbows on the table, her eyes slits. “You’ve traveled a lot, while I’ve been stuck in Samford.” Valerie wrinkled her nose. “My parents live in the same house my grandparents lived in. I lived there until last year.”

“You’re certainly plugged in here.”

“When your father’s Slattery Richmond, you’re born plugged in.” She leaned forward. “What kind of work does your father do?”

“He died a long time ago.” Camille swallowed.

“Was he in the oil-and-gas business?”

“Yes,” she said, the short answer difficult to utter. But sometime in the last few days, she had decided she was not going to ignore her past anymore. Bad memories bound her every bit as much as Uncle Scott’s machinations.

“A friend of Mr. Stephens?” Valerie pressed.

Camille broke a chip in half and then fourths. “Something like that.”

Valerie lowered her voice. “Did they have a falling out?”

Wiping her forehead, Camille toyed with her fork. “This hot sauce doesn’t seem to agree with me.”

“We’re eating greasy chips on an empty stomach.” Valerie cast her gaze around the room and waved a waiter over. “We need to order.”

Camille looked up and met Lawrence’s eyes. “Valerie, please,” she said, embarrassment flooding through her.

“Larry’s used to my impatience. Aren’t you?”

“Lay off, Val,” Lawrence said.

“You’ll have to speak louder. We can’t hear you over that mariachi music.”

“Valerie!” Camille snapped and then looked up at Lawrence. “We’re not in that big a hurry. How’s your mother feeling?”

Valerie’s gaze narrowed. “What’s wrong with Evelyn?”

“I’m sorry.” Camille put her hand over her mouth as her gaze met Lawrence’s. “I didn’t realize it was confidential.”

Camille was fairly certain murderers had gentler looks than the one that passed across Valerie’s face.

“We’ve only told a few people, but it’s no secret,” Lawrence said. “My mother has been diagnosed with cancer, Val. Now, what would you ladies like for dinner?”

As he walked off with their orders, Valerie made a huffing noise but her eyes followed him. “He could quit these silly jobs if he’d sign the land deal. He and his mother have twenty acres right in the middle of Sweet Olive. His mother toughened up when she married a foreigner, and she’s still a stubborn old biddy.”

Camille looked back at Lawrence, delivering a tray of food to an adjacent table.

“We can still get Larry,” Valerie said in a whispered voice, barely audible over the recorded music. “If his mother’s got cancer, they need the money.”

Camille gasped. “Why would you say such a thing?”

Valerie shrugged. “They’re hung up on ‘community history.’“ She put air quotes around the words. “And they don’t want a gas well right by their house. And he’s punishing me for breaking up with him. We need leverage.”

Camille picked up a chip and dipped it in the red salsa. “Doesn’t Lawrence work for your father?”

“Weird, huh?” Valerie said. “Larry and I were engaged for two years, and most people—my father included—pretend it never happened. I was the spoiled girl who dated the pool boy to get the other guy’s attention. Unfortunately, I still haven’t talked Marsh into marrying me.”

“You and Marsh—” The words flew out of Camille’s mouth almost as soon as they hit her brain.

“Power couple, right? Maybe one of these days …”

Camille stared, wondering if she could feign illness and leave. Or if Valerie kept talking, maybe she wouldn’t even have to pretend. Her stomach roiled.

Valerie broke a chip in half. “You actually got a degree in art?” Her tone suggested an interest in art was somewhere along the lines of an infectious disease.

Camille thought of the students at Ginny’s house and wished she were crowded around the little art table.

“Daddy would have had a fit if I’d studied anything but business.” Valerie held her hand up and gestured for Lawrence. “I believe I’ll have one of those margaritas after all. How about you, Camille?”

“I’ll pass,” she said and tried to sneak a look at the time on her phone.

“You’re just like Marsh. Don’t you have any fun?”

Marsh stepped through the door of the club and walked toward the noise in the rear. Even though it was past the dinner hour,
the little room was packed, and a few people stood on the fringes, drinks in hand.

While Marsh scanned the bar, Ross greeted diners, a gregarious charmer through and through. “May I help you, Mr. Broussard?” the hostess asked. She was an attractive college-aged woman in a miniskirt that would have had Marsh’s mother clucking under her breath.

“Val’s car’s out front, so she’s here somewhere,” Ross muttered.

“Mr. Broussard? Hel-lo,” the hostess said. “May I help you locate someone?” Her flirtatious smile flitted to Marsh and then lingered on Ross.

That had been the response to the two since eighth grade when Ross scored the winning touchdown in a district football championship. He had turned that personality into Samford’s most prestigious commercial real estate business.

“Do you know where our friend Valerie’s seated?” Marsh asked.

“Valerie …” She looked down at the diagram of tables. “She’s around the corner there, near the back.”

Ross had already plunged into the crowded room. He smiled and spoke to almost everyone in his path, many greeting him by name.

“Thanks.” Marsh gave a quick follow-up smile and wondered why he’d let Ross talk him into this. He’d planned to do paperwork in his office at home and call it a day but had been looking for an excuse to close the J&S folder when Ross had called. A little baseball would have sufficed.

Marsh spotted Val, her table half hidden by an aqua post that held a temporary sombrero. Leaning over the table talking, she looked a bit frayed, her face tight, her hair actually slightly out of place.

“Valerie’s with someone.” Marsh took a couple of steps toward the table. The moment he saw her companion, he knew for sure he should have passed on this evening.

Ross increased his speed.

“Hey, guys,” Val said, and her voice suggested she was not on her first drink of the evening. She stood to give each a brief hug. “Camille, you’ve met our star Realtor, Ross Broussard, haven’t you?”

“We met at the fund-raiser,” Ross said, “and I’ve sat in on a couple of business meetings.”

Camille gave him a cordial smile but seemed to be eyeing the door.

Val patted the chair next to her. “Why don’t y’all join us?”

“That’d be great,” Ross said.

“We’re getting a table,” Marsh said at the same time.

“It’ll take forever.” Val pulled him toward a chair. “Sit here.” She smoothed her hair.

Camille picked up her purse. “I’m not much of a night owl, and I need to finish up a couple of things before I call it a day.”

“Has Val been teaching you the ins and outs of oil and gas in North Louisiana?” Ross asked. “She’s a pro in this area, you know.”

Marsh watched Camille, whose thoughts played across her face. Without saying anything, she placed her purse back on the floor and nodded.

“Camille’s quite taken with Sweet Olive’s …” Valerie twisted her head to look at Lawrence, approaching their table “… art.”

“It’s a neat little community,” Camille said.

What kind of corporate dragon used the word
neat
? Marsh rose to shake Lawrence’s hand.

“Did you …?” Lawrence stopped, looked to Camille then back at Marsh, who gave a quick shake of his head.

“This is complicated,” he said in a low voice.

“Are you here for a business meeting or a beer?” Val said.

“Give me a second,” Marsh snapped.

“You don’t have to get testy.” She threw him the look that had charmed men across Louisiana for years.

“Lawrence, I’ll get with you later.”

“Now, how about that drink?” Val drawled.

Camille picked up her purse again. “Valerie, sign this to the J&S account. I enjoyed our … visit.”

Ross shot to his feet. “Are you sure you can’t stay?”

Marsh stood more slowly.

“It’s been a long day.” Camille turned her smile on Lawrence. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”