Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (20 page)

Pulling the truck around the deputy, Camille edged onto the grass. “I’d better get an update. I’ll be right back.”

She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as she approached the lawman.

“Camille!” Marsh’s voice was close—and startled.

She stumbled, hitting the ground hard.

T
he hospitality suite was chilly and impersonal.

Valerie had lined up a row of dining room chairs from a banquet room along one wall. To Camille, they conveyed the look of a firing squad.

Which might be appropriate.

An urn of coffee brewed on a small table, and soft drinks were iced in an oversized plastic bowl. “I still don’t see why we needed a fruit tray
and
cheese,” Valerie grumbled, plopping down on a small couch that looked like a dorm-room futon.

Camille winced, both at Valerie’s tone and the pain. Not only had J&S disrupted an entire community, but Camille had managed to break her wrist and dislocate her shoulder. “Are you certain everyone got word about the free rooms and the vet for their pets? I can’t bear for anyone to be stranded without a place to stay.”

“Why are you so obsessed about that?” Valerie said. “Mr. Stephens said we should only put up the people who were forced to evacuate, not those who want a fancy vacation.”

“You spoke to Scott? I texted him from the emergency room, but the service was so poor.”

“He’s asked me to keep him informed,” Valerie said, hesitating. “He checked on your condition a dozen times overnight. He acted … almost worried about you.”

Camille exhaled the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “When will the pizzas be delivered?” She arranged the napkins Val had left in the packages.

“Within the hour.” Valerie grabbed her phone out of her purse.

“Maybe we should have gotten fried chicken instead,” Camille said. “We still could.”

Making a production out of fluffing a throw pillow, Valerie huffed. “I don’t think these people are going to be all that interested in food.”

Camille adjusted her sling.

Valerie looked at her phone. “Here’s a new report. Wind has shifted. Woods still burning. No houses on fire. My father’s about to have a fit about smoke at his Cotton Grove subdivision.”

“And the workers at the well?” Camille’s voice bordered on hysterical.

“Everyone’s accounted for, and Evelyn’s been released from the hospital. A couple of workers were held overnight, but they’re out now.”

“Thank You, Lord,” Camille murmured.

“Are you
praying
?” Valerie said.

“If this won’t make you pray, nothing will,” a thin voice said from the door, and Camille whirled so quickly that her arm felt like she had held it in the fire. Her head spun.

“Evelyn!” She rushed to the door. “Let me help you sit down.”

“I’m better off than you are.” Evelyn nodded at Camille’s sling.

Lawrence was behind his mother, his eyes concerned. “A cast and a black eye?”

Camille touched her cheek with her uninjured arm. “I think we’ve proven I’m not good in a crisis.”

Neither he nor Evelyn appeared amused. “You scared me to death,” Evelyn said.

“The media’s having a field day with that one.” Valerie looked at Lawrence. “Worst injury of the day goes to the J&S executive.”

“She rescued me,” Evelyn said. “She could have headed back into town and left me out there.”

“That’s not Camille’s style,” Valerie said, and the words did not sound like a compliment.

“You two put all this together?” Lawrence walked over and took a cube of cheese. “Is it true that Camille called a caterer from an operating table?”

Camille rolled her eyes. “I was waiting for a doctor so I set a few things in motion.” She pulled a grape from the tray and nibbled on it to keep from chewing her fingernails. “Valerie told me that half of Sweet Olive camped near the road last night.”

“We’re a stubborn bunch,” Lawrence said. “But Marsh convinced people to come here today. He said we might as well get a shower and a good meal—and let you pay for it.”

“Are they furious?”

“I’ve seen them madder—the time they closed schools for a week for a hurricane that never hit.” Evelyn paused and captured Camille’s gaze with her own. “They’re upset, but they don’t blame you for this.”

“It’s my fault,” Camille said. “I represent J&S, and we brought this pain into your lives, into your homes.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lawrence said.

“Where’s Ginny?” Camille asked.

“She and Marsh are meeting.”

“We’ve got meals and other vouchers,” Camille said. “Can you think of anything else?”

“A few big, fat liability checks,” Valerie muttered.

As the residents trickled in that afternoon, the room took on the air of a funeral parlor visitation. At moments, people were distraught, demanding answers and tearfully recounting the events of the night before and the long day. At other times, they joked and snacked, greeting neighbors as though they had been apart for weeks.

They bombarded Ginny with questions when she stepped into the room early in the evening, but she seemed intent on reaching Camille.

“You should sit down,” she said, hurling herself across the room, her hair bouncing on top of her head. She wore a long skirt and an oversized purple T-shirt, and her eyes were tired.

“Has someone else been injured?” Camille gasped the question.

Ginny shook her head and moved in for a careful embrace. Camille tried not to wince, the sling and cast in the way. “Are you all right?” Ginny asked.

“I’m heartbroken. I’m so sorr—”

“Stop with the apologies, Camille.” Ginny spoke over her words. “They say it was a faulty piece of pipe. It overheated and blew up.” She put her hand at the small of Camille’s back and nudged her toward the couch, putting a pillow under her arm.

“I’m supposed to take care of you, not the other way around,” Camille said.

“I don’t need taking care of.”

“You’re exhausted,” she said, as Ginny sat down next to her. “Where are Kylie and Randy?”

“That’s one of the blessings out of this.” Ginny leaned her head back on the couch. “Janice was terrified when she heard about the fire and got to my house before anyone else. She’s taken them to her sister’s house in Alexandria for a couple of days. She acted … better.”

“I bought them some new art supplies,” Camille said, her voice thin.

“It could have been so much worse. The fire’s nearly out. We should be able to go home tomorrow. Now we need to put you to bed.”

Camille started her usual denial but stopped midsentence as Marsh walked in. He wore faded jeans and an oxford-cloth shirt, untucked, sleeves rolled up. He had no socks on with his loafers.

The careless clothing was offset by the serious look as he strode over. “How are you, Camille?” He looked her up and down.

“Thanks for driving me to the hospital.”

“It was the least I could do.” He grinned. “It’s been a long time since a pretty woman fell at my feet.”

“I doubt that.”

“What’d they say at the hospital?” Marsh said.

“That I should be more careful when I peek in someone’s window.”

“I hated to leave you in the ER, but I had to get back to Sweet Olive to make sure my father was all right.” Marsh pulled up a chair, sitting knee to knee with her. “In case you’re wondering,
you’ve called the sheriff so many times that he’s about to block your number.”

Camille’s chuckle was weak. “At least they restored phone service.”

“You could have been seriously injured.”

“Then I would be out of your hair.”

“Don’t joke about things like that,” Ginny said.

Camille looked from one to the other. Business would intrude soon enough, but she liked the way they huddled close to her. She turned slightly, bumping Marsh’s knee.

“I slipped and fell. It was my own fault.” Camille attempted to sit up straighter. “We need to discuss how long it will be before people can get back into their homes—and what we’ll need to do to compensate them.”

“The fire inspectors have to sign off on letting people back in,” Valerie said, walking up, her eyes glued to her phone. “They haven’t gotten the fire completely out.”

Everyone in the room flocked to where she stood. “I knew it was a bad idea to come here,” Charlene, the bossy one of the twins, said. “I’m not sitting around while my home burns.”

“You are not going in there,” Darlene said.

Camille got to her feet slowly, steadying herself with the hand that wasn’t bandaged. “Please, stay here where it’s safe.”

“We’re not getting enough information,” Drew Cross said. “We don’t know any more than we did last night.”

“We’ll relay it as quickly as it arrives,” Valerie said.

Camille held up her hand, swaying slightly. “I’ll go to the site and give everyone regular reports.”

“Absolutely not,” Marsh said, and Camille noticed Valerie’s head jerk back slightly.

“I’ll go.” Valerie lifted one shoulder, her gauzy shirt flowing with the movement. “Mr. Stephens requires constant feedback anyway.”

“I’ll go with you,” Lawrence said.

Within a few hours, the residents had scattered to their rooms with the promise they would be notified in person if there were any changes.

Marsh had gone home to let his father into his house.

The fire smoldered on, pictures from Valerie dinging on Camille’s phone.

Two firefighters were taken to the hospital for burns and smoke inhalation, and Valerie had set up a communication center on the road where a deputy was stationed.

“I appreciate your help with this,” Camille said in a broken-up cell call.

“The Houston office sent an e-mail with emergency protocol, and my father insisted businesspeople deserve to know what is going on.”

For the first time, Camille was relieved when the call dropped. Leaving Sweet Olive would be heart wrenching. Leaving Valerie would not.

In the hotel suite, Camille paced until Ginny complained that she was making her nervous. Then she stared out the window at the parking lot and paced more. She was so tired she hardly felt her wrist and shoulder.

Ginny, the only other person in the room, was sandwiched between the arms of the small sofa, eyes closed and breathing
steady. Camille couldn’t imagine how she slept in that awkward position, her arms up under her head and her legs bent. Her long hair hung over the couch arm.

Camille had never seen Ginny slow down. In the wee hours of the night, she looked vulnerable, like one of the children she cared for.

Getting a blanket and pillow from housekeeping, Camille covered Ginny. “Sleep well,” she murmured.

“Shouldn’t you be doing likewise?” a voice whispered in her ear.

A sharp pain ripped through Camille’s shoulder as she jumped back into Marsh.

“Careful.” He put his arm around her waist.

“What are you doing back?”

“You don’t like to accept help, do you?”

Camille let him guide her to the other side of the room. His touch was light, his voice kind. “How’s the arm?”

Resisting the urge to shrug, she twisted her mouth as she sank into a chair. “Not too bad.”

“You’re a tough thing.” He sat in the seat next to her. “No wonder you wound up in the oil-and-gas business.”

She snorted. “If I were tough, I wouldn’t
be
in this business.”

“You risked your life for Sweet Olive.”

She closed her eyes and put her hand on her neck. “I owe my life to Sweet Olive.”

At this moment her future seemed as unclear as the smoke-filled sky, but whatever happened would be tinged with lessons from the wise artists.

Camille’s mother called for the third time early the next morning. “I saw you on television again. Your interviews are gripping.”

Camille moaned softly.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Mama, like I told you six times yesterday, I’m good.” She glanced down at the sling and cast. “I’m worried about what Uncle Scott’s going to do when he sees all those news reports.”

“Quit worrying about Scott. You need to come home.”

“Home? I have a job to do. And another one in Houston.”

“I want to take care of my girl for a while.”

Camille smiled. “You always take care of me.”

The next call was from Allison, who alternated between excitement at seeing Camille on national news and concern that the art had been damaged. “If there’s a silver lining to this, it’s that you’ll have time to crate the Sweet Olive art.” Allison gave an exasperated sigh. “But let’s figure out exactly when that will be.”

“I don’t know, Allison.” Camille adjusted her arm. “I don’t know.”

“We might work this into a dramatic marketing piece. Did any of the art burn?” Allison stopped, as though she had just realized the jeopardy. “Ginny’s house was not damaged, was it?”

Camille drew in a deep breath, feeling as though she could smell the thick smoke. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to fill in at the gallery anytime soon.”

“Are you serious?” Allison shrieked. “Are you taking the artists to another gallery?”

“I’m not taking the artists anywhere at the moment,” Camille said tiredly.

“You’d better not steal them away from me,” Allison said. “We had a deal.” She hung up.

T
he house at Trumpet and Vine looked different at various times of the day.

At dawn, when sleeplessness forced Camille out of bed, it had a calm dignity. The street corner wasn’t noisy yet, and the sun wasn’t bright enough to show its flaws.

By lunchtime, it looked like a middle-aged aunt, sagging but approachable.

For some reason, Camille liked it best in the evening.

Tonight the traffic was steady enough to be lively but not so heavy as to be intrusive. With the days getting shorter, the house had already fallen into shadows.

She pulled the truck into the drive and leaned her head back, favoring her injured arm. The quiet darkness calmed her after another day of dealing with fire fallout, including a nasty scene with Slattery and a terse voice mail from Uncle Scott.

At least everyone was safe and back in their homes, ready to resume their lives during the weekend ahead.

Taking a deep breath, she got out. The traffic light had switched over to flashing yellow and she stood there as it went bright, dark, bright, dark.

As a car slowed nearby, she looked around self-consciously and crossed the street to the convenience store. She thought the same old man watched TV behind the counter tonight as he had done when she was fifteen.

He didn’t speak when she bought a fried pie and a cup of decaf coffee, half looking over his shoulder at a news program as he took her money.

Camille stepped toward the door before stopping. “Excuse me.”

The man didn’t respond but a tiny, wrinkled woman leaning on a walker gave a nod. “Bill, the young lady needs something else.”

“I wonder if you know anything about that house across the street?”

“Like what?” the man snapped.

“Is it still for sale?”

“Sign still there?” he asked.

“Um … yes, I believe so.” Camille knew it was. She looked for it every day.

“Then it’s still for sale. Will there be anything else?”

“Bill!” the woman said, gliding closer to Camille. “Someone finally made an offer on it.”

“You don’t know that,” the man said.

“I talked to the real estate agent myself,” the woman said. “He was in here for a biscuit yesterday … or was it Tuesday? Are you interested in buying it?”

“Oh no,” Camille said.

“Then why are you taking up our time?” The man turned back to the television.

Camille put her hand on the door.

“He gets wrapped up in the TV,” the woman said apologetically. Her smile was strong, although her body looked frail.

“No problem,” Camille said, but she didn’t open the door. She felt frozen, looking out at the duplex.

“I’m Martha. That mean old coot’s my husband, Bill. His sister used to live in that house.” She scrutinized Camille, her eyes lingering on the cast.

“I’m Camille.” She chewed on her lip. “Was your sister-in-law Mrs. Maxwell, by any chance?”

Martha’s eyes got large behind her thick glasses. “You knew Edie?”

“My mother and I knew her. It was a long time ago.”

“She passed away three years ago,” Martha said. “Heart attack. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her.”

“She was a nice person,” Camille said. When Uncle Scott had offered Mrs. Maxwell a wad of cash, she had shaken her head. But Camille had seen him slip it into the apron pocket while scolding her mother for taking too long to get in the big truck, a red Silverado.

“She was good as gold.” The woman walked from behind the counter, moving the walker steadily with each step. “What was your mother’s name?”

“Beth Gardner. She lives in Amarillo now.”

The woman tilted her head and seemed to be waiting. “And you’re Camille Gardner?” she asked, as though trying to place her. “What brings you to Trumpet and Vine at this time of night? Mostly we do daytime business.”

Camille shrugged. “I’m new to town. I was driving by.”

“This used to be a lovely neighborhood,” Martha said.

“Well, it sure ain’t anymore,” Bill said.

Camille nodded. “Life changes, I suppose.”

“Did you ever go in Edie’s little gift shop?” Martha asked. “She lived upstairs and had the shop on the bottom floor.”

Camille nodded slowly. “Once.” She still had the tiny souvenir pitcher Mrs. Maxwell had given her, its handle now glued together and its spout chipped.

“I hope the new owners are good neighbors,” Martha said. “Wouldn’t it be something if this corner sprang back to life?”

Camille held back a moan. The store owner must be quite an optimist if she held out hope for Trumpet and Vine and the duplex in particular. The yard was mostly dirt, and a big limb lay on the roof. Torn screens were flopping on two windows by the porch, and a cat sat on the wooden ledge.

As Camille exited, Bill locked the front door of the store behind her.

Propelled by dismay that the house had sold, Camille lurched to the duplex. She felt like she had gone back in time and been disappointed anew.

Had she ever gone in the shop? the lady had asked. Once. The place was branded into her memory, despite all of her efforts to forget it. She crept around back for a closer look.

Her mother, a part-time cafeteria worker, had insisted—in a calm, firm voice—that they accompany her dad on a summer wildcatting trip to Cypress Parish.

Even at fifteen, Camille had not complained when they cleared out of their apartment in Abilene and headed east. They had moved so much that she didn’t have friends to part with, and her entertainment was portable—a sketchbook and watercolor paints.

They set up camp at the Takin’-It-Easy RV Park on the south side of Samford, occupied mostly by oilfield workers who didn’t look like they had ever taken it easy. But despite litter and domestic arguments in nearby trailers, the site had appealed to Camille. Magnolia trees flanked the entrance, their big, white blossoms giving off a wonderful scent.

While her dad crawled around on drilling sites, she and her mama sunbathed at the tiny pool at the RV park, a rare treat, and Camille picked up a few dollars watching a smattering of young children while their parents worked.

After only a few days, her short babysitting stints had turned into art lessons. With excitement, she planned an exhibit for the end of summer and saved money to buy treats for their “graduation.”

For the first time in years, her mother didn’t have a job and her father was home each evening, happy and seldom drinking.

Until that day in mid-August, when the scorching sun sent her back to the little trailer for Kool-Aid. Her father, his eyes bleary and his breath foul with beer, was throwing their belongings into two cardboard boxes and a suitcase they had bought at a garage sale when Camille was in fourth grade.

He had shielded his face from the bright light when she opened the door and then fussed at her for surprising him. “Where’s Beth?”

“At the pool.” She ignored the flood of dread in her stomach. “Wanna join us?”

“Go get her. We’re leaving.”

The words themselves weren’t all that different from versions he had uttered a dozen or more times. But his voice sounded different—upset, weary, even defeated.

The next hour was a nightmarish blur, a whirl of shouts,
tears, and misery. No matter how hard her mother pleaded, her father wouldn’t budge. A well fire near Tyler needed his immediate attention.

“I’ve got to go now,” he said, “and try to save the company.”

“Isn’t that Scott’s job? It’s his company now.”

Her father popped the top to another beer and took a long gulp before answering. “It’s going to take both of us.”

“Then let’s get going. Camille, run tell the children good-bye. I’ll finish securing our things.”

When her daddy set the beer can on the counter, Camille knew he was leaving them again. He exhaled. “This one’s dangerous. I can’t take you with me.”

For a moment, worry for her father and relief dueled within Camille. She liked this place. She wanted to stay.

“Scott says we’ll need the camper,” her father said. “The well’s isolated and it’ll be the only place for the guys to crash.” He held up his hand when her mother started to speak. “J&S owns it.”

“Owns us,” her mother murmured.

“Not for long. I’m this close to getting out.” He held his thumb and index finger about an inch apart. “I have something in the works, and we’ll never have to move again—but first I’ve got to take care of this fire.”

“You’ve been drinking, Johnny. You shouldn’t drive. You shouldn’t—”

“I only had a couple of beers, Beth.” He rubbed his neck. “The fire’s a bad one. They need me.”

“Where will Camille and I stay until you come back?”

He pulled her mother close and nuzzled her neck. “Scott’s been in Bogalusa overseeing a pipeline leak. He’ll pick you up on his way through Samford and drop you in Longview.”

“Longview?” Camille tried to remember if they had lived there before, the Texas towns running together.

“That’s our next stop, baby girl.” He drew her into the embrace with her mother. “I’ll meet you there.”

Her dad drove the old truck off, camper in tow. He waved and blew a kiss as he left. “Draw me another picture, Camille,” he said as he rolled through the gates of the park.

A neighbor whose husband worked in the oilfield too offered to take them to the corner where they were to meet Uncle Scott. “We sure are going to miss y’all. Abby says she’s going to be an art teacher like Camille when she grows up.”

Camille wiped back a tear as the woman, her old car needing a muffler, drove off. Her mother sank onto a concrete bus bench outside the convenience store and tugged on Camille’s arm. “We’ll quit moving around now that you’re in high school. Daddy’s going to find us a house with a yard.”

“Right. And I’m going to own an art studio and you’re never going to have to work again.”

“Oh, sweetie.” For the first time she could ever remember, her mother began to weep. “Everything’s going to work out.”

Camille kicked one of the boxes holding their meager belongings. “If you say so …”

“Your father’s a good man, but he has a job to do.”

“Other people’s fathers don’t leave them on street corners.”

Her mother put her head in her hands and sobbed. Shame washed over Camille, and she wrapped her arms around her mother, wedged against her on the hard bench. “I’m sorry, Mama. Don’t cry. Everything will be all right.”

She kept saying that when they went into the store for a
snack. When the afternoon sun blistered their noses. When Uncle Scott still didn’t come.

“I don’t even know how to reach him,” her mother said, a fresh round of sobs coming.

In that moment, Camille vowed never to make her mother cry again.

“Everything’s going to be fine.” She dug out her babysitting money. “How about some ice cream?”

At dark, a woman—“Edith Maxwell, but my friends call me Edie”—came out of the duplex/gift shop and offered them a meal and a place to sleep.

Worried that Uncle Scott wouldn’t be able to find them, Camille taped a sign on the bus bench that said
Over There
with an arrow. From the pay phone, they had placed calls to every J&S employee they could think of until their change had run out, gaining no information except that the fire in Tyler raged out of control.

Her mother had slowly regained her composure, shelling peas with Mrs. Maxwell, and Camille sat on the steps.

“God knew we needed you, Edie,” her mother said, her smile almost back to normal.

At midnight, when Scott still had not appeared, Mrs. Maxwell pulled out the rollaway bed, and Camille snuggled there until her mother drifted off to sleep. Then she went back to the stifling porch to keep watch.

Uncle Scott’s arrival, at that dark moment before dawn, awoke Camille from the chair, and she ran into the yard to flag him down. Although she had never felt close to him, this morning she rushed to his fancy new pickup and threw her arms around him.

He smelled like cigarettes and sweat and wore an expression she hadn’t seen before.

“Your father’s had an accident, Camy. Where’s your mother?”

From that moment, she was in Scott’s debt, her dreams of an art career blown away by an oilfield fire.

Marsh rounded the corner of Vine with a cramp in his left leg. That’s what he got for waiting so late to run. The well fire had occupied most of the day with a conference call with the Baton Rouge office, the founding partner shouting about the bad press.

Marsh groaned. He must be getting old when a Thursday night jog sounded like the perfect evening.

He glanced over at the convenience store, closed for the evening. Wiping the sweat from his face, he stepped back into the shadows as he saw someone walking around the rear of the house across the street.

Looking closer, he frowned. A pickup that looked like his father’s was in the driveway. Maybe his dad had stopped to check something for Ross—for surely Camille wasn’t there.

He cut across the street and padded around the side of the house, his dad nowhere in sight, the truck shrouded in shadows.

As he looked closer, though, he could barely make out someone on the back steps, jiggling the door handle. The person was obscured by a bush, but it was not his father.

“Finally,” a woman’s voice said softly.

“Camille?”

But she had already stepped across the threshold.

Marsh was curious by nature and good at figuring things
out—but this one had him flummoxed. Following her into the house, he watched as she stepped into what must have been a dining room. With her back to him, she stood in the doorway for a long moment. Then she rubbed her hand along the wood trim.

This woman was crazy. Anyone could walk up on her standing there like that.

He took a step. “Hello.”

“Ugh,” Camille grunted, whirling around, coffee flying out of the paper cup in her hand. “Marsh!” She grabbed her hurt wrist. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s the question I was about to ask you.”

She gave a nervous laugh, the flash of a streetlight outside illuminating her face. She wore those same ragged jeans and cowboy boots tonight with an art festival T-shirt of some sort. Her hair was sticking up, and she looked fantastic.