Sweet Olive (9780310330554) Read online

  “Someone convinced them they needed a lawyer to get a better deal.” Slattery gave a slight shake of his head. “You may get a little trouble out of him.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  The faint vibrating noise of a cell phone interrupted them, but before she could check her purse, Slattery pulled his phone from inside his jacket. He glanced at the screen and back at her.

  “Excuse me,” he said, grabbing a drink from the bar as he passed. “I need to take this.”

  As he walked away, Camille stepped into the living room and forced her attention to the handful of polished guests. Most people threw her openly curious looks, but no one approached. She kept her expression neutral.

  The only noise in the room came from a cluster of men in a nearby corner, most in suits and ties. Each held a drink, and a few nibbled on hors d’oeuvres. The group argued loudly about the prospects of a bowl game for the LSU Tigers, with the occasional diatribe against the University of Alabama.

  Crown molding and antique furnishings accented the space around them, with original art sprinkled throughout. While Camille didn’t covet the diamonds many of the women wore, she would love her choice of the paintings.

  “Would you care for a drink?” Larry, she thought his name was, appeared so quietly that she started.

  “Maybe later. Thanks.”

  He studied her for a long moment, his eyes intense, before moving back into the crowd, a tray of full wine glasses in his hands.

  As she glanced back into the dining room, Slattery stepped out of a door near an enormous china cabinet, pocketing his phone with a scowl. While greeting guests, he looked past them until he saw her.

  He switched on a smile and steamed her way, stopping only long enough to say something to Larry.

  “Sorry for abandoning you,” Slattery said as he neared. “Stephens wanted to clear up a thing or two.”

  “Stephens?” Camille hated the wary note in her voice. She hadn’t regained her confidence since the misstep two weeks ago.

  “That man says you can get ink on a deal better than anyone he ever saw.”

  “He’s full of it.”

  Slattery let out a loud laugh. “He assures me you’ll have this cleared up in a week or less.”

  She certainly hoped so. Even a few days in Samford, with its painful memories and her uncle’s good-old-boy network, would be too long.

  She was spared a reply, though, when a burst of laughter erupted from the men across the room. Slattery gripped her elbow and propelled her in their direction. “Here’s the person who can get you those Sugar Bowl tickets, fellows,” he said as the circle widened to let them in.

  Man after man welcomed her, sounding like a chamber-of-commerce roster. Real estate. Ophthalmologist. City official. Each murmured his name and job, going around the circle.

  “Camille’s a production specialist for J&S,” Slattery said, as though he had personally recruited her. “One of the best.”

  “No land deals tonight.” She watched the men inspect her. “J&S just wants to say thanks.”

  “The good senator sure knows how to get things done,” the eye doctor said. “He was plenty hot after that national TV report a couple of weeks back.”

  Her face grew hot. “That was unfortunate, wasn’t it?”

  Chapter 2

  Camille drew a relieved breath when the party’s attention shifted away from her, and the circle of men offered good-humored welcomes at the arrival of a handsome newcomer in a suit.

  “What are you all so worked up about?” he asked, moving easily into the crowd. His gaze landed on her as he spoke, and his eyes widened.

  His suit was tailored. His shoes shone. Camille had a mental image of a valet leaning over and giving the leather one last buff before he stepped into the party. His hair was dark brown, with a hint of curl. His eyes were almost the exact color of the hand-blown cobalt-blue vase sitting on a nearby end table.

  His perusal made her heart beat faster and hers confirmed that he was, indeed, the guy from the driveway.

  “Be careful of this one, Camille.” Slattery poked the man in the arm as if they were in a high-school locker room. “We’re still trying to figure out whose side he’s on.”

  “Now, Senator …,” the man said, “if you’re not careful, you’re going to start sounding like my mother.”

  The words elicited a quick frown from Slattery. “This lady is Ms. Camille Gardner.” Slattery sipped his cocktail. “Isn’t she the best-looking landman you’ve ever seen?”

  Camille, agitated at the appearance of the good-looking stranger, tried to hold back a groan at the tired joke and emitted a choked cough. Her eyes watered, and she knew her face was red.

  The man gave her a quizzical look before handing her the glass he held. “Rough day?” he asked, his calming smile and enticing voice the only remnant of their earlier encounter.

  She fingered the pearls around her neck and took a sip. “You’re quite the lifesaver, Mr… .”

  “Marshall,” Slattery blared, as though speaking into a megaphone.

  “Mr. Marshall, thank—”

  Before she could finish, Slattery chuckled. “Marshall’s his first name.”

  “Marsh Cameron,” the man said, extending his hand. His grip was solid, a wholehearted kind of shake. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Slattery’s eyes narrowed as he looked from Camille to Marsh. “You two know each other?”

  “Not exactly,” they said at the same time.

  She took another swallow of the club soda. Despite Marsh’s starched look, Camille felt as though she had discovered a friend in a sea of strangers.

  The daydream had not fully taken shape, though, when the lovely woman from the BMW sashayed their way, Ginny edging nearer at the same time.

  With ash-blond hair swept back from her face and curled below her shoulders, the other woman glowed under the chandelier. Her lips were colored deep coral, and her green eyes were open wide. Her posture was perfect.

  Wearing heels twice as high as Camille’s, she stopped to give “don’t-smash-my-outfit” hugs to a trio of women. “Valerie, this gala is wonderful!” one woman said, making the last word sound almost like a cheer. Camille tried to recall if she’d ever heard the word gala used in a sentence.

  “Oh, darling, how gorgeous you look,” a society maven with an expensive cashmere suit said. “You are stunning this evening,” another called out. “Absolutely stunning.”

  “The lemming chorus speaks,” Ginny muttered under her breath.

  Camille was unable to resist staring. Not one inch of the woman’s body seemed left to chance. Her hair must have been professionally styled, her nails manicured, her makeup heavy—and, in spite of all of that, she was classically lovely.

  The way she carried herself, she could have been on a fashion runway, and she glided into the knot of guests as though working a receiving line.

  “How’s everyone doing?” Her tone was warm, but her eyes were cool as she looked from Camille to Marsh to Ginny. A light floral scent followed her.

  Slattery stepped forward and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Here’s my girl. I’ve hardly seen you tonight.”

  “Hi, Daddy.” She barely acknowledged him before turning her back on Ginny and moving closer to Marsh. “We missed you at the beach,” she said in a syrupy voice. “Your mother was so disappointed you didn’t make it.”

  “Hi, Val.” Marsh repeated the quick kiss her father had given her. “Duty calls and all that …”

  “Oh, don’t give me that ‘I’m too busy’ speech,” Valerie said, a hint of a pout on her mouth. Then she smiled and swirled her chiffon skirt. “Your mom helped me pick out this outfit. She knows you’ve always liked me in orange.”

  “Very nice,” he said.

  Camille’s morale drooped, although she wasn’t sure why. Maybe because Marsh and Miss Louisiana seemed to be in some sort of a relationship.

  Wearing the smile of a proud father, Slattery pu
t his hand on Camille’s shoulder.

  “Camille, meet the woman who keeps me on track—as long as I don’t complain about the cost.” He gave a hearty laugh, joined by the men nearest him. Marsh’s expression was unreadable. “My daughter, Valerie, gets the credit for putting tonight’s function together.”

  “All while working on her tan,” Ginny said in a low voice.

  Camille bit back a smile at the snarky comment and stepped forward, her hand extended. “Thank you for handling the details.” She refrained from mentioning that the fund-raiser had been her idea.

  Valerie brushed her fingers against Camille’s with the quick flutter of a hummingbird in flight. The gesture came with a restrained thank you. “You must be new to Samford.”

  She inspected Camille from head to toe, the way one might consider a cow about to be bought—or passed over—at a West Texas auction. “Are you visiting someone?” Valerie looked around the room as though hoping someone might step forward and claim Camille.

  Slattery’s face was rapidly approaching the color of the glass of red wine he now held, and he took a hurried gulp before he spoke. “Honey, I thought you knew.” His volume brought stares from guests around the room. “Camille’s our guest of honor.”

  Valerie flipped her hair back, the blond strands settling into place as she gave a light stamp of her foot. “What are you going on about now, Daddy?”

  “Valerie! Camille is Scott Stephens’s right-hand man—or person or whatever.” He patted the sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief. “J&S sent her in from the Houston headquarters.”

  “They transferred someone in from Houston?” Valerie threw Marsh an injured look. “Were you in on this?”

  He gave his head a quick shake, his eyes on Camille.

  Valerie put a proprietary hand on his arm. “Of course you weren’t. You want to settle this deal as much as we do.”

  Ginny adjusted her glasses. “My, my. J&S is full of surprises.” She ran blue-painted fingernails through her brown hair, as wild as Valerie’s was styled. “So you’re the one who charms landowners. The people over in Fort Worth told me about you.”

  Valerie’s attention whirled to Ginny. “If you had signed when you should have, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” She wore the look of an angry dog straining at its chain. “You and that group of Sweet Olive hillbillies ruined everything.”

  Camille opened her mouth to respond, but Ginny beat her to it.

  “You’re wrong, Valerie.” Ginny shook her head, her long, curly hair swishing back and forth. Beaded earrings reached nearly to her shoulders and bounced with the movement of her head. “It’s J&S who will ruin everything.”

  “Ladies,” Marsh jumped in. “You don’t want to do this.” His lips were set in a grim line.

  Valerie cast a bold, hostile look around the room. Her gaze stopped before it reached Camille.

  “Sorry, Marsh.” Ginny fidgeted with a wide plastic bracelet. “The artists will have plenty of opportunities to talk about this.”

  “You can only drag your heels so long,” Valerie snarled, the leash on her temper apparently having snapped.

  “J&S isn’t the only company interested in us.” Ginny narrowed her eyes.

  “Val, Ginny.” Marsh’s tone grew ominous.

  Guests across the room stared, their eyes wide. Slattery looked like a man trying to guide in two planes at the same time, signaling for Larry to refill glasses and gesturing maniacally for the guests to move closer. “Come on over, folks, and we’ll do this right.”

  At his words, the low hum of conversation grew into louder chatter, and the space became crowded.

  “Daddy …” Valerie said.

  Slattery held his hand up. “Be patient.” The smell of his cologne was strong as he moved his hand to Camille’s shoulder.

  Ginny drummed her fingers on the back of a chair and leaned forward. Valerie assumed a smile that looked like she had just had dental surgery and couldn’t operate her lips properly. Marsh had the look one might acquire upon stepping in dog poop.

  Camille, now jammed in the middle of the crowd, tried to step forward but didn’t make it a foot or two before Slattery spoke again. “Good, good,” he muttered. “As you all know, J&S Production Company is making a sizable donation to the Samford Foundation this evening, to be used for many of your projects.”

  Restrained applause rippled through the room.

  “The check is being delivered personally by Camille Gardner.” Slattery looked expectantly at Camille, who was having a hard time getting past the anger in Marsh’s gaze.

  As the silence grew, she drew a breath. “Thank you, all. I can assure you J&S plans to do lots of business here.” She met Marsh’s eyes. “But tonight is about giving back to the community.” She handed the J&S corporate check, fished earlier from her designer handbag, to Slattery. “May this help make North Louisiana a better place to call home.”

  She had scarcely finished speaking when guests surged forward to thank her before breaking off into small groups of animated conversation. Within a few minutes, she found herself wedged against Marsh.

  “I didn’t realize we’d be working this closely together,” she said.

  Marsh, a good six inches taller than Camille, probably close to six-three or -four, looked down at her with a hard stare. “So that’s why you showed up at my house today.”

  “What?” Camille tilted her head in confusion.

  “You’re the ace who courts the landowners.”

  “No. I mean, yes, I put together land deals, but I’m here to help Sweet Olive understand why—”

  “The old truck,” he interrupted and snapped his fingers. “That’s your ‘deal mobile.’ To think I nearly fell for it.” Disdain marred his features. “J&S is up to its same old tricks.”

  “That’s not the way I operate.” She planted her high-heeled shoes firmly in front of his wingtips. “But if I want to drive a tractor, I don’t see that it’s your business.”

  His blue eyes locked on hers. The smile Camille had found so charming a few minutes earlier looked smug.

  “Well, Ms. Star Landman, you clearly didn’t do your homework. I’m the attorney for the Sweet Olive landowners.” Marsh paused. “We intend to fight J&S every step of the way.”

  Chapter 3

  If it weren’t so late—and if the stupid pickup wasn’t prone to overheating—Camille would leave Louisiana tonight. She could be in Houston in five hours or in Amarillo by daylight, having breakfast with her mother.

  Camille rolled down the Richmond driveway with a prickle of anxiety and attempted to appreciate the big oaks arching over the street. Shifting gears, she turned down a neighborhood boulevard.

  Her recollections of Samford were of an older, more rundown place, but tonight it looked like a bayou village. Spanish moss draped from a few trees. Lights shone from inside lovely old homes. She especially liked the screened porches, a feature seldom seen on Houston homes.

  But the charm did not lessen her urge to get back to Texas, and she was beyond peeved that Scott hadn’t returned her three calls, each placed surreptitiously from the bathroom at the Richmond house.

  A wave of homesickness hit Camille, sweeping from head to heart.

  She didn’t even know what she was homesick for.

  Her mother’s brick house in Amarillo, where she’d seldom lived? The familiar, if sterile, corporate efficiency in Houston? Mostly she yearned for a home of her own, filled with art, a spot where she would finally put down roots.

  She blamed the sentimentality on being back in Samford and pulled to the curb and dialed.

  “How’s my girl?” her mother’s soft voice asked.

  Camille paused. “I’m in Louisiana.”

  “Oh my. North or south?”

  “In Samford.” Her heart gave an extra beat. “The trip came up at the last minute.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m good, Mama.”

  Her mother cleared her throat. “D
oes Samford look the way it used to?”

  “More or less. I drove in from Houston and didn’t have much time to look around.”

  “Have you been over to Trumpet and Vine?”

  Camille snorted. “No, and I don’t intend to.”

  The line grew silent for one moment, then two.

  “I know it can’t be easy on you. I wish you were here so I could take care of you.” Her mother’s voice trembled. “I’m so sorry, sweetie, that I let you down that day.”

  They had not spoken of this in years, and Camille’s stomach fluttered. “It was a bad day, but you didn’t let me down. You never have.”

  “You’re my best girl.”

  “You’d better stock up on the good groceries, Mama, because I’m visiting as soon as I wrap this up.”

  “And you’re sure you’re okay?”

  “I will be if you make chicken and dumplings and buy ice cream for the cobbler.”

  Her mother gave a small laugh. “It’ll be waiting for you … but why are you in Samford?”

  “We hit a snag, so Scott decided I was needed to clear up a few things. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “Hmm … I know you’re disappointed, honey.”

  “It’s not so bad.” Camille hoped she was telling the truth. “Scott says I’ll learn a lot about dealing with the executive side of things on this assignment.”

  “I don’t like you gallivanting all over the country by yourself.”

  “You fret too much.”

  “You never let me take care of you.”

  “Give it up, Mama.” Camille chuckled, comfortable with this familiar nagging. “I’m the most careful thirty-year-old in the world.”

  “Did they work out that bug in your fancy company car?”

  “It should be ready by the time I get back to Houston.”

  “I wish you’d fly. It’s much safer than driving. You could spend some of that money you keep sending me—”

  “Mama,” Camille said, drawing the word out. “Once I’m settled at headquarters, I’ll travel less.” She infused her words with cheerfulness. If Camille sounded happier, her mother was happier—and Camille never wanted anything to hurt her again.