Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (14 page)

“This has gone on long enough,” the LSU-cap guy called out. “I think we should sign.”

“Don’t do it! We signed, and we’re not getting half what J&S promised in our part of the parish,” a woman yelled.

“At least you got something, pal,” the other man retorted.

“They need us more than we need them,” someone else shouted.

“We need each other,” Camille murmured—and wished she had taken an aspirin before she left the office.

M
arsh felt as though he were watching an Olympic Ping-Pong match.

Slattery Richmond, looking every inch the senator, slid into the meeting late with his usual air of importance and stood to the side, his eyes sweeping the room.

Marsh acknowledged him with a slight nod and then looked over at his father, seated in the front row, paint splattered on his pants. Just the sight of Slattery and Bud in the same room made Marsh thankful again that he came from Sweet Olive stock and not that clique his mother so adored.

Bud Cameron was an original, a guy’s guy, who went to church and loved his neighbor and took brouhahas like this in stride. When he and Marsh’s mother had divorced, Marsh had said and done plenty of dumb things—but his father had loved him through them.

Even while not putting up with Marsh’s teenaged stupidity, his dad told him he would always have a home in Sweet Olive.

With Slattery approaching the microphone, Marsh caught his father’s eye and winked.

“My family has lived in Cypress Parish for more than one-hundred years,” Slattery said. “My granddaddy would have my hide if we let anyone hurt any of you.”

Marsh had to bite back a groan. Slattery would sell his grandfather if he thought he could make a buck. One of his subsidiaries had bought half of the mineral rights in Cypress Parish for a tenth of what they were worth—and brokered them to Bienville Oil for a hefty profit.

The rash of drilling that followed—everywhere except in Sweet Olive and near Slattery’s high-end Cotton Grove development—had changed the area forever.

Marsh had been taken aback when Ross informed him about Lawrence’s offer from Camille. He hadn’t pegged her as bold enough to go downtown at midnight for a land deal and worried about what other foolhardy stunts she might try.

He’d been pleased at the size of her offer but furious that she’d bypassed the artists’ association—and him. He thought they had come to a truce of sorts.

While he wouldn’t admit it to Camille, Marsh did not even feel 100 percent sure that he had done the right thing in calling off the deal, but an angry Evelyn had been adamant that the Martinez land—above- or belowground—was not for sale.

And now Dinkins was showing up everywhere, acting as though he had an infusion of cash, waiting for the right person to take it.

What a day …

If there was anything worse than fighting one oil company for property rights, it was getting caught in the middle of two. If
the artists splintered between J&S and Bienville Oil, the entire community could become an industrial wilderness.

Listening to Camille’s polite answers to questions tonight, he wondered why she had gotten so tangled up in this fiasco. In his experience, landmen generally didn’t tutor art classes and track waiters down on the job.

While Valerie sat in the front row and seemed disdainful, Camille looked engaged—almost as though she were explaining herself to a group of friends.

“Marsh?” Ginny’s voice interrupted his thoughts. After two-and-a-half hours of bickering, he’d lost track of the conversation.

Camille made a quiet sound next to him, drawing his attention. “He wants to know why you’re moving so slowly,” she said under her breath, reaching for the microphone.

“If I may jump in—J&S has had conversations with both Mr. Cameron and Ms. Guidry within the past few days,” Camille said, “but they’ve expressed the need for consensus in your group. They understand that strands together are stronger.”

Marsh heard his father’s chuckle across the gym floor. He ran his fingers through his hair.

“Miss Gardner’s correct,” Marsh said. “Each of you has the right to act individually, but you’ll get a better deal if you stick together.” Marsh could tell he wasn’t the only one losing interest in the meeting. Half of the people talked among themselves, and a few women were picking up their purses.

“I know a few of you are ready to get on home,” he said, “but I’ll stay and answer individual questions for anyone who has them.”

“That’s an excellent idea.” Ginny stood in a whirl of long skirt.

“I don’t think we should leave till we’ve decided who we’re going to sign with,” Drew Cross, who apparently never left home
without his LSU cap, said. His face had gotten redder as the room had gotten warmer.

“I agree,” a thin, flushed woman shouted. Both Ginny and Camille started at the words, and he looked closer. Janice Procell, Ginny’s sister-in-law, sat next to Drew, her two children playing on the floor nearby.

“Let Marsh review the offers and make a recommendation,” Evelyn said. “He has the best interests of the community at heart.”

“With all due respect,” Cross said, “that’s a crock.”

Lawrence jumped to his feet, and Marsh groaned. He drew in a breath and looked at Jason Dinkins, wondering if he’d help break up the fight that was about to occur.

But before Lawrence could make his way down the bleachers, Marsh heard the clatter of a chair turning over. Camille had jumped to her feet and marched up to the edge of the bleachers, right in front of Drew.

The room was quieter than a cathedral Marsh had visited in Seattle once on vacation. Even Lawrence stopped.

“Mrs. Martinez does not deserve to be spoken to like that,” Camille said in a loud, clear voice. “I am willing to stay here all night and talk about your land, but I will not tolerate that kind of disrespectful behavior.”

“Just who do you think you are?” Drew asked, but he did move back an inch or two. “You haven’t been in town for ten minutes, and you think you can tell us what to do?”

Marsh frowned and took a step forward.

“I may not be from around here, but my mother taught me manners.” Camille turned slightly. “I apologize for the tone of tonight’s meeting. I didn’t expect it to be so … ugly.”

Marsh had to concentrate to keep a poker face as Evelyn,
aided by Lawrence, made her way down to Camille and gave her a hug, the crowd dispersing like a spilled carton of milk.

“Call me Evelyn, honey, and quit fretting. It’ll all work out, Camille.”

Lawrence reached over to hug Camille.

Ginny tapped the mike two or three times to get the crowd’s attention. “I think we’ve accomplished all we can tonight. Send me an e-mail with your feedback.”

Marsh rose, a crick in his neck, noting that Camille was still chatting with Lawrence, smiling more than he’d seen her do in the nearly four weeks she’d been in Samford. The sight brought a weight to his gut, and he wished, not for the first time, that something other than oil and gas had caused their paths to cross.

Valerie was talking to Slattery but eyed Camille and Lawrence.

Marsh’s head hurt. Maybe he should stay with nice, quiet business law, where people wore suits and ties and he rarely had to wrestle a chair from a child in a jumping contest.

But he looked over at Camille and knew he’d stick with the case. Her smile drew him in as no woman’s ever had, and the sadness that flickered through her beautiful eyes tugged at his heart. Perhaps by the time he unraveled the mineral leases, he would have discovered what brought that look to her face.

His father emerged as the crowd eased up. “You have time for a quick question, son?”

Marsh started, his eyes fixed on Camille.

“You look worn out.”

“What a zoo.” Marsh wiped his forehead. “My world revolves around gas leases.”

“And a perky landman?”

“Tell me you’re not matchmaking.” Marsh cut his eyes at his father but couldn’t resist another glance at Camille.

His father followed his gaze. “I liked the way she jumped in to help Evelyn tonight.”

“There’s something special about Camille …” Marsh couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off of her as she chatted with the motley assortment of citizens, smiling and nodding. “She cares about people, even though I could wring her neck over that Martinez deal.”

His father laid his hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you ask her to dinner? Try to work this out personally?”

“Don’t go there, Dad.”

“What could it hurt?’

He gave his father a quick hug. “I’d better get back to work.”

He took a couple of steps before turning around. “Dad, have I mentioned lately how much I love you?”

Camille had been intrigued by the way Marsh handled the meeting. He must be quite a presence in a courtroom.

She lost sight of him, though, as the crowd swirled around.

“You gave that Cross boy what for all right,” Evelyn said. Her raven hair was thinning and gray at the temples. Her dark eyes flashed. “He ought to be ashamed of himself.”

“It’s hard,” Camille said, “when money’s involved. Everyone gets nervous.”

“I’m not nervous. I came into this world with nothing, and I’ll leave with nothing.” She pointed her finger at Camille. “I like that you stood up for me, but I don’t like what you talked Lawrence into.”

“Mama,” Lawrence said, but then stopped and directed a small smile toward Camille.

She smiled back.

Two or three people nearby stepped closer.

“We should never worry about money,” Evelyn said. “It’s not what God wants for us.”

Lawrence mouthed “I’m sorry,” grinning his crooked smile as he and his mother walked away.

“Man oh man,” Marsh’s voice said behind her. “Nothing like a little greed to get people stirred up.”

Camille stepped out of the shadows next to the truck.

He gave an embarrassed laugh. “I thought for a second you were my father.”

“That’s a first.”

“My dad has a truck just like that.”

“I saw it,” she said. “Poor guy.”

“Poor guy? He loves classics.” Marsh nodded toward the MGB. “He fixed this up for me when I graduated from college.”

“That car looks like one of those Hot Wheels that boys play with … But it does have a good radio.”

“So what’d you think of the show tonight?”

“Not a night I want to repeat.” She took a step toward him. “I feel awful about what I did to Lawrence. I owe you and the artists an apology.”

Even in the twilight of the parking lot, she recognized the surprise in his vivid blue eyes. “Thank you.” He raised his eyebrows. “I must add that I’ve never returned a check that size before.”

“My mother told me I should be ashamed of myself,” she said.

He drew back. “You told your mother about that?”

“I tell her everything,” she said with a smile and then cut her eyes away. “Well, I didn’t tell her I hung around downtown at midnight.” She pointed toward the gym. “It was a zoo in there, but the artists are such good people.”

“The best.” He nodded.

She studied him, chewing on her bottom lip. “I’m glad they have you on their side.” And with that, she climbed in the truck.

T
he red-faced LSU-cap man from the town meeting was waiting for Camille in the parking garage the next afternoon.

“You might want to be careful,” he said, adjusting his hat. “Downtown can be dangerous.”

Camille looked around, but the garage was empty. Even the attendant was missing from his little shed.

The man—she remembered his name was Drew Cross—reached into his pocket and pulled out a container of snuff, took a pinch, and stuck it between his lip and teeth. He shuffled his feet and put his hands in his pockets. Camille looked over his shoulder, hoping to see anyone.

“Is this a bad time?” He followed her gaze.

“For what?”

He looked around and pitched his voice low. “I’ve got four acres, and I want to sign.”

She took a step back.

“I don’t want my neighbors to know until it’s a done deal. They’ll try to talk me out of it.”

“I’m—”
Stunned? Surprised? Sad?
“Are you sure?” she finally said.

He looked confused. “Are you trying to trick me?”

“I … I want you to be sure before we do all the paperwork.”

“I’m tired of waiting for a bunch of old people to get a sign from God or something.”

His behavior, much as it had the previous night, reminded Camille of one of the wild hogs that rampaged around Uncle Scott’s ranch. From his questions, though, she suspected he had good business sense.

“What about the Artists’ Guild?” she asked. “I’ve been instructed to work through their attorney.” She gave a little smile, intended to charm him.

“I’ve had it with them. This is my land, my life. I’m not holding out any longer.” He stepped closer. “A couple of the younger artists want to talk to you too. Will you pay me extra if I talk others into leaving the group?”

She moved back, slightly nauseated by the question. “I can’t do that.”

Drew gave his head a quick shake. “You are one peculiar woman. You’ve been pushing us to sign, and Janice said you were trying to meet a deadline.”

She let out her breath. “I am.”

“Then give me my money.”

“This is complex,” she said, glad Uncle Scott wasn’t able to hear this. “I don’t want a repeat of the Martinez situation. J&S lost a lot of time and effort on that.”

“If you don’t come through, I’m going to Bienville Oil. And some of the others are too.”

“Don’t do that,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “We’ll work this out.”

“Is this a good place to meet?”

“Wouldn’t my office be better?” Camille looked at the few cars still parked nearby.

“I’m not a fan of office buildings. They give me claustrophobia.”

“Maybe a restaurant? I’d be happy to buy lunch or supper.”

“We want this to be private,” he said, as though she’d suggested they discuss the matter on stage.

“J&S shares this garage with several businesses,” she said patiently. “Marsh Cameron, among others, parks here.”

“You call me then. You have my number.” He tipped his cap and started to walk away before turning back. “Janice loves them kids. She’s a good mother, no matter what Ginny says.”

Camille froze. “They’re sweet children.”

He turned to walk away again, and this time Camille called out. “Drew, there’s one more thing.”

His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Are you an artist?”

“Everybody in Sweet Olive’s an artist.”

“What medium do you work in?” she asked, her voice eager.

Drew wore a puzzled look. “I’m not right sure what you’re talking about.”

“Do you paint or carve or do some other kind of art?” she asked.

“My people make things out of old mufflers, and I make metal bugs.”

“The bugs! Those are great, very entertaining.”

“Entertaining?” He lifted his cap and scratched his head. “I reckon they are.”

He was almost to the side exit of the garage when he nodded at someone and slowed his steps.

Camille saw Valerie, standing on the other side of her car, the BMW that had been a gift from her parents when she turned thirty.

Standing still, Camille tried to hear what they said, but echoes of the garage mingled with street noise prevented it. Drew smiled and nodded, then reached out to take a piece of paper—a business card, maybe?—from Valerie.

Scooting behind a nearby SUV, Camille fished her cell phone out of her purse. Holding it up over the edge of the hood, she snapped a picture as Valerie and Drew shook hands. The camera looked like a periscope in an old submarine movie, and her lips curled in amusement.

One way or the other, she’d convince Valerie to work with her. With Slattery somehow involved in Uncle Scott’s deal, firing the annoying Miss Richmond was not an option. But Camille was not going to let her hurt the artists, whatever it took.