Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (24 page)

M
arsh had his laptop on the dining table when the blue-and-white pickup pulled into his driveway.

The vehicle had barely stopped when Camille leaped from it, charging up to his house. He stepped away from the window and waited for the ding of his old-fashioned doorbell—but loud pounding on the door sounded instead.

“Marsh, it’s me.” Camille’s voice was urgent. She kicked at the door as he opened it, catching his shin with her boot.

“Thanks,” he said, resisting the urge to rub the spot.

She glanced at his leg, and then up at him. “I didn’t know—about my father’s involvement in Sweet Olive and all the deals Scott was working.”

“I wish you would have confided in me that your father was the
J
in J&S.”

“I was wrong not to.”

Camille stood there, her sling and cast making her look like an upset angel with a lopsided wing.

Marsh opened the door wider. “Come on in.”

Camille’s emotions threatened to spill over the moment Marsh opened the door.

There had been nothing to be gained by keeping the secret—and much to be lost.

The hallway behind Marsh was warm and inviting, a Persian rug covering hardwood floors. Beyond that, the dining table was scattered with papers and law books. The living room was the way she thought a home should look—with its overstuffed sofa and pine coffee table and original paintings. A messy stack of books and magazines perched on an end table, and lamplight illuminated the entire space.

Marsh propped against the doorframe, and she couldn’t believe she had ever thought he looked stuffy. His dark brown hair was messy, and he had a five o’clock shadow. He wore tight jeans and a red T-shirt advertising a “Skeeter Run” to eliminate malaria. He glanced down at his bare feet as her eyes lit on them.

“Another exciting Friday night,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“I would have called, but I wasn’t sure you’d let me in.”

He tilted his head. “You’re a hard person to keep out.”

Steering her to the cozy room, he pointed to the sofa, but Camille walked to the mantel. Looking to him for a nod of permission, she picked up a dog carving, stroking the smooth wood. A giddy feeling washed over her, but she wasn’t sure if it was because of Marsh’s art—or because of the way he made her heart pound.

“My father carved that for me right after my dog died.”

“Oh,” she said quietly. “What was his name?”

“Boudreaux. He was a good dog.” His voice softened. “Why did you come here?”

“You talked Scott into giving up a big arts grant. Your work will change Sweet Olive forever.”

He gave his head a quick shake. “I’d like to take credit, but Stephens agreed to that grant because of you.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You’re not the most trusting person, are you?”

She looked him up and down. “I’m trying. This has been the most confusing experience of my life—and my life has included some doozies.” She paused. “But it also has helped me see my entire life more clearly.”

He gestured to the couch, putting a small cushion under her cast as she sat.

Her smile broke out. “I want to hear about the look on Uncle Scott’s face when you busted into that meeting tonight. And then I’ll tell you how I negotiated to keep the old pickup.”

“I thought you hated that thing.”

“It was my father’s. I thought I’d better hang on to it.”

T
he paint-by-number of the juggling clown had been the work of Camille’s father when he broke his leg on the neighbor’s roof as a boy. It was the first piece of art Camille remembered, hanging in the ratty travel trailer that went from oil rig to oil rig.

Camille had tried to sell it in a garage sale after her father died, an unwanted symbol of his life. Her mother had snatched it out of the box and fussed at her.

The confrontation with Scott had inexplicably brought it to mind.

“Whatever happened to that clown picture Daddy painted?” she asked her mother on their early call Saturday. She tried for an indifferent note.

“That thing’s up in the attic somewhere,” her mother said with the soft little laugh Camille loved. “I haven’t thought of it in years.”

“See,” Camille said. “We could have tossed it after all …”

“I hoped you would want it one day. We don’t have all that much of your father’s.”

Camille made a dismissive sound. “What an inheritance, right? That pickup and picture sort of say it all.”

“Don’t be disrespectful,” her mother said, in a rare scolding tone. “Your father left far more than that picture—and that old pickup you talked Scott out of.” Her mother’s voice had a disappointed ring. “You’re the fine young woman you are because of him.”

“You raised me.”

Her mother made a clucking noise. “Where do you think you got your adventurous spirit? Your brains? Your sense of humor?” She stopped for a moment. “I’m the dull, responsible one in the family. You are your father made over.”

“That’s not true. I’m … I work hard … I pay my bills—and I—I don’t even drink.” She sounded like she was a teenager again, arguing with her parent.

“Oh, Camille.” The words were delivered with a heavy sigh. “Your daddy made a lot of mistakes—and he was taken from us before he could correct them. But he had so much life in him. He saw the best in people—even in that brother of mine.”

“That’s what I mean. Uncle Scott cheated Daddy, and he let him get away with it. And he’s getting away again.”

“Scott has to live with that,” her mother said. “Your father forgave him. Johnny just didn’t grow up as fast as you did. But he was a good man.” She sniffed. “I’m the weak one. After he died, you had to take care of me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Camille said. “You’ve always been there for me.”

“I made you turn to Scott for help. I let you down.”

“Quit saying things like that. You’re a wonderful mother.”

“Be thankful, Camille, for who you are—for your father’s influence. Put the past away, and move into your future.”

Tears choked Camille’s throat. “I’m trying.”

“I love you. You’re my one best girl.”

“I love you too.”

The line was silent for a moment. “Shall I pull that clown picture out?”

“That would be great,” Camille said.

Ginny rounded her house, wearing overalls and a long-sleeved shirt. She held a large piece of metal and a can of spray paint. Her hair was smashed on top of her head, like someone had sat on a ball of yarn.

“I figured I’d see you bright and early,” she said, “but I’ll tell you right now, I can’t take any more sympathy about my mineral rights.”

She gestured to a table on the porch. A hand-turned wooden bowl sat next to a woven white-oak basket and a large ruby-colored vase filled with daisies. A piece of knitting stuck out of a gift bag, and a pastel painting of the nearby church was propped against the wall.

“I’ve had visits from nearly every person in Sweet Olive and more hugs than I can take. The kitchen looks like somebody died.”

“Ginny, I’m—”

“You don’t have to console me.” She held up the piece of metal almost like a shield. “I’m disappointed, but I’ve lived through worse.” Ginny stared from beneath the big glasses, her gaze matter-of-fact.

“You can take legal action. Marsh can file suit. Landowners do it all the time.”

“No lawsuits, no legal action,” Ginny said. “I’ve seen the records with my own eyes.”

“Ginny, there’s—”

“Let’s talk about the real news around town. You’re Scott Stephens’s niece? Your dad owned an oil company?” She wiggled her thick eyebrows, her long earrings shaking back and forth. “Are you secretly rich?”

“Hardly. My father sold his J&S share to my uncle. He wasn’t cut out for management.”

“What was he cut out for?” Ginny asked curiously.

“I’m still figuring that out.” Camille shrugged. “He seemed to wind up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“He wound up in Sweet Olive,” Ginny said.

“And look at what came out of that. You got hurt.”

Ginny had a considering look on her face. “His time here set a lot of things in motion.”

A cool breeze lifted Camille’s hair and moved the whirligigs. She caught the fresh scent of sweet olive, heavier today. She smiled at Ginny’s haphazard display of art gifts as they headed toward the porch swing.

“I know you don’t want any more gifts, but you earned this one.” Camille fished in the back pocket of her jeans with her good arm and handed a J&S envelope to Ginny.

“The art center grant?”

“I hope you’re ready for another project.”

“It was nice of Mr. Stephens to do that,” she said. “Marsh said your uncle’s not that crazy about your ‘pigheaded’ love of art.”

Camille patted Ginny’s leg. “Only you would say something nice about Uncle Scott after what he and my father did.”

“I heard he’s promoting Valerie. I hope she moves to
Timbuktu and never shows her face around here again.” Ginny rearranged her bun, tightening the clip. “So the community meeting will be next?”

“A week from Monday. Since most of the landowners declined to sign, a few things had to be redone.”

“Will you be leaving then?” Ginny’s voice held a note of disappointment.

“After I work out a few more legal matters. For the first time in my life, I’m not in a rush to leave.”

“Since you have time on your hands—I mean hand.” Ginny guffawed at her own joke. “I have an idea, and it doesn’t involve gas leases.”

“I’m in,” Camille said with a smile.

“You’ve felt so bad about the art festival that I thought we might organize another art show, a quick one, just for fun.”

The wind picked up before Camille answered, and Ginny’s creations began to whir louder. “Ahh.” Ginny twisted her head toward the sound. “God’s at work even when we don’t see Him.”

T
he purple-and-gold golf cart chugged across Ginny’s yard a week later, balloons added to its decor. “What do you think?” Ginny asked. “Are you ready for our first annual Art with Heart?”

“Annual? Let’s see how our impromptu show goes before you plan a yearly one.” Looking around, Camille drank in the colors of Ginny’s whirligigs against the blue October sky, the not-quite-red berries on a pyracantha bush at the edge of the house, and the fragrance of the sweet olive bush. “It’s so pretty it makes my heart hurt.”

Ginny gave a little laugh, not like her usual bold ones. “It’s supposed to make you happy, not sad.”

“It’s a good kind of sad,” Camille said as they puttered out on the road.

Ginny released a deep sigh, glancing in the rearview mirror and back at the house.

“You’re looking for Kylie and Randy, aren’t you?” Camille asked softly.

“Their mother’s bringing them, but …”

“You’re doing the right thing,” Camille said. “Janice will have them there in a few minutes.”

“She’s trying to do right, and it makes them happy to have her living back home again. I’m being selfish.”

“You couldn’t be selfish if you tried. How are you adjusting?”

“It’s not as bad as I expected. She and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, but my brother was important to both of us. That’s a good enough reason—along with the kids—to make it work.”

“She was upset about the mineral rights.” Camille shook her head. “I wish that had turned out differently for all of you.”

“There’s a little good news from that,” Ginny said. “Marsh thinks J&S’s insurance company will pay the expenses we incurred when Todd was killed. That’ll be a big help.”

“You always see the good.”

“Not really.” Ginny scrunched up her face. “I can’t see any good, for example, in you leaving us.”

“It’s hard,” Camille said. They bumped along in silence for a moment. “But I’ll have the pleasure of introducing your work to the world. Allison calmed down enough after all my delays to agree to take a few pieces.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Ginny said.

“Those whirligigs are going to be a big hit in Houston, and then we’ll have to talk all the time. You’re going to be so busy filling orders that you won’t have time for me anyway.”

Ginny made a dismissive snort. “I’m having second—or third—thoughts about that. Who’s going to want one of those? They’re so primitive … not polished in the least.”

“The world’s full of polished,” Camille said. “That’s what makes yours special. Ginny, you have an eye for life. No one in the whole world sees things just as you do. That’s true art.”

“You’re the first person who ever got excited about those things.”

Camille held her arm out, narrowly avoiding Ginny’s face. “I can see them in yards, parks, museums. You wait and see. Smithsonian, here you come.”

“Not at those outrageous prices you want me to charge,” Ginny muttered.

“You have a lot of time in each of them. You can’t give them away. Trust me on this.”

“So is Queen Allison going to give you any paying work since you’ll soon be unemployed?” Ginny asked.

Camille groaned. “Not much, but I’m holding the Artists’ Guild over her head. She’s afraid if she ticks me off, she won’t get your work.”

They bumped ahead, past the small strip of fields to where the colorful houses dotted the road. “Oh, wow,” Camille said. Lawn chairs and folding tables were spread throughout yards. Homemade signs lined driveways. “Art with
,” one said. “Pray. Create. Celebrate,” said another.

Familiar faces smiled as artists along the way greeted them. Lillie Lavender was setting up a table of free crocheted bookmarks, while Lawrence was changing out the bottles on one of his trees to reflect the oranges, yellow, and reds of Louisiana autumn.

“Fantastic idea, Camille,” he said, strolling out to the cart. “I haven’t seen everyone this upbeat in a long time.” He reached his arms out toward her, his muscle rippling in the black T-shirt. “We needed you to get us out of our rut.”

He looked at Ginny. “I have to tell you again how much I regret … I feel bad that you did all that work for nothing.”

She held up her hand, her fingernails painted neon yellow. “I
choose not to see it like that. I was called to do this work, to help you and your mother and Lillie and Bud get their fair share.” She smiled. “A big, fancy gallery is going to show off my whirligigs. Janice has come to her senses. I’m thankful.”

Before she could continue, Ginny’s phone buzzed with a text. “Now here’s important business.” She gave her big laugh. “The Hot Dog King is looking for us.”

“We’ll see you at the church, Lawrence,” Camille said, waving as they pulled off. She couldn’t help wondering how Valerie had ever captured the heart of such a fine man.

The main gathering area had been set up on the front lawn of the quaint little white church, its steeple reaching to the autumn sky. Its old windows were a patchwork of opaque glass, recently repaired by Lawrence as a gift to the church.

The people who milled around, setting things up, were familiar to Camille now, and she smiled as she climbed off the golf cart to where the hot dog vendor was setting up, with his red-and-white striped apron and big red chef’s hat.

Evelyn peered into the containers on the stainless-steel cart, and Bud, also wearing a striped apron, was telling a story.

Ginny’s gaze followed hers, and she smiled. “Bud thought it was a waste of good money to hire someone to cook. He insisted on helping the guy you brought in.”

Camille gave a small laugh. “This is a special occasion. Wait till you taste one of the Cajun dogs he sells by the courthouse. That’s what convinced me to hire him.”

Another table nearby held a variety of birdhouses and other items made from gourds.

Evelyn was smiling as she walked over to the table. “Look, thingamajigs out of gourds!”

Camille’s brow furrowed, and Ginny gave her big laugh. “Snowmen, Santa Clauses, all sorts of little guys. Bud grew those gourds in his garden and talked T. J. into helping him make a few things.”

Behind the stand sat a table with free carved key chains and small pocket crosses. Bud smiled when he noticed Camille and Ginny and brought them each a small carved fish on a silver ring.

“A little reminder,” he said with a big smile. His blue eyes, so like Marsh’s, twinkled in the morning sunlight.

As Camille reached for the fish, she drew in a deep breath. The big sweet olive bushes on each side of the church door were in bloom, and their smell sneaked in underneath that of the hot dog vendor. She gripped the fish.

“Is Marsh going to make it?” Ginny asked, looking around.

“He plans to be here, but he’s tied up on that …” Bud stopped and looked from Ginny to Camille and back to Ginny. “He has paperwork to wrap up on all the well business.”

Ginny nodded, biting her lip. “Is he going to be able to get it done?”

“Sure hope so.”

“Don’t worry,” Camille said. “We’re all set to give you the grant money next week.” She had to work hard not to say more.

“I’m not worried,” Ginny said. “Things are working out better than I could have hoped.”

After parking the cart on the gravel of the church’s parking lot, Ginny and Camille climbed out and wandered over to the area where each artist had displayed a favorite piece of work. Lawrence had even helped Ginny mount one of her whirligigs on a pole to the edge of the church—Moses parting the Red Sea, people following with each puff of wind.

“Is this what you had in mind?” Marsh’s deep voice said from behind Camille.

Turning slowly, she smiled. “It’s better than I imagined.”

“Is everything set, Marsh?” Ginny asked.

He shook his head but turned to Camille. “Complications. We can discuss them later.”

She dug her boot heel into the dirt. “I’m not going to put up with more of Scott and Slattery’s meanness.”

Marsh put his hand on her shoulder. “They’ll get theirs one of these days.”

“Aunt Ginny, look!” Randy ran from around the side of the church before Ginny could respond to Marsh. Holding a kite made from a paper plate and streamers above his head, he giggled. “See what Mama helped me make?”

Janice and Kylie followed more slowly, each also carrying a kite and each wearing a smile.

As Ginny moved toward the trio, Marsh put his hand on Camille’s shoulder. “Have you done the Art Crawl?”

“Not really,” she said, suddenly feeling a wave of melancholy sweep over her. “But I probably need to help with lunch.”

“You sound like my father.”

She laughed. “That’s about the third time you’ve told me that since I arrived in Louisiana.”

“It’s a high compliment,” he said. “Although you’re a lot better looking than he is.” Grinning, he nodded at her. “Did Ginny help you with that outfit?”

Camille looked down at the flowing, gauzy skirt, just touching her boot tops. Her lace top had a scoop neck. Her only jewelry was a pair of sea glass earrings that Lawrence had made for her as a thank-you.

“I got this at a thrift shop in Samford.” She twirled around. “I thought I’d venture outside my comfort zone.”

“You should do that more often.” He reached up to touch her hair. “You look great.”

“Maybe we should take a look at the art,” she said, feeling shy at the intensity in his eyes.

“Lead on,” he said but his gaze lingered.

She took a step forward and tried to memorize each sight—artists in their yards, demonstrating how they created their unusual work, Kylie and Randy squealing as they tried to get their kites in the air.

Her father’s image came into her mind, driving down a dusty road, truck windows open, the wind blowing their hair. She had forgotten until now how he loved to laugh.

Her mother said he had brought them with him to Louisiana because he thought the people were the nicest he’d ever met.

He’d been right. When Camille left this time, it would be with a sense of deep regret.