Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (16 page)

“Yes, ma’am,” Lawrence said.

She turned to Marsh.

“Yes, ma’am.” He’d probably faced judges easier than Evelyn.

She put her hands on her hips.

“I’m sorry if I was rude, Camille.” Lawrence reached over and hugged his mother. “I’m very protective of Mama.”

“We have to look out for our mothers, don’t we?” Camille said.

C
amille’s soft words made Marsh think of his own mother. She had certainly never been easy to look out for. But something about the topic brought that sadness to Camille’s eyes.

“Lawrence takes such good care of me.” Evelyn patted her son’s hand. “But he can be …” Her laugh was cheerful. “Overprotective, I suppose, is the word I’m looking for.”

“That’s what I’m supposed to say about you,” Lawrence said with a laugh. “Camille, you’ll find her a lot tougher to deal with than me. Mama’s a feisty woman.”

“I give you my word, Lawrence, that I won’t ever ask your mother to sign.” An impish smile came to her mouth. “Nor you.”

The congenial smiles in the room floored Marsh. The other night they’d been furious with Camille.

“You caught me in a weak moment,” Lawrence said. “You won’t get by me again.”

“I’ll be waiting when you come to your senses,” Camille said, but her tone was playful.

A scowl washed across Marsh’s face. “Camille, let’s be clear—”

“I know,” she said, waving her hands, “this isn’t art camp.” Then she had the nerve to wink at him.

Lawrence stifled a laugh. “Marsh, we all know where we stand. I won’t do anything stupid.”

Did any of them know where Camille stood? With her hair tousled and water spots on her shirt, she looked right at home in the messy little shed. He was skeptical about a coincidental visit but had a hard time seeing Camille as cunning.

Evelyn’s expression was delighted. “Y’all have sure cheered me up, right when I needed it. You boys pull out a chair and have a tea cake.”

The wood legs of two ladder-back chairs scraped on the vinyl floor. Evelyn poured Marsh a glass of water and handed Lawrence a Sprite. Camille began to fidget. She crumbled a cookie into tiny pieces and scooted her chair back a few inches.

“I’d better go, Evelyn,” she said. “I make your lawyer nervous.”

Evelyn cackled. “It’s hard to think of Marsh Cameron as a lawyer. These boys used to play ball together.”

“She told me you hurt your knee.” Camille’s voice held a hint of sympathy as she looked at Lawrence.

“I wrecked it.” Lawrence rubbed his knee as he spoke. “Then, like an idiot, I dropped out of college. If it weren’t for the good Lord—and my mama—I might never have finished.”

Evelyn, still standing, patted him on the head. “Not many people can get a degree while working three jobs.”

“That’s quite an accomplishment,” Camille said.

“Marsh is the one who accomplished things.” Lawrence gestured at him. “He set up a program in law school to help homeless families, and it’s being used around the country.”

“He’s always looked out for those in need and never takes a dime for it.” Evelyn jumped in. “He lives by the Golden Rule.”

Marsh pushed his chair back, surprised to feel his face grow warm. He cleared his throat nervously. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“It sounds like a big deal,” Camille said.

“You don’t take enough credit for your generosity, young man.”

“Thank you, Miss Evelyn. But what were you and Camille talking about?” Marsh kept his voice low and easy.

“Art. Camille’s stirred up my thinking.”

Marsh looked at Camille doubtfully. She met his gaze before turning to Lawrence. “Why’d you choose art?”

“Art chose me.”

“God speaks to us through art.” Evelyn placed her hand over her heart. “He touches us with these gifts.”

“Art adds meaning, order even, to my world,” Lawrence added, smiling at his mother. “What does art mean to you, Camille?”

She clasped her hands. “Appreciating a piece of art always feels like coming home.” She squirmed. “I get a weird, giddy, peaceful feeling.”

“That’s what’s cool about Sweet Olive,” Lawrence said. “We use gifts we’ve been given. Money could never buy that.”

“Marsh’s father should be in on this,” Evelyn said. “Bud believes art helps us understand ourselves—and others.”

“You’ve got my clients talking more about their art than settlement checks, Camille.” Marsh was bemused.

She blushed. “That’s not the way it was supposed to work.”

“Sure it was,” Evelyn said.

Camille ran her fingers through her hair, leaving a cookie crumb stuck there. Marsh resisted an unwelcome urge to reach over and brush it out.

Her potent smile turned to Evelyn. “I’d better go, but I’d still like to talk about showing your work in Houston.”

“I can’t imagine anyone would pay money for this stuff,” Evelyn said, but she sat up straighter. Marsh could see the hope in Lawrence’s eyes as he looked at his mother.

After a flurry of farewells, Evelyn ushered Camille outside, their words drifting through the air as they moved out of earshot.

Marsh looked at Lawrence. “What was that about showing your mother’s art?”

“She seems to think Mama’s good.”

“No disrespect intended, but don’t you think Camille’s saying that to all the landowners?”

Pursing his lips, Lawrence stared vacantly across the room. “No,” he said after a moment. “Camille cares about art. She’d never mislead us about that.”

“I hope you’re right.”

As he and Lawrence walked around the house, Evelyn was taking Camille’s business card and promising to mail her a cookie recipe. Camille snapped a photo of a metallic butterfly with her phone before climbing into her old truck.

Evelyn, smiling, met them on the porch. “Isn’t she the nicest person? I was wrong about her earlier.”

“Camille’s a nice woman,” Marsh said. “But J&S needs to get a producing well on this land in a hurry.”

“You boys fret too much. We haven’t had money all these years. I don’t know why everyone is so worked up over it.” She peered at Camille’s card. “If you had any sense, you’d try to get to know her better. She’s much more polite than some of those oil-and-gas people who come around, like that old girlfriend of Lawrence’s.”

Marsh took a swig of the lukewarm water, and Lawrence gave a weak laugh.

Camille caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror and groaned at the crumbs in her hair.

She shook her head and backed out onto the road.

What a revelation.
Marsh used his legal skills to help the underdog.

Turning toward Samford, she drove to the house at Trumpet and Vine, its magnetic pull growing stronger each day. She pulled into the driveway and cut off the engine.

Before she could get out, her phone rang.

Uncle Scott.

“This is ironic,” she said. “You won’t believe where I am.”

“Wherever it is, it had better involve a contract in ink.”

“I’m sitting in Daddy’s truck where you picked us up that night.”

“I’ve got millions riding on Sweet Olive, and you’re taking a drive down memory lane?”

“I come by here to think.”

“I figured that house would have fallen down by now.”

She peered out the window. “It’s not in very good shape.”

“What kind of shape are the contracts in?”

“About the same as this house.”

Camille climbed out of the truck and wandered through the yard as they talked. “We’re not going to get most of the landowners.” There. She’d said it.

“Unacceptable!” Scott roared the word.

“These are hardworking people with deep roots. They don’t want their community to change.”

“That’s the biggest load of—”

“Sweet Olive deserves to make the decision that is right for it.”

“You sound like the attorney for Sweet Olive. Are you working for me or for them?” She heard the click of a lighter as he lit a cigarette. “J&S has a lot riding on this—all over the state of Louisiana. Slattery’s been gunning for me for years, and he has clout in the Senate. If we don’t do what he wants, he’ll find a way to run us out for good.”

“And what is it that he wants?”

“You’ve seen the files.”

“We can work around that fancy subdivision of his. There’s plenty of land behind it for a well or two.”

“Deal killer.” The words were harsh. “We can’t touch his land.”

“That’s not the way we do business.” Camille spoke through clenched teeth.

“J&S does what it takes. We always have.”

“Is that what my father was doing when he died?”

“Johnny was doing his job, and that’s what I demand of you. Finish it up and head back to your cushy office job.” Scott hesitated. “I’ll even fund that other environmental project you’re so keen on.”

“The new technology?” Camille’s pulse raced. “You said J&S wasn’t in the research business.”

“If it’ll help you get off dead center in Louisiana, we’ll get into the research business. But if you can’t pull this one off, the closest thing you’ll come to an office job is a metal shack in Odessa.”

Before she could reply, Scott ended the call.

Walking around the house, Camille scuffed the dirt with
the toe of her boot. Allison’s dream created a fancy gallery. Ginny fought for the people she loved. Marsh helped those in need.

Her own life was going in circles.

How did her mother have faith that things would work out? No matter how much Camille prayed, the answers remained as dim as the dirty glass on the front door.

She kicked a pine cone and headed back to the truck.

C
amille was working with one of the children Monday night when the dogs, inside and out, started barking. In her fifth week in Louisiana, she was used to the children’s chatter but still didn’t see how Ginny got anything done with the overall chaos.

“Aunt Ginny, someone’s at the door,” Kylie shouted.

Ginny, drying her hands on a bright yellow towel, walked in from the kitchen. “Already?” Her gaze darted to Camille. “It’s unlocked!”

A man in his midforties entered first, holding a casserole dish covered with foil. He had scraggly shoulder-length black hair and wore camouflage pants. A short woman of about sixty, with a waist-length gray ponytail, gripped his arm, managing to hold a canvas under one arm and a loaf of French bread in the other.

Scarcely had they stepped over the threshold before two older women—seventy or so—walked in, wearing identical outfits of what looked like homemade scrub pants and tops.

They all looked vaguely familiar.

“Dumplings.” One of the women held up a metal pan.

“Sweet potato casserole,” the other said, holding up a similar pan.

All four were smiling until they caught sight of Camille, who had risen from her seat at the art table.

“What’s she doing here?” one demanded.

“Hello, everyone,” Ginny said with an unusual note of gaiety. “Come in, come in.” She adjusted her glasses.

“Charlene asked you a question,” the man said. “Why is that woman here?”

Ginny looked around as though she didn’t know who they were talking about. A rare silence fell over the children.

“Look at the time!” Camille exclaimed. “I’d better be going.”

Ginny’s brow furrowed. “You said you could stay late today.”

“I forgot …” Camille nervously straightened the pastels the kids had been drawing with. “I didn’t realize you were having company.”

“We’re not company,” one of the twins said.

“Camille’s not company either,” Ginny said. “She’s an excellent art tutor.”

“That’s well and good, but we don’t want her here for the meeting,” the man said.

“It’s not a meeting,” Ginny said. “It’s a potluck. I want Camille to join us.”

“I can’t stay,” Camille said quickly.

“I made plenty.” Ginny’s chin was set at a stubborn angle. “Let me introduce you to the Sweet Olive Artists’ Guild.”

“Hi.” Camille gave a tiny wave.

“This seemed like a good opportunity for you to talk to the group,” Ginny said. “I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d skedaddle.”

“Talk?” Camille’s voice croaked.

“We heard her at that meeting at the gym,” the other of the twins said. “There’s nothing left to talk about.”

“Camille is an art expert.” Ginny looked at the four, who had paused on their way toward the kitchen. “She appreciates our art … and has outstanding ideas on marketing it.”

“Marketing?” The twins spoke in unison.

“Some members would like to sell their work.” Ginny nodded. “Camille understands the Internet and gallery opportunities.”

“We wouldn’t need gas money if we could sell our art.”

“Why would she talk herself out of a job?”

Ginny sighed. “Y’all won’t make anything easy. Whether we lease our land or not, some of us want to show our art. We need Camille’s insight.”

As they talked, someone tapped on the door and Lawrence and Evelyn walked in.

“Ahh.” Lawrence flashed his crooked grin. “My favorite landman.”

“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” Evelyn said cheerfully.

Camille was unable to resist smiling at the mother and son. Lawrence wore his usual black T-shirt and his mother was in a pair of bright yellow knit pants, a matching striped shirt, and three strands of hot-pink beads.

“I want everyone to get to know Camille better,” Ginny said. “She has an expertise that we are lacking.”

The next person to drift in was Marsh’s father, Bud, wearing his carpenter clothes. His eyes widened when he saw Camille, and he looked over her shoulder.

“No, Bud, I didn’t invite Marsh.” Ginny gave him a kiss on the cheek. “This is our regular potluck, not a land discussion.”

“I suspect my son won’t see it that way.”

“Camille’s not a secret agent.” Ginny took the two jugs of sweet tea he carried.

Camille smiled. “You’re a wood carver, right?”

Bud’s face creased with a smile that reminded her of Marsh. “I work mostly with a hammer and nails. But I piddle with carving.” He pointed to a bust of Mary and the Christ in the back of the room. “That’s one of mine.”

Camille gasped. “You did that?” She put her hand over her mouth. “That is such an inspirational piece.”

“I love to look at it early in the morning,” Ginny said. “It centers me, reminds me of God’s great love, even on the toughest days.” She smiled over at Bud.

“Ginny’s my biggest cheerleader,” he said.

“Other than your sons,” Ginny replied.

Bud grinned. “Marsh and T. J. are biased.”

“T. J.?” Camille asked.

“We share an interest in carpentry that his mother doesn’t quite understand,” Bud said.

The arrival of a handful of artists, including Lillie Lavender, knitting bag in hand, interrupted them. Each person stashed food in the kitchen and sat in the living room. Their conversation whirled around complaints about overdue dues and laments about a Samford antique mall closing. “Charlene and I did pretty well at that store,” the twin who introduced herself as Darlene said.

Ginny grabbed Camille’s arm and pulled her closer. “These two paint Creole primitives.”

Lawrence stepped closer. “You’ll never see anything that captures local life as well.”

“Did all of you sell pieces at the antique mall?” Camille asked.

“It was hit or miss,” Lawrence said. “We’ll never earn a living selling art in Cypress Parish.”

“Let’s talk about that over supper.” Ginny shooed Kylie and Randy to the front of a makeshift buffet line.

Evelyn handed Camille a heavy paper plate. “Try the broccoli and rice.”

“And peas,” Darlene—or was it Charlene?—added.

The artists filled their plates until it looked like a Thanksgiving feast and returned to the living room. They sat on the couch, chairs, and hearth, plates in their laps. The group ranged from a young math teacher to a clerk at a feed store.

Lawrence talked about working in the oilfield before college, and Evelyn argued with the twins over who was the oldest member of the club. Even the shyest people talked freely when asked about their art.

Keeping a mental tally, Camille thought Allison could fill a gallery with their work—metal sculpture, watercolors, glass, pottery, wood carvings, and oil paintings. One woman made exquisite figures out of red Louisiana clay. Another did sculptures from cypress boards recovered from Lake Bistineau.

As they talked, Camille’s enthusiasm grew. “Whatever happens with your land, you have to share your art with the world.”

“You’re an artist?” Darlene asked.

“I appreciate art,” Camille said.

“She’s a wonderful mentor,” Ginny said. “The children love her. She wants to own a gallery someday.”

“Down the line,” Camille stressed quickly.

“What kind of gallery?” Lawrence asked.

The artists leaned in, waiting as Camille shaped an answer.
“I plan to work with a gallery back home to learn more about the business and then decide.”

“We could use a gallery around here,” Lawrence said. “When we try to work with galleries elsewhere, the results are inconsistent.”

“In fact—” Evelyn turned to look at Ginny with a question in her eyes.

Ginny nodded.

“Have you thought any more about helping with our art center?” Evelyn said.

“I thought J&S didn’t go for projects like that,” Bud said.

“Val decided that,” Lawrence said. “More likely J&S didn’t go for projects like me.” A few people chuckled.

Camille looked around the room and back at Evelyn. “J&S will be happy to help—even if you don’t wind up signing. We’ve found that our business does better when our communities do better.”

“Marsh put a proposal together,” Lawrence said. “In fact, he’s been our best fund-raiser so far.”

“That boy works hard for Sweet Olive,” Bud said. “He can deliver the papers to you.”

Camille tapped her fingers on the coffee table, her nails free of polish, gauging her words. “I also hope you’ll allow me to connect you with a gallery in Houston.”

The artists murmured among themselves, their indistinguishable words reminding Camille of a dramatic scene on a television show.

“I don’t think we’re quite ready for that,” Ginny said after a moment. “We need to start smaller.”

“But, Ginny, the art here is stunning.” Heads around Camille bobbed their approval. “Your whirligigs, for example—they’re original and evocative. Collectors will be thrilled.”

Ginny shook her head vehemently as the people around her nodded theirs. “That’s a hobby, nothing more.”

“It could be fun, Ginny,” Lillie said, knitting as usual.

“Wouldn’t you like to know what the outside world thinks of your work?” Lawrence asked.

“Absolutely not.” Ginny looked flustered. “Can we talk about somebody else for a while? That’s why I invited Camille.”

“There’s warm bread pudding in the kitchen,” Evelyn said.

The group laughed and moseyed toward the door. Camille moved over to where Ginny stood. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Ginny.”

“It’s foolish to talk like that. Lawrence is the professional artist, not me.”

“Can’t you see how good you are?”

“I play at it.” Ginny shrugged. “My role in Sweet Olive is to hold the artists together, not to sell a piece of welded metal.”

“Why not do both?”

“You’re more pigheaded than I am,” Ginny said. “Now will you please find someone else to bother?”

Camille grinned and accepted the dessert Evelyn offered her, then took a quick bite. “My mother would love this.”

“You could have invited her,” Evelyn said.

“Amarillo might be a little far to come for supper. Although, this
is
excellent bread pudding.”

They laughed together. “Maybe your father will bring her one of these days,” Evelyn said.

Camille pursed her lips. “I lost my dad a long time ago.”

“That’s hard.” Evelyn’s eyes were kind as they settled on Camille. “That’s how a lot of us got into art. We’re our own crazy support group.”

Camille stood and made an excuse about getting another
napkin. Lawrence followed her into the kitchen. “They’re a nosy bunch, but they mean well.”

“I like them,” she said, leaning against the counter. “They are … refreshing.”

He grinned. “I’ll have to remember that. It sounds nicer than
crazy
or
bossy.
”

She smiled in return. “What are you working on these days?”

“Other than getting up the nerve to ask you out?”

Camille moved back, banging her elbow on the sink.

“Is that a ‘no thanks’?”

Camille shook her head. “It’s an ‘I’m not sure I should go out with one of the landowners.’”

“Think of it as reconnaissance.”

“Maybe.”

“I’d hoped for a yes, but that’s a start.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Besides that, I’m working on a chandelier.”

“Camille, there isn’t anything my son can’t make out of glass.” Evelyn walked into the kitchen with a stack of plates.

“They did a whole display at a museum in Samford,” Ginny said, joining them. “Some of his work was even put in an online gallery.”

“Did the party move in here?” Bud asked, his hands full of empty glasses. His gaze lingered on Lawrence and Camille.

“We were talking about Lawrence’s chandelier,” Camille said.

“And I was trying to get Camille to go out with me.” Lawrence smiled.

Camille’s face grew warm as those in the kitchen—with the exception of Bud—chuckled.

A sweet scent wafted through the October evening as the artists departed.

“Every now and then I catch a whiff of a fragrance I can’t describe,” Camille said to Ginny, sniffing. “It seems to be growing stronger.”

Ginny inhaled and exhaled with a soft, “Ahh.”

She pointed to a plain green bush at the corner of the porch. “Sweet olive. It’s especially wonderful when the weather changes.” She breathed deeply. “A front must be coming through.”

“That?” Camille stood and walked closer to the plant. It had tough, waxy green leaves and small, light-colored flowers. She leaned over and inhaled, but the smell eluded her.

“It doesn’t overpower you,” Ginny said. “You have to stand back and be aware. And it’s a slow grower.”

“Are you talking about a plant or a spiritual experience?”

Ginny gave one of the hearty laughs Camille loved. There was nothing subtle about this woman. “You’ll have to decide that,” Ginny said.

“I smelled this the other day in Evelyn’s yard.” Camille breathed in and out and in again. “It’s a delicate scent.”

“That’s how the Sweet Olive community got its name. You plant them by your door or porch, or you’re apt to miss the smell.” Ginny sat in the swing, her clogs clapping the wooden porch as she jiggled her legs. “I’ve always thought it was the perfect symbol for our community—tough, dependable, not flashy.”

Camille sat down as well, sliding into a rocking rhythm on the swing. “And stubborn?”

Ginny gave her loud laugh. “We’re ornery, aren’t we?”

“You have your moments.” Camille inhaled again. “I wonder if these grow in Houston.”