Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (4 page)

C
amille plugged an address from the note card into her GPS and waited for Miss Priss, the annoying mechanical voice, to direct her.

Her qualms at venturing out into Sweet Olive on a Sunday afternoon were overridden by the fear of her calendar. She didn’t have a day to waste.

Scott had vanished before their morning meeting, texting her that he needed to take care of a problem at the home office before heading to Canada. He left the J&S envelope with detailed instructions at the front desk.

Camille considered tossing it in the trash but ripped it open and, over a free continental breakfast, immersed herself in maps, contracts, and notes, some in her uncle’s handwriting.

As much as she hated to admit it, this job appealed to her.

The few holdouts couldn’t be that hard to work with, and she might work in time to explore the regional art—likely the cutout wooden hearts stuff sold at craft shows, though. The bonus
money would supplement her mother’s income and help Camille make the down payment on the house.

She scrutinized the GPS, surprised to see her destination was closer than she remembered. Sweet Olive was only fifteen miles up Vine Avenue, just beyond the city limits of Samford. The drive took her north on Vine, past the street where the party had been, and through a small shopping area with a handful of restaurants and boutiques.

When Vine veered, Camille double-checked her directions and was relieved to head the opposite way. She’d prefer not to explore to the left.

The houses grew progressively bigger, separated from the road by a fancy wrought-iron fence. A massive gate, with brick columns, had the words
Cotton Grove
spelled out in metal, with a keypad for entry.

Just beyond that, the road narrowed.

Staring at a new gas well, Camille took a sharp curve a little too quickly, nearly sending the truck into a field of brown stems. Dust from the shoulder stirred.

A tiny road in the middle of a cotton field led to a giant tower that looked like an industrial Christmas tree. A line of white pickups and tanker trucks clustered around it, resembling wasps buzzing around a nest.

From her notes, she thought that would be well number 291903, a Bienville Oil site. She was in the right vicinity—and the old truck fit right in.

Across the two-lane highway, showing signs of wear from the equipment, concrete had been poured for another pad. J&S had held the lease on this parcel for decades, and the discovery of the Cypress shale field provided, as Scott had said, the much
needed opportunity to drill. This, one of their first new wells in Louisiana, would be a model of the wells Scott wanted in Sweet Olive.

A dirt-moving machine groomed the red Louisiana clay where trees had been removed. A dump truck beeped in reverse, accompanied by the loud banging noise of another piece of heavy machinery. A pile of branches and what looked like pieces of an old house smoldered in a heap. A collection of men in hard hats roamed around.

A fleet of J&S pickups, with the familiar red logo, congregated on the edge of the site. “Those are your grandchildren,” she said grudgingly, tapping on the dashboard of the truck.

A sign reading “Water for Sale” had been tacked to a tree near the rutted road, and beyond that someone had placed another sign that said “Water NOT for Sale.”

She checked the GPS again and took a right turn onto a two-lane gravel road.

Two ponds flanked the intersection, their water levels low. A small herd of horses grazed in the pasture to the left, but the grass was stubby. An old barn, listing slightly, sat on the edge of the field. With its weathered boards and rusted tin roof, it fit into the countryside as though it had grown there.

A primitive hand-lettered sign was attached to a split-rail fence. “Welcome to Sweet Olive, Where Living Is an Art.”
Corny but sweet.
Her neck tensed.

Speeding up, she had no trouble locating the address she was looking for. The numbers were painted in baby blue on a mailbox decorated with an assortment of pink and tangerine butterflies.

The house was equally colorful, if somewhat worn, stuck in the middle of a yard so big it looked like a field. Painted lime green
with orange shutters, it looked like it belonged in an amusement park instead of on a dusty Louisiana back road. A beat-up minivan sat under the carport.

J&S scouts had characterized the Procells as “flakes,” but they certainly weren’t the retiring type. What must the neighbors think of the bright decor?

A few acres away, she saw a small, white church, its steeple outlined against the sky. Next came an electric blue house … and a purple house? She couldn’t make out the objects in their yards, but something hung on the trees, and the sun created an almost hypnotic glow.

Her attention down the road ended, however, when her eyes fell on an army of massive metal whirligigs, lined up on poles in the Procells’ side yard like colorful sentinels, intricate figures perched on top. The sight produced the giddy, breathless feeling Camille got when she saw a piece of appealing art. She pulled into the driveway, her gaze running around the yard.

A wide, uneven porch sat across the front of the house, and a rusty tin roof matched that on the barn at the turn. Whatever grass might have grown in the yard had given way to dirt. A bird-bath sat to the side, and spindly petunias filled an iron kettle.

Picking up a file folder, Camille jumped out of the truck and slammed the door, hoping the noise would summon someone from the house.

A barking dog rounded the corner and stopped to sniff the truck tire before lying down in a wallowed-out spot under a willow tree. She hoped the homeowner would be as easy to deal with.

Throwing her head back, Camille looked up at the figures. At least a half-dozen scenes swirled slowly around, like elaborate weather vanes. Some had a span of six feet or more, while others
were only a couple of feet across. Enamel paint, in all colors, shone as sunlight hit.

A farmer and a herd of cows gathered at a red barn in the scene nearest her, and Camille clutched the pole to steady herself and study the details. A chicken pecked and a bucket moved with the hint of a breeze.

As she admired the craftsmanship, a whiff of a light, sweet scent teased her nose. Unlike anything Camille had ever smelled, the faint fragrance was an odd, delicate blend. She inhaled, and an unexpected feeling of calm settled on her.

She remembered her mother’s words last night about trusting God and whispered a quiet “thank you.” She would work on that trust thing when she was settled in Houston. She had never moved her church membership from her mother’s church in Amarillo where it had rested all these years.

Tempted to linger, entranced by the scent and the fascinating figures, she thumped the file folder and made herself march to the porch, where the delicate smell intensified.

Camille smoothed her black slacks and adjusted her black-checked blouse. The dress code for calling on landowners was tricky. Too dressy, she was tagged a snob. Too casual, she didn’t show proper respect. She frowned at her feet. The pumps not only pinched but looked as out of place as an oil well in a playground.

Camille reached for the doorbell, but electrical tape had been put over the spot. A small, smeared note said “Use Bell” with an arrow pointing down. A metal cowbell lay on the porch rail. Tentatively, she picked it up and rang it, producing a clacking noise.

When no one answered, she shook it again and finally knocked on the aluminum storm door, drawing a halfhearted
bark from the dog. Voices and laughter came from inside, and she opened the outer door, trying to peek through a trio of small windows without being obvious.

A woman with long curly hair looked over the shoulder of a child painting at an easel. While Camille watched, the woman bent to listen to something the young artist said. The child laughed.

The moment was so personal that Camille stepped back, letting the storm door swing shut. She hesitated and stepped off the porch, moving toward her truck.

“Hello?” a southern voice called, more in question than greeting.

Turning, she saw Ginny Guidry standing with the door ajar. Ginny had looked like a hippie last night and was downright country today, except for her bright red lipstick. She wore denim overalls, and her brown hair sprang from her head in a disheveled heap. Her eyes, behind the black frames, didn’t look welcoming.

“I should have known you’d show up first thing,” she said.

Taking a step back at the hostile tone, Camille held up the folder in her hand. “I didn’t realize you lived out this way.”

“Right.”

Camille moved back another step. “Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for Todd Procell. J&S must have the address wrong.”

“You won’t find Todd here, that’s for sure.”

“Do you happen to know where I can find him?”

Ginny nodded and gestured down the road. “He’s buried about a half mile from here. In the Fellowship Cemetery.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He was killed six months ago in a car wreck on his way home from work.”

“How horrible,” Camille murmured. “Was he a friend of yours?”

“My brother. His house is right there.” She pointed to another small house, this one green, half hidden behind the carport. “This is our family land.”

“I’m so sorry …” Camille looked at the ground, unsure what to say. “I know how hard it is to lose someone like that.”

Ginny focused on Camille’s face and shook her head. “I doubt it.”

Camille’s eyes widened.

“You come out here all dressed up, wanting to sweet talk me into signing over our land.” Ginny made a dismissive snort. “I’ve got a sister-in-law who’s gone off the deep end, a niece and nephew who don’t understand why their daddy died, a mountain of paperwork, a dead brother, and a dead husband.”

She stopped for a breath. “As soon as I heard who you were last night, I knew you’d come calling. I’m handling the estate.” Ginny gestured at the yard. “Although only a lawyer would call this an estate.”

When she ran her hands through her hair, it looked even more like a pot-and-pan scrubber. “Todd worked for J&S, and they’re fighting us every step of the way on his benefits.” She paused. “But I don’t have to tell you that.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of this,” Camille said quietly.

Ginny rolled her eyes.

“I was looking for the Procells.” Camille tried to disguise her defensiveness.

“I’m Ginny Procell Guidry. Art teacher and accidental community activist.”

“That’s why you were at the party.” The pieces were beginning to make sense.

Ginny made a noise that stopped short of being a laugh. “That’s not exactly the crowd I usually run with.”

“They did have nice art,” Camille said.

The wild hair flopped as Ginny surrendered a small smile.

“As do you.” Camille waved at the whirligigs. “These are spectacular.”

After walking over to a scene of a cat chasing a dog, Ginny touched the pole lightly. “I like everyday scenes.”

“Me too. Who’s the artist?”

“I am.”

“You designed these?” Camille’s mouth fell open. “They’re fantastic.” She moved to the pole where Ginny’s hand still rested. “The details are simple but powerful—” She stopped. “Sorry. I can get carried away when it comes to art.”

Ginny gave her a curious look.

“You’re a folk artist.” Camille couldn’t keep the awe out of her voice.

“That’s a highfalutin term. I play with metal. People put them in their yards to see how the wind’s blowing.”

They watched in silence as the wind picked up and the figures whirred.

“It’s like an unseen hand put them in motion,” Camille whispered, her gaze going back to Ginny.

Ginny nodded, a trace of a smile on her red lips. “My grandpa—the one who first made these in our family—said God’s Spirit moves through us in that same way.” She spoke slowly, as though remembering her grandfather when he’d first pointed it out. “That Spirit stirs us.”

“My mother would like that.” Camille tilted her head back for a better view. The artwork made a humming noise, building
speed as the wind picked up. With each piece in motion, they resembled a charming ballet.

“I’ve never seen anything like this.” Camille shielded her eyes for a closer look. “Is that tin?”

“All of that metal comes from a junkyard.” Ginny chuckled lightly. “They cost next to nothing to make.”

“How do you keep the pieces from bumping into each other?”

“Each object has its place. If the pieces are in the right place, they do what they’re meant to do—chop, run, swim, whatever.”

“They never collide?”

Laughing softly, Ginny shook her head. “Not if they’re where they’re supposed to be.”

“That looks tricky.”

Ginny looked up at a scene of a fish swimming, a wave moving simultaneously. “I’ve had lots of practice. Grandpa taught Daddy. Daddy taught me. Grandpa called them windmills. Most folks call them whirligigs nowadays.”

“But how do you put them together?”

“The way I do everything—trial and error.” Ginny’s expression was a blend of sadness and humor.

Camille touched the pole closest to her. “I love art, but I didn’t inherit an ounce of talent.”

“Everyone’s got talent. The good Lord created us to be creative.”

Camille gave an uneasy laugh.

“Everyone’s supposed to create something.” Ginny tapped the iron pole with her index finger, her blue nail polish chipped.

“I’d love to buy a piece.”

Ginny’s momentary goodwill vanished, and she eyed Camille suspiciously. “Nice try. Oil companies act like they can throw money at us and we’ll jump up and down with joy.”

Camille took a step backward. “Your work’s unusual. I really would love to own a piece.”

“If you say so.”

“You think I’m lying?”

Ginny’s face tightened. “We’ve been lied to more times than I can count.”

“About your mineral rights?”

“Yep—the real reason you came out here today.”

“That’s true,” Camille said quietly. “But I didn’t know this was your house.”

Ginny squeezed her eyes shut for a second. “You might as well come in.” Her voice was heavy with what sounded like dread.