Sweet Olive (9780310330554) Read online

  The smile left Slattery’s face. “Don’t be a troublemaker, Cameron. We’re only getting acquainted. What could be the harm in that?”

  “No harm in a friendly visit.” His gaze met Camille’s. “But there’s a fine line between harmless chitchat and digging for information.”

  Camille couldn’t hold back a slight smile. “I think we all understand the difference between business and being neighborly.”

  “If you think I’ll be railroaded because I came into this case late, you’re mistaken.” Marsh put his hands on his hips, his stance making the seated men look like toddlers.

  Camille held the file folder in front of her like a shield. “We pay generously for leases,” she said, once more looking at her file. “And we’ve contributed to nearly two dozen local causes, including our donation two days ago.”

  “You can’t put a price tag on water or history,” Marsh said.

  “I thought that’s what you were just attempting to do,” she said.

  “As I said, my clients aren’t prepared to discuss their case.”

  “So they told me.” She knew she didn’t imagine the look of surprise that flashed across Marsh’s face before he slowly returned to his chair.

  “If the discussion veers off-limits, I’ll leave immediately.”

  “Should that be necessary, I’ll show you to the door.” Camille turned her smile to its highest voltage.

  Slattery’s face had taken on a mottled look, and he wiped his brow with a monogrammed white handkerchief. “Sniping won’t get us where we need to go. Everyone in the state—and I mean from the governor on—wants to know how J&S sees this project unfolding. Marsh, that will benefit everyone in this room, including you.”

  “Point well taken, Senator.” Marsh looked at Camille. “Please don’t let me hold things up.”

  Camille plunged ahead, realizing she hadn’t enjoyed one day of her Houston job this much. “The discovery of the Cypress shale field is monumental. We anticipate removing an immense amount of valuable energy from right underneath North Louisiana’s feet.”

  She sounded like a television commercial, but her audience appeared to listen.

  “This gas is trapped in shale,” she said, “and requires great expense and effort to extract.” The process was complex, and she doubted that most of Cypress Parish had any idea how gas was produced—or cared. “Shale is—”

  “With all due respect,” Marsh said, “we don’t need a lesson in oil-and-gas production.”

  Shoving her irritation aside, Camille put both of her hands flat on the table, mimicking Marsh’s earlier posture. “Of course you don’t. I’m used to dealing with newcomers to the process.”

  She pretended to look at the folder while she collected her thoughts. “We plan to pay the landowners generously for their mineral rights—the use of the underground gas and, in a few instances, surface water. We’ll move forward as soon as we strike a deal with landowners, starting with those in Sweet Olive.”

  “What about other parts of Samford?” the man from the Chamber asked. “Will you be drilling there as well?”

  “I certainly hope so,” she said so quickly that it drew a small round of laughter. “We want to start with Sweet Olive because we believe it has the most potential.”

  “What if the production doesn’t meet your expectations?” a banker asked.

  “That’s not likely,” she said. “Your area has been blessed with abundant gas.”

  “Bienville Oil said the same thing,” the banker continued. “But they curtailed production when prices went down.”

  “Some companies use that as a negotiation tactic, but J&S doesn’t.”

  “That’s a bunch of baloney,” Marsh said.

  “Baloney?” He was definitely going to be more combative than she had hoped.

  “These are honest country folk, not big-city wheelers and dealers,” he went on. “They know some of the people in Samford aren’t getting the royalties they were promised.”

  “I can’t speak for Bienville Oil.”

  “But you know most oil companies look for ways to cut their royalties once they have a deal.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. At Saturday’s party, this group of men had appeared congenial, friends even. Today they seemed more like a pack of dogs fighting over the same piece of meat.

  Slattery looked like a parent whose children had gotten unruly in church. “You’ll have your opportunity to make your case, Marsh, but today isn’t the time.” He pushed his chair back farther from the table. “If you could excuse us for a moment, Camille …”

  Before she could digest being asked to leave her own office, the glass door opened and Valerie stepped in, carrying a tray of mugs and a coffee carafe. “I hate to interrupt,” she drawled, “but I needed an extra shot of caffeine and thought y’all might too.”

  The look of relief on Slattery’s face was unmistakable. “Thank you,” he said as Valerie handed him a mug, the J&S logo on the side. She served it with a smile as big as a billboard.

  Marsh towered, rigid, for a moment and then accepted a cup and sat back down.

  “You raised her right, Slattery,” one of the older men said and slurped the drink.

  Camille said nothing, eager to see how the meeting would unfold.

  “I’ll be back after my appointment, Camille,” Valerie said. “You have my cell number if anything else comes up.”

  Watching Valerie waltz out of the room, Camille realized she was the only one who hadn’t gotten a cup of coffee.

  “Now, where were we?” Slattery asked.

  This promised to be a long couple of weeks.

  Chapter 11

  Marsh turned into Ginny’s driveway Tuesday evening, thankful he had sunglasses on.

  The house reminded him of a tie-dyed T-shirt he’d worn to a frat party one Halloween. He supposed he should be used to the place by now.

  His gaze flew to the pickup, and he thought for a moment that his father was there. Marsh had asked Ginny for a private meeting, but his dad would add wisdom to the discussion.

  These Sweet Olive people might be “salt of the earth,” as his brother T. J. called them, but they didn’t have an ounce of business sense.

  Then Marsh looked at the truck more closely, and his energy—along with his blood pressure—surged.

  He yanked open the screen. Refusing to use the ridiculous cowbell, he raised his hand to knock. The door flew open before he connected, and he had to catch his balance to keep from falling.

  “Marsh!” Camille, flowers painted on each cheek, took a quick step back.

  “What in the—?” His voice blasted out as he stared at her, his prepared lecture lost at the sight of her.

  Her faded jeans were splattered with paint, and she wore a baggy white T-shirt that resembled something his father wore on a carpentry job. Her short tawny hair looked like she had just rolled out of bed.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, lowering his volume.

  “Helping with an art class.” She put her hands on her hips and thrust her chin out. With scuffed cowboy boots, she looked like a gunslinger about to whip out her weapons—except for the face paint.

  “Whose idea was this?” He narrowed his eyes for effect.

  She smiled. “Ginny’s.”

  “I bet it was.” He looked past her. “Where is she, anyway?”

  Camille’s face twisted in amusement. “Do you think I buried her in the backyard?”

  Her tone annoyed him further. “I find it peculiar that an oil-and-gas landman decided to help with an art class at my client’s house.”

  She shrugged, a small grin coming to her mouth. “It is a little weird, isn’t it? But then Ginny’s not an ordinary landowner.”

  “It doesn’t matter what kind of landowner she is.” He looked in her eyes, trying to summon his courtroom intimidation stare. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Camille raised her eyebrows. “Don’t worry. I won’t ask her to finge
r paint away her mineral rights.”

  “Very funny.” So much for his intimidation stare.

  Ginny emerged from a nearby room, drying her hands on a towel. “Hel-lo,” she sang out as he glared at Camille. Ginny had on one of those long skirt-things she wore everywhere. A scarf was knotted around her neck, and a large silk flower perched in her hair. “Come on in, Marsh.”

  “Your new doorman took me by surprise.” He tried for a lighter tone.

  “Wasn’t it nice of Camille to help with the children?” Ginny beamed. “Evelyn couldn’t make it, and I wanted Camille to get to know our community.”

  Marsh sighed. “That’s not wise.”

  “She has natural artistic ability.”

  “I think he’s saying you shouldn’t trust me,” Camille said.

  “Marsh, you’ve been acting like I don’t have good sense.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t mean it like that.” Camille patted Ginny’s shoulder.

  “You’re defending me?”

  “Of course not.” That amused look popped up again.

  “That’s what it sounded like.” Marsh looked from woman to woman. “J&S wants to break up the Sweet Olive group. They’re ruthless when it comes to breaking up coalitions.”

  Ginny gave a huff of laughter. “It’s probably a stretch to call the Artists’ Guild a coalition, and anyone can see that Camille isn’t ruthless.”

  “I can be,” Camille said, but the words sounded more like a confession than a warning.

  “This is a serious matter.” Marsh frowned.

  “Is this some sort of lawyer lecture?” Ginny asked. “Camille knows I’m not going to give up my land. We’re learning to understand each other. I needed her help today.”

  Over Ginny’s shoulder, five children had stopped drawing and were staring, their eyes open wide. Their faces were decorated with ladybugs, spiders, stars, and clouds.

  “Perhaps we could continue in the kitchen,” Marsh said in a quiet voice. “Can you join us, Camille?”

  “As soon as I get the children settled.”

  Marsh watched Camille stroll to the art table, her scuffed cowboy boots tapping the floor. The peewee artists clamored for her attention, as though she’d returned from a long journey.

  The oldest girl, about six or seven, was loudly explaining a picture of a tree and the other children jabbered about their work. Camille paused to offer a word of encouragement to each.

  “Want to join the class?” Ginny said from a few feet in front of him.

  He shook his head. “What is she up to?”

  “Trying to find her way is my guess.”

  He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and stepped close to Ginny. “Some of your group are talking about giving in,” he whispered. “You may wind up with little or nothing if that happens.”

  “You and I see things differently. Camille’s a nice person. She’ll give us a fair deal.”

  “How can you say that? You only met her three days ago.”

  “Haven’t you ever just known?”

  “This is business,” he said. “Not art camp.”

  “Marsh, I know you’re doing this as a favor to your father.” Ginny steered him into the kitchen. “Maybe we made a mistake in twisting your arm to take our case.” She held up her hands, smeared with paint. “No hard feelings.”

  He winced at her words and felt something rub against his leg. A small terrier was de-hairing itself on his navy slacks. Stooping to pick up the dog, he collected his thoughts. His father and the row of old friends had much at stake, and he had committed to help them.

  While he might not be much use with a hammer, like T. J., or with glass, like Lawrence, he knew the law. He wanted a chance to work more with everyday folks, people whose lives could be changed by the right champion at the right moment. Wouldn’t Mother love to hear that?

  Camille came to the kitchen door and looked from him to the dog in his lap. “Are you ready for me?”

  “Excellent timing,” Marsh said. “I think Ginny was about to fire me.”

  “I was not firing you,” Ginny protested, orange nails tapping on the kitchen table. “I want to make sure you know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  Camille looked from one to the other.

  “He’s not an artist, so he doesn’t quite understand,” Ginny said.

  “How can you say that? I was born a few miles from here.”

  That tidbit seemed to take Camille by surprise.

  Ginny smiled. “Marsh’s father, Bud, is an excellent woodworker. There’s nothing that man can’t carve.”

  Marsh set the dog down on the floor and brushed at his pants. How had they wound up talking about his personal life? “Camille, I represent one of the most unique artists’ groups in the country.” He paused. “I consider that a blessing.”

  Ginny reached over and patted his hand, as though he were one of the young students.

  Leaning forward with her elbows on the table, Camille murmured in agreement. “Do you think it’s possible to move this deal forward?”

  In an instant, she transformed from perky art tutor to serious businesswoman. That he found easier to handle. Her affectionate work with the students and the way she looked in those jeans wreaked havoc with his resolve.

  “I’ll draft a list of Sweet Olive questions and get them to you within the next week,” he said. “You submit your answers, and the Sweet Olive group will vote on the direction to take.”

  The words were hardly out of his mouth before Camille shook her head. “I—we—don’t have that kind of time. And this is a rare opportunity—”

  Ginny adjusted her big black glasses. “We’ve waited this long, Camille. We’d rather do it right than do it in a rush.”

  Camille’s face had gotten pale underneath the paint. “There’s a lot at stake here,” she said.

  From across the table, Ginny nodded. “We depend on each other—and we have to work together.”

  “Maybe you should tell her your Artists’ Guild’s motto,” Marsh said.

  “It’s a passage from Ecclesiastes,” Ginny said. “‘Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow … A threefold cord is not quickly broken.’”

  Ginny’s voice sounded like a Louisiana melody as she reverently recited the Scripture. Marsh couldn’t tell what Camille was thinking—and his own thoughts were scrambled. Camille’s background—outlined online and confirmed by his colleagues in Texas, Oklahoma, and a half-dozen other states—was exemplary. She discussed oil and gas with confidence, more informed than any of the men who had ambushed her in her office Monday.

  But Marsh had learned to read people from his very wise father, and Sweet Olive seemed to bring out a pained look in her whiskey-colored eyes.

  He hadn’t figured out what was different about this case, but he would.

  Chapter 12

  An officer in an orange vest directed the creeping line of vehicles toward a detour and frowned as Camille pulled onto the shoulder, hoping she wasn’t going to be late for the Thursday luncheon.

  She met his eyes just as she pounded on the steering wheel.

  She lowered her window and smiled. “Sorry,” she said, twisting her lips. “I’m from out of town, and I really don’t know my way around the area.”

  “Move along, ma’am. We’ve got a hazardous spill here. Follow the other cars.”

  “If I can scoot around there, it’d be a tremendous help.” She hoped her voice had the proper cajoling tone.

  “Ma’am, I’m working my third industrial accident in a month. If you don’t move your vehicle immediately, I’ll ticket you.”

  The driver of an SUV behind Camille honked, and other cars sounded accompanying beeps.

  She swallowed hard and eased off the clutch. Her heart sounded louder in her ears than the honking behind her.

  Edging along the road, she saw a tanker truck on its side, fluid covering the pavement. She couldn’
t see the logo on its side but suspected it belonged to Bienville Oil, whose safety record was one of the worst. Blowing a loud whistle, an officer motioned into the air. He blew the whistle again, three sharp bursts.

  Camille fell in behind the backed-up line of cars and squirmed, adjusting the radio, side-vent window, and rearview mirror. She fiddled with her phone. A small detour, even one in this neighborhood, was nothing to be concerned about.

  She had outgrown those childish fears.

  Haven’t I?

  “Keep going,” she yelled at the car in front of her when the light turned yellow. But the driver stopped.

  Despite her reluctance, she twisted her neck and peered at the two-story duplex on the corner. A bus bench sat across from the house, next to a pay phone stand, the telephone removed. The front yard contained more dirt and litter than grass. The periwinkle-blue paint had peeled, and the screen door hung at an angle.

  The tap of another horn jolted her, and she turned onto Vine Avenue, traffic backed up. She was now squarely in front of the house at Trumpet and Vine. A large wooden Realtor’s sign announced the house was available.

  “Zoned for Business,” the small sign underneath said. She recognized the broker’s name—Ross Broussard, one of the men who had sat in on that awful Monday morning meeting.

  When the traffic started moving again, Camille threw another look at the house, grateful to drive away. This intersection on this edge of Samford looked worse than she remembered.

  Her mother had liked the house, thought it felt homey, but to Camille it represented one more time her father had let them down.

  And called to mind the day Uncle Scott had taken over her life.

  Camille was clammy by the time she stood at the luncheon sign-in table, resigned to more stalling, but Slattery strode forward immediately.

  “This is Camille Gardner from J&S,” he said to the woman checking off names. “I’ll show her to the head table.”

  “Certainly, Senator.” She threw a smile at Camille and nodded, before turning back to the line of mostly men who waited to sign in.