Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (6 page)

T
he purple-and-gold golf cart was draped with Mardi Gras beads and fringe.

From her spot in the front seat, Camille threw a rare longing look at her truck.

Ginny twisted her hair up in a clip and turned toward Camille. “You good to go?”

“I think so.” Seeking something to hang on to, Camille brushed against a feather boa and clamped her fingers around the cart’s metal frame.

Ginny gave a big, loud laugh as she looked at Camille. “Don’t be scared. I’ve only taken this thing into the ditch once.”

“That’s reassuring,” Camille said, her voice sober.

“What’s the problem? I thought you’d want to see the place you’ve come to woo.”

Camille nodded. “That’s a generous offer … but I didn’t mean to barge in on your afternoon.”

Ginny raised her eyebrows as she turned the key. “Why else would you have come out here without calling?”

“You’re right, of course. I just rarely find myself in this
situation. Most landowners are more interested in the amount of the check than in showing me around.”

“Sweet Olive isn’t like most places.” Ginny turned from the conversation to call to the children, putting on rubber boots under the carport.

“So I gather,” Camille said dryly.

“I’m not going to consider negotiating until you know more about this place you want to destroy.”

Camille, captivated by this enchanting home for the past few minutes, drew in her breath. “That’s not true. J&S will enhance Sweet Olive. There’ll be more jobs and land bonuses. It will make this a better place to live—not destroy it.”

Ginny peered through her giant black glasses. “You’re making promises based on information that has more holes in it than my overalls. You don’t know what’s important to us.”

The children raced toward the cart, the dogs barking alongside them.

“I’ll make you a deal, Camille. Spend time with us and see what you think. If you still believe drilling is the right thing, I guarantee the artists will hear you out.”

“But that’s not how this business is done. We have deadlines, schedules, plans to make.”

“Then I’ll tell you the same thing I told that guy from Bienville. We won’t sign.”

Camille’s mind raced.

“This may be all business to you,” Ginny continued, “but I promised my father, on his deathbed after a stroke, that I would protect the family land. And I will.”

Camille wanted this to be business—only business. But to Ginny, it was as personal as it got.

Truth was, it was personal to Camille too.

“If you’re sure …” She fastened her seat belt. “At least if you throw me out at top speed, it can’t be
too
bad.”

Ginny gave the hoot of a laugh that Camille had already come to listen for. “We usually take a Sunday afternoon drive. The children enjoy looking at the art. Everyone buckled up?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Kylie and Randy practically sang their answer from their rear perch.

Camille clutched the edge of her seat as Ginny pushed on the accelerator. The souped-up cart lurched onto the bumpy road, leaving the people on the whirligigs hard at work in the background.

“Yay,” Kylie squealed, as though they were on a ride at a theme park. “Can we see the funny flowers? They’re my favorite.”

“Absolutely,” Ginny said.

“And the trees with clothes on?” Kylie added.

“If you insist.” Ginny glanced back. “What about you, Randy? You haven’t told us your favorite.”

Camille shifted to see the little boy, who had closed his eyes and screwed up his face.

“He likes the bottles,” Kylie said solemnly.

“No, I don’t.” His eyes flew open.

“Yes, you do,” Kylie said.

“Don’t either.”

“I can’t wait to see it all,” Camille interjected. “I love art.”

“So do I,” Kylie said.

“Me too,” Randy added, his voice louder.

The children launched into loud chatter on topics from their favorite color to a new video game. Randy pulled one of Kylie’s red curls, and she screamed and pinched him.

“Kids, settle down, or I’m going to make you walk home,” Ginny scolded.

“They sure are cute,” Camille said as the commotion grew calmer.

“And loud.”

“I wish I had your patience.”

Ginny snorted. “I’ve pretty much got God on speed dial.” She gripped the wheel tighter as they hit a bump. “I fantasize about a clean, quiet house where someone else does the laundry.”

She bobbed her head toward the rear. “They stay with me most nights.” Her voice lowered. “The house was too quiet anyway, and their mom has had a few challenges since my brother was killed.” Her words wobbled.

Camille considered her next question carefully. “Had you lived … alone … a long time?”

“My husband passed away five years ago,” Ginny said matter-of-factly. “We’d just celebrated our twentieth wedding anniversary.”

Camille’s face must have showed her surprise.

“We got married the week after we graduated from high school. We were young and stupid and in love. By the time Dennis died, we were older, fatter, and not much wiser—but we were still in love.”

Unable to think of a response, Camille remained silent, the children still chattering between themselves.

“He encouraged me to take up art when we realized we weren’t going to have a passel of kids after all. Wasn’t meant to be.” Her voice had gotten even softer, its southern accent sounding like a sad song.

“Was your husband ill?”

Ginny’s foot jerked off the accelerator and the little cart stopped. “Dennis was killed in an oilfield accident. He fell off a rig into a tank, and they didn’t have a rescue crew on duty. He died on the way to the hospital.”

“I lost a family member in a similar accident.” Camille could not resist touching her knee. “I’m so sorry for your tragedy.”

The gesture seemed to rouse Ginny from her memories, and the cart lurched ahead. “That’s in the past. Right now I’m trying to help us all move forward.” Then she drove on.

The cart reminded Camille of a bumper car at a carnival, and the kids’ voices made a playful soundtrack, at odds with the melancholy Ginny’s story had produced in Camille’s heart. For years she had pushed down any thoughts of her father, the sweet memories mangled by bitterness and anger.

She drifted back to that last summer and was jolted when, after only a few yards, Ginny slowed almost to a halt and made a sweeping motion with her arm. “Well? Is it what you expected?”

Camille felt as if she was still in a dream. The afternoon sun glowed on the lawns. Lime-green birdhouses lined the fence. The September sky was bright blue, and goldenrod filled the ditch. Red sumac dotted a small grove of trees, and a few leaves drifted to the ground. Round bales of hay lined the ditch adjacent to the fence, and a horse stuck its head over the wire, as though watching them.

Ahead, trees lined both sides of the road, creating a vivid green tunnel, leading to a church.

“It looks like a painting,” Camille said.

They surged forward, swerving around a pothole. “Hold on,” Ginny said, looking over her shoulder.

Camille hadn’t expected the twinge of excitement at the
tour-guide exuberance in Ginny’s voice, nor the delight from the backseat as the cart zipped along and topped a small hill.

“My house is the starting point of Artists’ Row.” Ginny nodded. “It runs from here all the way up to Samford, almost to the intersection of Trumpet and Vine.”

Camille clutched her seat.

On the left was a small pecan orchard, the backdrop for the tiny church. A sign said “Sweet Olive Community Church. All welcome.” Peeling white boards contrasted with the colorful jumble of houses on both sides of the road. A whirligig depicting a manger scene was planted by the edge of the gravel parking lot.

“My grandfather made that one,” Ginny said, following Camille’s gaze. “I refurbished it a couple of years back.”

The row of homes was unlike anything Camille had ever seen—old frame structures with tin roofs, similar in small size and design. Each had a front screened porch, and a few had added-on rooms sticking out to the side or rear.

The big yards, at least an acre each, were neat, though grass was sparse. Most had withered gardens. Perhaps they’d been fruitful in summer but played out by now

The difference in each house, though, was the color—and the contents of their yards, adorned with whimsical accumulations of art. The first house was electric blue with yellow shutters, the next, purple with pink trim. Down the road, she saw sunflower yellow and teal blue.

“We’re subtle,” Ginny said with a grin. “And maybe slightly competitive.”

After going almost the length of two football fields, she pulled off the road and turned the key. The whir of the golf cart silenced, leaving only the cawing of three crows flying by. “Voilà.
Louisiana’s outdoor folk-art exhibit.” Ginny chewed on her bottom lip. “It’s sort of gone down the last couple of years, but it means a lot to us.”

Camille tried to absorb the sight.

Yarn covered everything in the first yard, and she wondered for a moment what the artist’s car looked like.

“We call that Afghan-istan,” Ginny said. “Everyone in Sweet Olive donated their old sweaters, afghans, you name it to cover the yard. Lillie Lavender and her knitters also make prayer blankets for soldiers all over the world.”

“Does that stay out all year?”

“Lillie insists the weather adds character,” Ginny said, her head bobbing. Patches of afghans covered tree trunks. A flowerpot was swathed in a cardigan. Even the mailbox was covered.

“Lillie also does watercolors. She paints Louisiana life the way she sees it.” Ginny chuckled. “Ever since an armadillo had babies in her backyard, she puts a tiny one in every picture.”

“I’d love to see those,” Camille said.

“She visits her kids on Sunday afternoons.” Ginny pointed down the road. “We can come back another day, though.”

“Miss Camille, Miss Camille,” Kylie interrupted. “Do you see the flowers?”

A garden of metal flowers stuck up from the ground in the next yard—abstract designs with startling color combinations. A huge bouquet of bold tulips, daisies, and zinnias with a butterfly or two dominated the space.

“That’s Evelyn Martinez’s work,” Ginny said. “You’ll have to ask her to tell you about it.” Ginny steered the cart ahead, as though giving a VIP tour of the Smithsonian. “Evelyn’s studio is a delightful place to pass an afternoon.”

The studio would probably be as different from Allison’s gallery as Camille’s truck was from Valerie’s BMW. But Camille’s desire to get on with her life in Houston made the visit seem unlikely.

A flock of birds made out of farm implements inhabited the next yard. Figures fashioned from old car mufflers stood across the road—a tin man who looked like he’d stepped right out of
The Wizard of Oz
, a fireman, and a football player.

“We’ve got primitive painters in that next house—elderly twin sisters. They’re a mess.” Ginny chuckled.

Across the road, Camille spotted two more ponds, these slightly fuller than the ones she had passed earlier, right where the surveyor’s map indicated. Large welded insects graced the adjacent yard.

“Those bugs scare me,” Randy said, his lip sticking out.

“Oh, honey, they’re just pretend. They’re sweet bugs.” Ginny eased the cart forward. “Here’s Randy’s favorite.”

Camille inhaled. “May we please get out? Just for a minute?”

Ginny looked pleased. “What do you think, kids? Do we have time?”

“Yay,” they yelled, and Camille thought she even saw a brief smile on Randy’s face. An orchard of bottle trees, bright glass stuck on limb after limb, grew on the lawn.

“The artist blows all of his own glass,” Ginny said. “One of his pieces is in the mayor’s house in Samford.”

“They’re incredible.” Camille looked at the unique shape and color of each bottle. “Look at that pale green.”

“That’s one of his seasons. The mint green and pink illustrate the newness of spring.”

Camille once again found herself giddy. One tree was made
of clear bottles that glittered like icicles and another was a deep green.

“That’s ‘Louisiana Summer,’“ Ginny said. “It’s my favorite.” She looked around. “I suspect he hasn’t had time to do the fall one yet. He’s a busy guy.”

“I like the purple.” Randy took his aunt’s hand.

Watching the quiet boy absorb the art, Camille felt like she was on holy ground. Something special went on around here. When she had been Randy’s age, her father was gone more often than not. But when he returned, he would draw with her for hours, teasing her about how much better her artwork was than his.

Camille soaked up the entire scene along the short stretch of road—porch swings and yard chairs and hummingbird feeders by the dozens. Towels flapped from the occasional clothesline, reminding her of the whirligigs.

“Now you see why we don’t want gas wells nearby,” Ginny said. “They’ll take away any charm we might have. Art’s about all we’ve got in Sweet Olive.”

Before Camille could address the sinking feeling in her heart, Kylie ran toward the house. “There’s Lawrence!” she shrieked, practically flying across the yard.

A tall man rounded the corner of the teal-and-brown house. As he drew closer, Camille saw the tuxedoed waiter from the night before. Shirtless, he had a bandanna over his shaggy black hair and a tattoo of a Celtic cross on his light brown forearm. His jeans were tight, and his feet were bare.

“Hey, Lawrence,” Ginny called. “We’re giving Camille the tour.”

“Hey.” He smiled down at Kylie, who was only a step or two away from him. “Let me grab a shirt.”

“My,” Camille said.

“Yep,” Ginny said, her gaze following Lawrence. “Nice art, nice artist.”

“But what was, I mean, the party …” Camille stopped and thought. “Lawrence?”

“Lawrence Martinez. Some people in town call him Larry. He works a couple of jobs.”

“He does this?” Camille didn’t try to hide her awe.

“He does art on the side—for now.” Ginny shrugged. “Pretty amazing, isn’t it? His father immigrated here from Mexico and married a local girl. He brought a different kind of art to Sweet Olive.”