Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (12 page)

He nodded.

Marsh cleared his throat.

Camille looked him in the eye and walked toward the elevator.

C
amille had not planned to drive by the duplex at the corner of Trumpet and Vine, but her discussion with Valerie had opened a vault of memories—and Camille couldn’t seem to close it.

She’d spent fifteen years learning how to blot this place from her mind, her mother’s weeping, her uncle’s preaching.

Easing off the clutch, she surveyed the corner. “What am I doing?”

The convenience store on one corner was closed, although she couldn’t tell if it was shut for good or just for the evening. The church on the other corner had a For Sale sign in front of it. A locked gate blocked the park across from the duplex, the grass tall and ragged by streetlight.

She pulled into the duplex, the rutted driveway making her appreciate the workhorse of a truck.

As she stared at the house, she remembered her mother and the woman who had lived there sitting on the porch, shelling peas. Her mother had been smiling, looking at Camille sprawled on the steps.

“She’s my one and only best girl,” her mama had said.

The old woman had smiled in return. “You two have a special bond.”

Camille pictured the old-fashioned apron the woman wore with deep pockets attached to the front. As though on rewind, she climbed out of the truck and walked up on the porch.

Dead oak leaves had blown into the porch’s corner, and she nudged them with her foot, the fetid smell transporting her to another rundown house in Wichita Falls, Texas, where her father had abandoned them her entire years of second and third grade.

The traffic light at the corner glowed, but the eeriness didn’t frighten her. She’d been independent for a long time, had visited oil fields far more off-putting than this.

“Hello?” she called out. No one replied, and Camille knocked on the door and gave it a small shove. If the door was unlocked, she would walk through it, although she wasn’t sure why.

She and her mother had shared a rollaway bed that the old woman pulled out of a closet. The sheets had smelled clean. The door didn’t budge tonight, though, and Camille walked back to the truck. Still she didn’t drive off, staring at the house, angry at Scott for forcing her to come back to Louisiana.

She punched his number into the phone, but the call went to voice mail, and she left another irritated message before calling her mother.

“The house is still here,” Camille said after a moment of their regular nighttime chitchat.

“How does it look?”

“Worse for the wear.”

“Aren’t we all?” her mother teased.

“Speak for yourself.”

They laughed, and then a long silence fell between them, broken only by the wail of a siren down Vine.

“Your father would have come back for us.” Her mother’s voice was so soft it was barely audible. “He always did.”

Camille picked at a loose thread in the seat’s upholstery. “I guess we’ll never know.”

Her phone beeped and Scott’s name popped up.

“Wish me luck, Mama. I’ve got to go.”

The street in front of the Samford Club was almost empty when Camille returned. Her palms sweated and her mouth was dry as she cautiously pulled in to a parking place.

Her phone still lay on the floor where she had thrown it after Uncle Scott’s call.

Realizing she couldn’t see the door from this vantage point, she pulled out and wrangled the vehicle into a spot nearer the door, scraping the curb with her tire. She gave a shaky laugh and checked the time on her phone.

According to a discreet placard she’d seen on the elevator, the club closed at eleven o’clock on weeknights.

She had no idea, of course, if Lawrence worked till closing time, but at least she wasn’t sitting in her hotel room waiting for something to happen. She wanted her new life. And Lawrence had told her he was afraid he would be the one to cave.

The sight of a waiter and a young waitress interrupted her thoughts, and she patted her hair and stepped out of the truck. A neon sign illuminated a few feet of pavement, but the street was dim, and she could barely make out Lawrence leaving the building.

Standing unnoticed in the shadows, Camille listened to the three talking, their Spanish words mixed with laughter. A few yards from where she stood, Lawrence turned and headed for the parking garage.

“Excuse me.” She walked faster and raised her voice. “Excuse me! Lawrence?”

He peered into the darkness. “Camille? Is something wrong?”

She hurried forward. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m sorry for the way things went at dinner,” she said in a rush.

“I’m a waiter,” he said, his crooked smile appearing. “I’m used to pushy customers.” His smile disappeared. “Why are you here?”

“I thought you might be reconsidering the offer.” She looked over at the heavy wooden door of the club. “It would make life easier.”

He frowned and shook his head with the jerky rhythm of a lawn sprinkler. “Camille, I’m beat. Do you want me to walk you to your truck?”

“No. I’m sorry. I just …”

“You’re in the same mess I am,” he said with a strained laugh. “For some crazy reason, God sent us a landman who likes us—and likes art. But if you’re going to get out of Samford, you need to drill.” He sighed. “My mother’s illness is rough. The treatment is more expensive than I realized.”

She heard the ugly sound of defeat in his voice and despised herself for helping put it there. “I shouldn’t have come,” she said.

“That’s the same thing you said that day at the festival. Are you playing us?”

“No!” A knot formed in her stomach, and she regretted eating the spicy salsa. “I had a call from my boss tonight.” She paused. “He’s not pleased with how this is going.”

“Good.”

“Not good.” She drew in a breath of the humid air. “He’d fire me for telling you this, but his tactics are about to change. He wants me to cut the land bonuses, scare people.”

She ran her hands through her hair. “I don’t want to push you, but I wanted you to know. If you
are
going to sign, you need to do it fast or you could lose thousands.”

The sound of music thumped out of a passing car, and Camille looked up.

A carload of teenagers whizzed by, yelling out the window.

But Lawrence’s eyes were focused on Camille. “Why would you risk your job to tell me this?”

She hesitated. “My mother’s a cancer survivor. I know how expensive treatment is.”

“Is she well now?”

“In perfect health—other than worrying herself sick that I haven’t settled down.” Camille thought for a second and continued. “Our family had some rocky times years ago, and she frets.”

“That’s what mothers do.”

“Thanks to my uncle, everything turned out fine. He rescued us.” Now that she had decided to open up her past, she couldn’t seem to keep her mouth shut.

“That’s the kind of man I want to be for my mother.” Lawrence gave a halfhearted laugh. “I should have chosen a better career for starters. Maybe then we wouldn’t be so desperate for this money.”

She stood, waiting. In the past, she had done it because Scott had taught her to. Tonight she did it because she knew Lawrence was struggling to do the right thing.

Lawrence leaned forward. “How much?”

She quoted a higher price than Scott had approved. He would
be so thrilled to get a well going that he wouldn’t quibble over a few thousand dollars extra. “That’s per acre.”

She forced herself to plow forward. “Lawrence, you’ll probably have to decide immediately. I’ll give you as much warning as I can, but this can change in an instant.”

He jingled change in his pockets. “What about the others? Our neighbors?”

“They’re free to negotiate their own deals. But it’ll be up to Marsh to help them get the best deal.”

“When would we get the money?”

“If you sign the paperwork I have in my truck, you’ll have the check tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I’ll deliver the check myself.”

“Where will the well be?”

“If everything goes as planned, we can put it out of sight, away from the main road.”

“And if not?”

“I’ll do my best to protect your view,” she pledged.

“And Mama keeps the land?” he reiterated. “She can live there as long as she wants?”

“Absolutely.”

He sighed, an uncertain sound of surrender. “She needs the money,” he said, almost as though talking to himself.

“Deal?” She extended her hand, forcing a smile.

“Deal.” He took her hand and held it for a moment.

When Camille got back to her hotel room, she flung herself onto the bed and cried.

M
arsh inhaled the morning air as he headed out for his daily jog. These minutes before sunrise were his favorite of the day, not yet overheated, dark and quiet. A few houses on his route had lights on, but most of his neighbors had yet to stir.

Setting off through the neighborhood, he sorted out his day, considering the files on his desk. Sweet Olive work required skills as lawyer and counselor, son and friend. He had originally favored a quick deal. But after extensive late-night research and visits with his father and Ginny, he knew a more deliberate approach was called for.

Marsh had scoffed at their original request—keep the oil companies out of Sweet Olive. He had figured the best they could hope for was a hefty price per acre and assurances about noise, traffic, and their water supply.

Until Camille had come along. She might be the miracle Sweet Olive had prayed for.

Turning down the street where his mother lived, he wiped the sweat from his face with the hem of his T-shirt.

If he could navigate this Sweet Olive maze, maybe he would walk away from the big retainers and direct-deposit salary and explore going out on his own again. He could restructure his schedule. He might get another dog.

He picked up his pace, glancing at his watch. He had shaved two minutes off his run, pretty good considering he had stayed out later than intended with Ross and Valerie.

Marsh stumbled on the sidewalk where a large root protruded, but he didn’t slow down. His best ideas came when he pushed himself, and he was in dire need of ideas today.

Camille Gardner’s arrival had stirred everyone, including him, up. He expected to know exactly how to deal with her, but she was unlike the businesswomen he usually encountered.

“I certainly didn’t expect to see you two sitting here all chummy,” he had said to Valerie when Camille departed the evening before.

Valerie smiled and sipped on her margarita, blotting the sweating glass with a napkin. “You don’t know everything,” she teased but didn’t volunteer more.

Marsh didn’t say anything and glanced at his watch.

“Do you really have something better to do?”

“I’d like to catch the end of the Rangers game,” he said.

“You’re acting like an old man,” Ross said. “Baseball’s about as exciting as counting the chips in this basket.”

“That’s because you lack the intellect to follow it,” Marsh said, the familiar argument relaxing him. “A man who can’t tell the National League from the American League is not to be trusted.”

Valerie leaned back in her chair as though watching a show. “This is more like it,” she murmured and signaled for another drink. “Finally, a conversation that doesn’t revolve around land deals.”

“Who’s driving you home?” Lawrence asked her when he approached the table.

“You sound like Camille. That woman is so self-righteous she would hardly take a wedge of lemon in her water.”

Enticing
was more the word that entered Marsh’s mind when he thought of Camille, but he shook the thought off. “No drinking and driving. It’s our pact.”

“It’s only my third,” she said. “I had dinner, and I’ve been here for hours.”

“You know the drill, Val,” Ross said. “We’re not fooling around about this.”

“All riiiight. One of you can drop me off, and I’ll pick up my car in the morning.”

Lawrence gave her an angry look and rubbed the back of his neck as he walked away.

As Marsh jogged, he realized he didn’t have time for his planned six-mile route. Since he was nearby, he might as well bum a cup of coffee from Valerie and arrange to pick her up before work.

As he turned onto the boulevard, the first streaks of sunlight inched their way up in the east. Oaks arched over the median, and majestic old homes lined one side of the street.

Val’s place sat on the other side, among a collection of recent New Orleans–style townhomes. Marsh bent to pick up her newspaper, slipped it out of its plastic bag, and read the headlines as he strolled to the front door.

A sound caught his ear and he glanced up, expecting to see one of the familiar early morning runners. He prepared to nod and speak—but froze.

Camille Gardner had great legs.

She missed a step when she saw him, recovered, and ran on past. Checking her watch, she slowed and turned back, jogging slowly over to where he stood.

“I didn’t realize you were a runner.” He might as well have been a college student bumping into a cute girl on campus.

“Depends on what day it is,” Camille said. “You too?”

“I took up track in high school and decided I liked it.”

“I’ve never met anyone who actually likes running.” The look on her face was curious. “Did you move?”

Marsh didn’t quite follow her at first and then looked down at the newspaper and over at the front door of Valerie’s house. “Oh,” he said, “this is Val’s place.”

“I see. Well, tell Valerie ‘hi.’”

Before he could answer, she had resumed her run, faster than before.

Annoyed with Valerie, Marsh knew he had only himself to blame.

Camille had gotten up that morning feeling as though she’d been sick with the flu. Her muscles ached, and her head was stuffy. She’d never been a drinker—her father had cured her of any interest in alcohol—but she thought this must be what a bad hangover felt like.

Seeing Marsh at Valerie’s house had made her feel worse.

She rebuked Valerie in her mind, telling herself she was concerned about a J&S employee sleeping with the enemy. But, as she ran, she acknowledged that she was more than a little disappointed. She somehow had expected better of Marsh.

Checking the time, she cut across a side street and found herself on Trumpet Avenue.

She turned and headed for the familiar house.

Sweating by the time she got there, she dashed into the ramshackle convenience store on the northeast corner, now open, and bought a bottle of water. Then she jogged across the street and sat on the front porch.

While she resented Scott for his controlling nature, she’d been in his debt since she was fifteen. He’d saved her and—more important—her mother.

She considered how he would handle Sweet Olive, how he’d barge in on Ginny and issue an ultimatum, visit Sweet Olive residents and imply their community association was ruining their future, and whirl through downtown Samford, pounding on desks and reminding the business community how much they owed him.

Camille sipped the water, her muscles tight.

For Scott, jobs like Sweet Olive were plain. Make J&S look good. Tie up a few loose ends.

He liked mud and machines, wildcatting and drilling. His vision for the gas deep in the shale of North Louisiana was all about the prize—and nothing about the people.

But to Camille, the past few days had been a new look into the untidy world of emotion and money.

This she knew: With the Martinezes committed, the rest of Sweet Olive would come around in a few days. That kind of money turned heads.

She felt no pleasure.

Her run back to the hotel was five minutes faster than her earlier pace, and she sprinted through the back door to the lobby.
A man was talking to the desk clerk, his tone querulous. He turned as she drew closer.

“There you are!” Slattery said. “I wanted to stop by on my way to the office to congratulate you.”

She adjusted her glasses, buying a moment.

“I heard you struck a deal last night. That should get everyone else moving.”

In small towns, word of oil money often spread as quickly as a major illness on the prayer chain at her mother’s church, but this was definitely a record. “That deal has nothing to do with you.” She didn’t blink as she spoke.

Slattery looked smug. “Every deal in Cypress Parish has something to do with me. I’d encourage you to remember that.”