Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (13 page)

M
arsh rushed out of a long meeting to get to a court hearing—only for it to be postponed again.

He had missed four calls from keyed-up clients and a vague message from Lawrence.

Add to that the clumsy jogging encounter with Camille, and this day was officially off to a rotten start.

He bolted for the elevator at the office building, flashing his badge to the overzealous guard. The elevator stopped on the sixth floor, the doors sliding open to reveal Ross, who grinned when he spotted Marsh.

“What are you doing here?” Marsh grumbled, catching a glimpse of Camille at the J&S office door. Her brow was furrowed, and she didn’t seem to notice him.

“Trying to interest Camille in some real estate,” Ross said.

“Why would she want real estate in Samford? She’s only here for a few weeks.”

Ross shrugged. “She had a question about a property.”

“What property?”

“You know I can’t tell you that,” Ross said. “But I must say, she seems like a nice person.”

“Don’t forget who she works for,” he snapped.

“Not a chance of that. A lot of my deals are on hold until we get this gas mess straightened out. Everyone’s nervous about where the wells are going—and about the impact on drinking water.”

From the corner of the elevator, Marsh examined his friend. Ross wore a sport coat and no tie, a contrast to Marsh’s tailored suit and sedate tie. Ross spent so much time on the golf course that his hair looked like it had been highlighted.

Noticing that made Marsh feel ridiculous.

“That land’s going to be just fine,” Marsh said, weighing his words. “You know Ginny’s group. They’re not yielding when it comes to the future of Sweet Olive.”

“You might want to tell Lawrence that.” The elevator halted and Ross stepped off first.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Marsh said to his back.

Camille listened to her voice messages, most requesting meetings now that she was “settled in.”

Scott had sent her an e-mail congratulating her on the Martinezes but saying he hoped for more signatures. He added a P.S.: “Slattery Richmond is an important part of our business there, and, thus, so is Valerie.”

The thought of the first Sweet Olive contract made her queasy, and after reading the note, she threw her pen across the room and then got up to retrieve it, embarrassed. This was not the time for a tantrum.

She picked up her oversized mug, a piece of green pottery she had bought from an artist in the Ozarks during a tough Arkansas land deal. It was the one piece of art that traveled with her, the rest boxed up in the spare room at her mother’s.

She touched the cup, savoring the feel of the glaze, imagining the artist plopping a lump of clay on the wheel.
Things take shape in unexpected ways.
She chuckled at the thought—her one attempt at pottery had resulted in a lopsided vase her mother had pretended to love.

Mug in hand, she wandered out of her office and stuck her head in Valerie’s office, wondering how she would react to the Martinez contract, a deal she had been unable to close with a man she had once planned to marry.

But Valerie hadn’t made it in after her fiesta last night, and Camille turned to leave. And then took a step back into the office. What would a brief look hurt? A narrow window showcased the parking garage, and a cardboard box sat open on the desk. Had Valerie been packing or unpacking?

She caught a whiff of a man’s cologne and thought it was Slattery’s. She wondered when he had come by the office, shivering slightly at his curious appearance at the hotel that morning.

Ross Broussard’s unscheduled visit, in response to a brief e-mail she had sent, had been a nice distraction. His upbeat manner steered her thoughts from Lawrence and momentarily erased the memory of the mortifying morning encounter with Marsh.

She had asked vague questions about Samford property, mentioning several signs she had seen in town.

“Are you looking for a home or an investment?” Ross asked.

“Nothing, really. I’m probably wasting your time,” she said. “But I appreciate the information.”

Now she stared at Valerie’s white desk, adorned by two items. One was a leather date book open to this week, a red ribbon marking the page. The other was a crystal clock with a tiny engraved brass plate:
To V: For old time’s sake. M.

She studied Valerie’s appointment book. Most of the notations seemed personal, from a mani-pedi to having her teeth cleaned. One said, “S.O. folo.” Another from two days before said, “Dinkins? Deal?”

Why would Valerie have an appointment with the field manager of Bienville Oil?

A laptop was closed on a nearby table, and Camille approached it cautiously before forcing herself to move to a trio of framed snapshots perched on a large bookcase. One of the photos was of Valerie, Marsh, Ross, and another woman at the beach.

A second showed a group, including Marsh, on skis with a snow-covered mountain in the background. A professionally done portrait of a fluffy white dog in front of a red barn rounded out the grouping. An engraved plate said,
Cotton Grove III.

Camille wandered over to the window, her thoughts jumping around like a pack of monkeys as she examined the view. The river lay to the west and the courthouse across the street, very scenic. If she was going to be here longer, she would search for a painting of downtown Samford.

“So you not only stalk my clients, but you look through your employee’s office?” Marsh’s angry voice said.

She whirled, dismayed to find him standing within a few feet.

He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a folded sheaf of paper. “Lawrence asked me to give you these. You omitted the water clause—among other things. Turns out it wasn’t quite the deal he expected.”

Camille frowned but didn’t take the contract—or the check, clipped to the top. “That’s not true. I proofed it myself, and he signed it. I hand-delivered the money first thing.” Her mind whirled faster than one of Ginny’s whirligigs in a windstorm. “He took the check.”

“He agreed under duress,” Marsh said. “We’re declaring it null and void.” He waved the check under her nose.

She jammed her hands into her skirt pockets. “We can sue to enforce the contract.”

“Try.” His jaw was set.

“Every landowner has to make the decision that bests suits him or her.”

“Is that how you get to sleep at night? You hounded my client after work. I thought you cared about the artists, that you saw them as people and not numbers.” He gave a disgusted snort. “I thought you were different.”

“Apparently I’m not.” Camille walked past him, her head held high. Valerie had printed the contract a few days earlier, and it wouldn’t take much computer work to see exactly what she had chosen to delete.

Marsh was furious as he followed Camille.

“This is unacceptable,” he barked. “It’s unethical.” In addition to professional fury, he felt personally deflated.

She slipped behind her desk but remained standing. “Why can’t you let these people do what they need to do?” she said quietly.

He took a step back. “I’m not the one stopping them.”

“They’re confused. I get that. But you and I both know that wells will be drilled in the vicinity, whether they sign or not.”

She eased onto her desk chair. “J&S was generous with the Martinezes. We’ll be just as generous with the others. It’s the best offer they’re going to get.”

“Camille, most of these people are hanging on by a financial thread. But their legacy is a big deal to them.”

She drew in a slow breath and exhaled it just as slowly. He waited for her to speak, but she remained silent, staring at him.

“This is home to them,” he said. “It’s special.”

“It
is
special,” she said in that quiet way of hers. “Very special.”

“Gas wells will ruin the charm.”

She stood and walked to the window, her silhouette lovely in the shifting light. “Maybe I shouldn’t have approached Lawrence. I don’t know.”

“My clients want you to know that J&S won’t get anywhere if you keep rushing things.”

“You know how this business works,” she said, combing her fingers through her hair. “We lose money every day we don’t produce.”

“You lost a lot of trust with that stunt you pulled with Lawrence. You might want to reconsider the community meeting.”

“There’s no way I would back out on that,” she said.

Ginny answered the phone on the first ring. “I defended you. I told people it couldn’t be true.” Camille heard tears in her voice. “I’m a fool.”

“You’re the least foolish person I know,” Camille said, her own voice shaky.

“Not only did you sign the Martinezes behind our back, but you tried to cheat them out of their water.”

“But I didn’t.”

“So you’re telling me Marsh is a liar?” Ginny demanded.

“It was a mistake.”

“You told me you’d work with me.”

“I am,” Camille said.

“Your idea of working together is not the same as mine. You promised you would get to know us before you took it further.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m tired of all this,” Ginny said. “I’ve half a mind to call off tonight’s meeting and let everyone do what they want.”

A dog barked in the background, and Camille could hear the children chattering. “Please don’t do that. You’re fighting for what you believe in. It’s totally different from the way most of the world operates. Don’t quit.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.” Ginny’s voice was irritated. “You’re on the other side of this argument, in case you forgot.”

“I feel like I’ve been on a roller coaster since I got here, and most of the time I’m upside down. I don’t make sense to myself, either. Not to mention to my boss.”

“This has got to be worked out and worked out soon,” Ginny said.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Half of my friends think I’ve already ruined Sweet Olive, and the other half think I’m taking money out of their pockets. How would you feel if this were your neighborhood?”

Camille grew quiet. “I think I’d be more confused than you are,” she said finally. “I didn’t grow up here—but I love what you’re trying to do. You’ve got the kind of roots I’ve longed for my whole life.”

“Then why did you betray me?” The question was soft, so different from Ginny’s usual boisterous style.

“I was trying to help Evelyn,” she said. “Give me a chance to answer questions tonight.”

“People are plenty hot about all of this. You’re probably not going to like what you hear.”

“I probably deserve it.” Camille hung up the phone with a heavy heart.

C
amille stormed into Valerie’s office, her head throbbing. “You deliberately altered a legal document. Do you know how serious that is?”

“The paper jammed when I printed the document. How was I to know a section had been omitted?” She somehow managed to assume a hurt expression. “Haven’t you ever made an error?”

Camille ground her teeth so hard that her jaw ached.

“Oh, I forgot. You’re the perfect Camille Gardner.”

“This may wind up in court.”

“It was a mistake.” Valerie hissed the words, loud and slow.

“The section was deleted before it was printed. I checked the computer file. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

Veins popped out on Valerie’s temples, her blond hair pulled back into a French twist. “Take your conspiracy theories to Mr. Stephens.” She flung a file at Camille. “And while you’re at it, tell him about all the time we’re wasting looking at ancient records.”

Camille bent to pick up the folder. “I’ll need a signed statement of how the error occurred. We’ll run it by the corporate attorney before it goes in the file.”

“Fine. But with that and the other
homework
you’ve given me, I’ll be late for the community meeting.”

“Make it quick.” Camille scanned the file as she walked to the door. “I’ll see you there.”

Camille pulled into the library five minutes before the meeting and let out a small
yes.
Only two pickups—including one almost identical to hers—were in the lot, alleviating her fear that every resident of Cypress Parish would show up.

She climbed the steps and stopped, that same light scent from Ginny’s house tickling her nose. Looking around, she pushed on the heavy old door.

A man in khaki work pants and a white Western shirt stepped forward to hold the door for her, a questioning look in his deep blue eyes. “May I help you?” A guy in his midtwenties paused from on a ladder, giving her a nod and a smile. His brown hair was cut short, and he wore jeans and work boots.

The smile Camille had forced onto her face disappeared as her gaze flew around the construction site. “I’m here for the Sweet Olive meeting.”

The older of the two tilted his head, rubbing his trim salt-and-pepper beard. “You’re that J&S gal, aren’t you?”

“That’s me. Camille Gardner.”

The guy on the ladder increased his smile as he descended the rungs. “You must not have gotten the word that the meeting’s been moved to the school.” The younger man’s voice was quiet and not as southern as expected. “We’re remodeling this week, so the library’s closed.”

“The school?” Camille looked at the clock on her phone. “The meeting’s about to start.”

“You’re only a hop, skip, and a jump away,” the older one said.
“Just head south on the highway there, take a left at the blinking light, and you’ll see it on your right, about three miles.”

Her heart pounding, she murmured a thanks and stepped quickly to the door.

“I suspect you’ll run into my brother there.” The parting words came from the younger man, who moved with grace to open the door for her. “He’s a big-shot attorney, and I’m proud of him for helping out.” His voice held a teasing note. “It never hurts to have a person used to dealing with bureaucracy and such.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your names.”

“T. J. Aillet.” The younger man’s dark brown eyes twinkled as he shook her hand. His grip was firm, his palm calloused.

“And I’m Bud Cameron, Marsh’s daddy.” The other man’s voice had a country twang. “You got his attention with that Martinez deal.” He winked.

Camille looked from one to the other, attempting to hide her curiosity. Other than their work clothes, the two looked nothing alike.

T. J. laughed. “I’m Marsh’s half brother.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but—”

“It confuses everyone,” Bud said. “Marsh’s mother remarried.”

“My father is Marsh’s stepfather. We’re sort of an unusual family.”

They followed her a couple of steps into the parking lot. “Nice truck,” Bud said.

T. J.’s parting smile was warm. “Good luck tonight.”

Camille wished she’d listened more closely to Bud’s directions, but she’d been much more interested in the fact that everyone
seemed to know everyone else’s business—and that Marsh’s dad and half brother were some sort of country carpenters. And they worked together?

Marsh’s mother was a social diva if ever there was one. That didn’t fit with the men Camille had just met. Grinding gears, she groused at the truck and tried to remember what Bud had said. Was she looking for a stop sign or a light? A right turn or a left?

With relief, she glimpsed a green highway sign directing her to North Cypress Parish High School. She hadn’t asked
which
school but hoped it was that one.

Expecting a quaint old country school, she was surprised by a modern brick building with a large metal gymnasium. The parking lot near the road had seven or eight pickups and SUVs in it, enough to convince her she was in the right spot. She was oddly comforted to see a variety of J&S trucks, from pickups to flatbeds to tankers.

Uncle Scott had definitely made his presence known here, and maybe that would make her role tonight easier.

When she pulled in, she saw the parking area around the back overflowing. Some people had pulled up on the grass, seeking the shade of a trio of scrawny live oaks. According to the thermometer taped to her dashboard, the temperature was still in the high eighties.

Her cell phone buzzed, and she glanced down to see a text from Ginny: Y
OU RUNNING LATE
?

Parking out front, she grabbed her file folder and jogged to the end of the building, texting as she went: H
ERE.

The door opened before she could reach it, and Ginny stepped out, her face flushed and her brow wrinkled. “We were about to give up on you.” Her tone was annoyed.

“I went to the wrong place. The library.”

Ginny’s expression shifted. “Valerie said she left a note on your office door.”

“She’s here?” Camille trailed Ginny into the steamy, noisy gym. Sure enough, Valerie had her arms outstretched, greeting people in the packed bleachers, like a candidate for office.

Jason Dinkins, wearing khakis and a golf shirt, appeared to be working the crowd from the other end of the bleachers.

“Valerie did you a favor. She’s been listening to landowners the past ten minutes. She’s staying one step ahead, I’ll give her that.” Ginny looked back at the door. “I have to tell you, Camille, we’re all stunned by what you did. The water. The land. All of it. I expected better.”

“It was a mistake—” Camille’s voice was rough with emotion.

“I can’t talk about this now,” Ginny said, brushing her aside. “We’re starting late as it is.”

Camille stepped aside and steeled herself. Every resident of Sweet Olive and their relatives must have shown up, along with the other residents of Cypress Parish, and they all seemed to be in animated conversation.

The people milling around wore everything from cutoff shorts to overalls without shirts—but no one except Camille had on a suit, not even Marsh, standing to the side in an animated conversation with a man in an LSU cap. Marsh looked at ease in a pair of pressed khakis and a yellow long-sleeved oxford-cloth shirt. Valerie had changed into a pair of dressy jeans and a short-sleeve pale orange blouse.

Three microphones stood on the edge of the shiny wood floor, with four folding chairs. Elementary-age boys were having a jumping contest on two of the chairs, and a handful of
younger children played tag beyond the chairs. A lone girl dribbled a basketball, the bouncing noise sounding like a drumbeat.

A toddler cried, barely audible in the cavernous room. Most people smiled and shook hands, as though at a high school football game, while a few looked dour.

Someone had propped a poster that said, “Don’t give away our water” at the end of the bleachers. Another poster said, “All things work for good.”

Standing at the end of the bleachers, Camille started toward Valerie, now talking to a group of people in matching red church T-shirts, a drawing of praying hands next to an oil rig accompanied by the words, “Pray for wisdom.”

As she debated what to do, Lawrence strode forward, wearing a pair of olive cargo pants and yet another black T-shirt, once more looking like a big-city artist.

He shook his head slowly. “I refuse to believe you deliberately left the water clause out of the contract, but a company as big as J&S should not do business that way.”

“It was a clerical error,” she said, “but I should have caught it. I can easily correct the contract. I’ll bring it to you … tonight, if you want.”

He shook his head. “Not going to happen.”

“So you’ve changed your mind?”

He looked directly at her. “It was unfair to bail on the rest of the group. And my mother wasn’t very happy with me.”

“How could she not be happy with that check?” Camille’s brow creased.

“The older artists are like family. She doesn’t believe that’s the direction God is leading us.” He looked down at his black
high-top tennis shoes. “I owe you an apology, though. I was an idiot to sign that contract, but I know it puts you in a bind.”

“It’s just as well. Something about it didn’t feel right.”

“You’re a good woman, Camille.” He motioned toward the crowd. “Are you sure you’re ready for the circus?”

“I’m ready to run away and join one.” Camille looked around. A tall man shook his finger in the face of the man seated near him, and the woman next to him stood, hands on her hips.

An older woman sat in the front row talking to a thin African American woman, knitting. Marsh’s father, still in his painting clothes, had appeared and Valerie stood next to him.

Lawrence nodded toward the door. “I think the spectacle just got bigger.”

A young man carrying a large video camera walked in, accompanied by a perky brunette holding a microphone and lights.

“You made it!” Ginny exclaimed, scurrying from behind the information/sign-up table. She looked over at Camille. “We can’t wait to tell you our story. Camille, these folks are working on a documentary on the local gas boom. I’m sure they’d love to hear your tactics.”

Camille’s head began to pound. Her other interview had infuriated investors; a documentary film could run them off altogether—not to mention how Scott would react.

Ginny let out a shrill whistle. “Take your seats,” she yelled, “and we’ll get started.”

To Camille’s amazement, the room grew quiet. Several adults rounded up the children, and even the baby quit crying.

Ginny tapped the microphone, and Val took a seat in the front row, shooting Camille a quick nod and glancing away.

Marsh gave Camille a curt hello, and a local pastor, also wearing a red T-shirt, rose to give the invocation. His prayer was poetic, full of Scripture and a plea for God’s help “as Your servants gather to decide what You would have them do.”

A resounding “Amen” filled the room, and Ginny took the mike again, sounding like a mix between a revival preacher and a stern principal. “You were given a copy of our key concerns when you came in. I drew those from the surveys you mailed back.”

Her comments were like the opening bell at a horse race, with everyone talking at once. “I didn’t get a sheet,” three or four people yelled, as though in a shouting contest. “Where does it say what the going rate per acre is?” someone else called out.

“Where does it explain how those chemicals kill your hogs?” a little man in overalls shouted. “Replanting trees is not a concern,” a red-faced man in his thirties yelled. Camille recognized him as the guy who had been talking with Marsh a few minutes earlier.

“One at a time,” Ginny said, tapping the mike. “Come to a microphone and ask your questions one at a time. Raise your hands if you need an information sheet.”

The questions came loudly to Camille and Jason Dinkins, who assured residents Bienville Oil could serve them better because he had grown up in North Louisiana.

Some attendees focused on potential damage to roads, while others asked environmental questions. “I’ve read that drilling can cause earthquakes,” an older woman in the Sweet Olive group said. A few people laughed while others widened their eyes.

Jason jumped to his feet. “That’s one of those rumors started by the liberal media, Miss Lillie. You don’t need to worry about it.”

The crowd applauded, and the woman sat back down.

Camille rose with reluctance and put a microphone to her
mouth. “To clarify, ma’am, we all know it takes a lot to shift Mother Earth, but no one knows for sure. The handful of recent small quakes in the U.S. are still being studied.”

“Hmm,” Marsh said under his breath, his comment among the hum that ran through the crowd.

Jason grabbed a mike, sweat pouring down his face. “With all due respect, Camille …” He threw her a poisonous stare. “There is no known correlation between drilling and earthquakes.”

“No
known
correlation, but I would be less than candid if I didn’t tell folks that J&S continues to study this impact from its Houston office.” Projects like that were among the reasons she wanted the executive job.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Ginny said, her red lips curving into a smile that had been missing all evening. “Now let’s move on.”

A handful of people complained about “oil-field trash” that the wells brought in, and Camille cringed. More than a few in the audience were in J&S and Bienville uniforms.

A thin woman of about sixty-five stood, smiling when Lawrence assisted her. “Good evening. I’m Evelyn Martinez—or, as I’m apparently now known, the old lady who turned down the money.”

The crowd laughed.

“I’ve prayed hard about this, and I believe we are to take good care of our land. A big payout now won’t mean anything if we don’t have water to drink.”

A few people applauded.

“If I may?” Camille looked at Ginny as she reached for the microphone. “I’m Camille Gardner, Mrs. Martinez. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Get on with it,” the red-faced man in the LSU cap yelled.

“I don’t know how this is all going to work out.” Camille looked over at Jason Dinkins. “But I promise I’ve made my last secret deal. I will abide by the wishes of Sweet Olive, whatever those turn out to be.”