Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (18 page)

C
amille walked up Lawrence’s driveway early Saturday, bypassing the teal-and-brown house.

His studio was nestled between two huge pine trees behind his house, a plain brown metal building. The blue door stood open.

Climbing the concrete steps, she called out, more nervous than expected.

“Camille!” he said, rising from a work table just inside the door.

She looked past him to a row of tiny glass flowers. “Those are gorgeous.”

“I said I’d never design jewelry, but I need to earn more money.” He guided her to a nearby mirror and held one of the flowers up to her ear. “Do you think women might be interested in something like this?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m thinking of signing up for a booth at several of the regional art shows.” He tilted his head, his black hair blowing slightly in the breeze from the doorway. As usual, he wore a black T-shirt—and wore it well. “I just have to figure out my schedule.”

“That’s why I asked to come by.”

“Time on your hands?” He smiled.

“I wanted to follow up on an earlier conversation.”

His expression froze.

“What’s wrong?” Her face heated up, and then she nodded. “Don’t worry. I’m here to talk about art, not gas.”

“I was an idiot to take the check. You’re in the gas business.”

Camille fingered the delicate glass flower. “That’s behind us. I want to talk about the future.”

He nodded toward the open door. “Let’s sit outside and enjoy this day. The sky. The light. Even the temperature is nice. It’s the gift of early October in Louisiana. We’ve actually survived another summer.”

They chatted as they strolled up the drive, sunlight gleaming on his glasswork. The sun had shifted during her weeks here, and it gave a magical glow to a new sculpture of a bird.

She turned to face him. “I heard from the gallery owner in Houston,” she said. “She wants to talk further about your work.”

He sauntered over to the closest of his stunning bottle trees, touching it with what almost looked like affection. The contrast between his big, masculine hand and the vibrant glass captivated her.

“I don’t know about a big-city gallery. I tried selling a piece or two in New Orleans, and it didn’t work out so great.”

“It all depends on the gallery,” Camille said, her energy surging as she spoke. “The right place can connect you with people who appreciate your particular style.”

He smiled. “You sound like a matchmaker.”

“That’s sort of what it is.”

He guided her to the swing where she and Ginny had sat
on the first day she came to Sweet Olive. “Tell me how it would work.”

“I’ll send more pictures to the gallery, and the owner will decide what she wants. She’ll pay you—and then sell them at her price.”

He frowned slightly at that and was silent.

Camille turned to look at him. “I don’t want to talk you into something else you’re not comfortable with.”

“I’m not a wishy-washy guy by nature, and I sure don’t think of myself as weak.” He sat up and rubbed a scar on his hand. “I work with molten glass, one of the most dangerous kinds of art.”

She waited.

“When Mama got sick, though, I panicked. I took the head waiter job at the Samford Club, asked Slattery to increase my hours, worked more for Bud Cameron. You name it.”

“And took the check.”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “She’d had her first round of chemo the day before.” He exhaled. “I thought that money would make everything all right.”

“But you changed your mind.”

“I’m not much of a word guy, and this is hard to explain.” He paused, and she forced herself not to rush him. “When you came to town, we were all about to give up. Your interest in the art made us take a fresh look at what we’ve got.”

“But I wanted you to take a fresh look at your mineral leases,” she said.

He shook his head. “Up here, we believe things happen for a reason. We needed you to make us consider new possibilities.”

The swing eased back and forth. He smiled over at her. “You understand Sweet Olive.”

Fingering the swing’s chain, she looked out at lawns filled with art as far as she could see. “The strangest thing? I feel like Sweet Olive understands me.”

He wrinkled his brow. “We don’t want you to leave.”

“But I have to.”

“Do you?” he asked.

Scott’s call came Saturday evening.

“Camy! I hope you’re doing something fun.”

“I’m in my room studying the geology maps for the Cypress gas field.” There was a loud cheer in the background. “Where are you?”

“In a bar in El Paso,” he said. “There’s a football game on, and I’m having trouble hearing.”

“Step outside. I have questions that need answers.”

“You’d better have signatures for me,” Scott said. “Tell me you’ve harvested more names.”

“Like I told you the other night, we have to find a way to move the well sites,” she said. “There must be other land available.”

“The records I gave you clearly show the available land.”

“We’ve changed sites plenty of times for powerful landowners all over the country. Why can’t we do that here? I recommend we adjust the plans. Otherwise we’ll be putting them outside someone’s bedroom window.”

“I’ve got an idea.”

“I knew you’d think of something.”

“I’m thinking,” he said, his voice sarcastic, “that these goofy artists can look out their windows and enjoy the view of all
that money they’ll be making. We can’t go farther south with them.”

“Really? That’s your answer? Have the engineers looked at the water supply?” she asked. “We’re unlikely to get water rights with this batch of leases.”

“Camille, I sent you there to do one important thing, and all I’m hearing is excuses.”

“These are legitimate concerns.”

“You, of all people, should know how hard it is to make money in oil and gas these days. Lawyers. Environmentalists. Government regulations. Oil deals being fought in some idiot’s kitchen. Give me a freaking break.”

“But we’ve always made money by treating people right.”

“Your head’s out of the game,” Scott said. “I thought you would make up to me for that mess you made on television.”

“I always give you my best.”

“Then let’s see some names on contracts.” The crowd roared behind him. “The Cowboys just scored. I’ve got to go.”

A
llison’s plane was late, giving Camille time to worry that the hasty invitation had been a mistake. And maybe she should have rented a car.

Perhaps she should have mentioned the gallery owner’s visit to Ginny.

When Allison stepped out from the baggage claim area Monday afternoon at the small Samford airport, she pulled a large suitcase, a leather purse slung over her shoulder. She wore a black wraparound dress and a frown.

“Allison! Over here!” Camille yelled, and the frown grew as Allison eyed the truck. Hopping out, Camille smiled and tossed the suitcase into the back.

“Will it be …
safe
back there?” Allison wrinkled her nose as she spoke. “I’d prefer to put it up front, if you don’t mind.”

Camille reached for the bag. “It’ll be tight, but we’ll make it work.” The suitcase wedged between them, Camille let out the
clutch and pulled out. “Thank you for squeezing this stop into your trip,” she said. “You’re going to love these artists.”

Allison gave a weak laugh. “It’s not the artists I care about. I just hope their
art
is as good as you say.”

“You won’t find work like this anywhere else.”

“I see a great deal of fine art,” Allison said. “Very fine art.” She crossed her tan legs at the ankles and looked over at Camille. “But I admire your enthusiasm.” She looked around with a hint of interest. “Besides, I’ve never been to North Louisiana.”

“The people are friendly. The countryside is beautiful, full of trees and lakes. The food’s outstanding and—”

“I didn’t realize you had such deep ties to this place.” Allison arched her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “You sound like a travel brochure.”

“I don’t have ties here, but it’s been a nice stop.”

“So tell me about Lawrence Martinez. I’m oddly pulled in by the photos of his work—and he’s had web exposure.”

“He’s phenomenal,” Camille said. “He lives next door to his mother in Sweet Olive and—”

“Next door to his mother? I can’t imagine a mama’s boy being much of an artist.”

Camille couldn’t hold back her laughter. “I wouldn’t call Lawrence a mama’s boy. Every woman in Cypress Parish has a crush on him.” She paused. “He’s exceptional, but I also want to introduce you to Ginny Guidry. She makes whirligigs that would be an asset to any folk-art collection. She doesn’t realize how good her work is.”

“She’s undiscovered?”

“She’s shown a piece or two at small local shows, but her work’s not been sold in a gallery.”

“I prefer to deal with people who have already been vetted.”

Camille ran her fingers through her hair. “I thought you wanted fresh talent.”

“I seek artists who have already made it through the lowest levels and are moving up. My goal is to snatch them right before they hit it big.”

“But your gallery has a reputation for finding unknown artists.”

Allison’s shoulder-length black hair scarcely moved as she nodded. “They are unknown until I represent them. Beginners can be so unsophisticated and needy.”

“Ginny’s not needy, that’s for sure.”

“The thing about new artists,” Allison said, letting loose a dramatic sigh, “is that they hound you. They want to show their work. They want to know if you’ve had any nibbles. They want to know if you’ve sold something. It’s exhausting.”

Camille thought of Ginny, rushing off to her day job, coming home to teach classes and moderate community meetings, sandwiching her own art in between. “I suppose it’s just as well you’re not interested.” Camille added a fake sound of regret to her words. “Ginny’s stonewalled other attempts to show her art. She probably wouldn’t be a good fit anyway.”

“Other people have been interested, you say?” Allison perked up.

“At least one collector that I know of.” Camille figured it was acceptable not to mention she was talking about herself. “Ginny’s particular about how her work is shown.”

“So it’s exhibited privately?”

“You might say that.” Camille hid a smile.

“Perhaps I was too hasty.” Allison threw her hands up. “I’m yours for the next few hours. Show me whatever you like.”

Saving Ginny’s artwork for last, Camille drove through Samford, past the intersection of Trumpet and Vine.

Allison pressed her lips together in a stark straight line, her carefully shaped brows following suit. “I bet you’ll be happy to get out of here. This place is a—well, let’s say it’s seen better days.”

Camille looked at the vacant house and deserted church, both forlorn in abandonment. The shabby convenience store and park weren’t much better. “The area has charm,” she said, surprised at her rush of defensiveness. “And the people are extremely creative.”

As they drove around the curve into Sweet Olive, the row of bright houses ahead, Camille held her breath.

“How quaint,” Allison said. Then she caught sight of Lawrence’s work. “This is more like it.” She grabbed the door handle, and for a split second, Camille thought she was going to jump out of the truck.

“Lawrence blends a folk-art approach with a modern twist.” Camille pulled to the side, distracted by the sight of Valerie’s BMW.

“It’s very effective,” Allison said.

“I’ve never thought of art as being ‘effective.’”

“Don’t worry. You’ll learn.”

“But—”

Before she could continue, Lawrence rounded the corner from his studio, in a pair of slacks and a shirt and tie. “Oh my.” Allison opened the door in a rush. “He is a hunk.”

Camille couldn’t suppress the thread of disappointment that ran through her at the sight of Lawrence dressed up. She preferred his black Ts and cargo pants.

As Lawrence clasped Allison’s outstretched hand, Valerie
appeared. She wore a black silk blouse, tight black jeans, and bright red heels, her hair piled on her head in artful confusion. Her smiling gaze passed over Camille, focusing on Allison.

“Valerie stopped by to get your questions answered, Camille,” Lawrence said.

“My questions?”

Valerie waved her hand, as though drying nail polish. “Don’t worry. I found out what we needed, Camille.”

“Are you an artist too?” Allison asked.

“Only if you consider finding oil and gas an art.” Valerie gave a tinkling laugh. “Camille and I work together at J&S Production.” Valerie released a sympathetic sigh. “We had no idea this deal would take so long.” Her voice dripped southern charm and she drew out the word
long.

“Valerie,” Camille snapped. “This isn’t your concern. I’ll see you at the office.” She looked forward to sacking Valerie before she departed Sweet Olive, no matter what Scott said.

Allison seemed to be torn between looking at the glass on display in the yard and at Lawrence, who tugged at his tie.

“The boss has spoken,” Valerie said. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Allison. Will you be in Louisiana long?”

“Only a few hours. I hope I can get out on the last flight to Dallas. The Samford airport’s rather … small.” Her lips narrowed.

“Isn’t it impossible to get here?” Valerie said. “I’m driving over to Dallas myself later today.”

She was?

“Is it possible …?” Allison looked at her diamond-encrusted watch and leaned toward Valerie.

“I’d be delighted for you to ride with me, if you don’t mind small cars.” Valerie pointed at her shiny sportster.

Allison looked from the car to Camille’s pickup. “I expect to be finished here by early evening. That will help me immensely.”

Why have I never realized Allison is a Texas version of Valerie?

“If you’re in a hurry, we’d better head to my studio.” Lawrence pulled off his tie, his face impassive. “Camille, you might want to notify Ginny.”

Ginny’s bright red lips were stern when she sauntered out into the yard to meet Camille and Allison. She wore her rattiest pair of denim overalls, a gigantic bleached spot over the left knee. Her hair was in two fat braids.

“This is the gallery owner I mentioned on the phone,” Camille said.

“You’re the artist?” Camille realized with a start that it was the first true note of delight she’d ever heard in Allison’s voice.

“For better or worse,” Ginny said.

“Where does your inspiration come from?” Allison said.

Camille tensed, waiting for Ginny to respond with her down-home disdain. Instead she gave her hearty laugh. “Most of my ideas come from trying to put the pieces of everyday life together.” She gestured toward the house. “Would you like to see my collection of local art?”

Allison swept past Camille. “That would be lovely.”

“Are Kylie and Randy here?” Camille trailed the two, feeling oddly out of place.

“Evelyn took them to the library,” Ginny answered over her shoulder before launching into a discussion of gallery operations with Allison.

“Camille, you were not exaggerating about these people,” Allison said as she studied one of Bud’s sketches. “We could mount an entire Sweet Olive exhibit.”

“I’m not sure.” Camille was afraid to look at Ginny.

But Ginny seemed intrigued. “What would that involve?”

Allison reached into her handbag and pulled out a small leather calendar. “Camille can catalogue our acquisitions.” She tapped the date with a pink-polished nail. “And oversee the shipping process. With her return to Houston coming up, it’ll be tight, but we’ll make it work.”

Ginny fingered one of her braids, looking at Camille.

Allison glided back through the living room, murmuring to herself and jotting in her notebook. “Camille promised me a treasure trove, and she’s true to her word.”

“That’s a matter of perspective,” Ginny murmured.

“I told you I needed to get back to Houston,” Camille said. Misery sank in her stomach like a brick.

“I thought you were staying until Sweet Olive worked out its leases.” With her fierce glare and overalls, Ginny only needed a pitchfork to look like a country warrior.

“We’ve stalled. I e-mailed my boss today, suggesting we put Sweet Olive on hold.” She was prepared to fight his response.

Allison’s pale lipstick turned into a smile. “I’m looking forward to teaching Camille about the art business. She’s going to owe me big-time.” The playful laugh Allison added didn’t keep Camille from thinking of Valerie.

“This is some coup,” Allison said. “The other Southwest galleries aren’t going to know what hit them.”

Camille could hardly listen to Allison. She put her hand on Ginny’s arm. “I’m sorry—”

Ginny pulled away. “Enough with the apologies.”

Allison gestured at the room—painting, pottery, glass, fiber, baskets, and Bud’s carvings. “Some of these pieces are crude, but I’m willing to take the entire lot.”

Camille’s heart pounded. “These aren’t crude. They’re real. They’re valuable.”

Ginny picked up a pottery vase, caressing it. “Most of these are gifts from friends. I’ll never sell them.” For one of the first times since Camille had met her, Ginny seemed shaken.

“We can hash out details over the phone. I’ll get a commission, but you’ll still come out very well.”

“I’ll need to talk to the other artists … and pray about it.”

“Pray?” Allison rested her chin on her hand and looked Ginny over from feet to braids. “That could give us a hook.” She held up her hands as though framing a sign. “‘The Spiritual Bayou Woman Finds Meaning in Her Metal Designs.’ If we spin this right, we’ll get national press.”

“No.” Camille wished she could shove Allison out of the house. “Ginny isn’t some doll to be paraded around.”

Allison nodded. “We’ll have to work with what we’ve got, but there’s definitely raw potential here.”

“I made a mistake.” Camille’s voice was almost a wail. “Let’s forget this ever happened.”

Ginny gave a grim chuckle. “I’ve been praying for God to open a door for you, and it looks like He’s opened one for me instead.”

“No,” Camille whispered, nauseated at the idea of Ginny’s image in Allison’s hands.

“I don’t understand what’s going on here.” Allison flipped her hair back. “Are you driving up the price? Because that is highly unprofessional.”

“You’re the one who said I should believe in my work, Camille.” Ginny adjusted her black glasses. “It’s time for me to move on with my life.”