Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (15 page)

S
ince the incident with Lawrence, Ginny had remained distant, which hurt more than Camille could have imagined.

Only through Camille’s persistence had she persuaded Ginny to meet with her at the reference department of the Cypress Public Library on a Saturday afternoon.

Carrying her usual stack of notebooks, Ginny entered in a pair of balloon pants and a tunic that resembled Joseph’s coat of many colors. She slammed her things on the table. “I can’t stay long. Evelyn’s keeping the kids.”

Camille tried to disguise the pain that ran through her at the abrupt words. “What are they working on?”

“Etchings with waxed paper.” She dug in her bag. “Kylie asked me to bring you this.”

The drawing of a row of bright houses caused Camille to swallow hard. “I miss them …”

“They keep asking when you’re coming back.”

“I never meant to hurt them—or you.”

“Then why did you?”

Camille had prepared a long list of answers: The J&S offer
was fair, and the money could be put to good use. Businesses had schedules to meet. The landowners would lose out if they didn’t sign soon.

But she didn’t speak. She sat there breathing in and out, regaining control of her emotions.

“I was wrong,” she said finally.

Ginny twisted her hair into a bun and used a yellow pencil to secure it, her eyes intense. The library was tranquil around them, the occasional patron perusing the nearby card catalogue. The room had the pleasant smell of old books.

Camille continued in a quiet voice. “I thought J&S was going to lower its offer, and I wanted Evelyn to have that money if she needed it … I kept thinking about my own mother and how I would do anything to help her.”

She held up her hand when Ginny started to interrupt. “Hear me out, please … I’ve never had neighbors before. I want what you have.”

Ginny gave one of her big laughs, the sound reverberating through the library. A patron or two looked curious. “You want what
I
have?” She swung her arm through the air and knocked half the stack onto the floor. Ginny looked down at the papers and back at Camille.

“Impressive illustration of your point.”

Ginny rolled her eyes but smiled, and Camille bent to help her pick up the papers. “You need a laptop.”

“I know, I know. If I would sign with J&S, I’d have plenty of money for a new computer.”

“You don’t have to sign. I can give you a technology grant from our community fund.” Camille winked. “After all, you are an arts volunteer.”

“I’m so confused.” Ginny heaved a sigh. “This is supposed to be about business, but you feel like one of us. Where do we stand, Camille?”

“We’re friends, Ginny. If you decide not to sign, fine. If you want to sign, I’ll include your demands in the contract, including well locations and water testing.”

“Bienville Oil’s trying to convince us of the same thing.”

“So they’re back in the running?”

Ginny nodded. “Are you sure J&S will go along with your recommendations?”

“I’ll type and print every contract myself—and be there when they’re signed.” Camille intended to present Uncle Scott with a fait accompli, but she wouldn’t drag Ginny into that.

“My artists are a cantankerous bunch. This could take awhile.”

Camille tried not to think of the weeks slipping by. “It’ll work out. And I want to learn more about your art plans.”

Ginny’s bright red lipstick highlighted her somber mouth. “I thought from almost the first that God sent you to us.”

Camille snorted. “Scott Stephens sent me to you—but he acts like he’s God.”

“You didn’t come to Sweet Olive by accident.”

Camille felt uncomfortable. “God’s got bigger things to take care of than me: world peace, famine, that sort of thing.”

“The Lord goes before us, wherever we’re headed.” Ginny turned her head. “You brag on the artists in Sweet Olive, how they’re as good as famous artists.”

“They are!”

“Then why can’t you believe what you do is important to God?”

“Ginny, if there were a
plan
for my life, I doubt my mother
and I would have been dumped on a street corner while my father ran off to work on an oil well.”

The look on Ginny’s face shifted to sorrow. “Just because things didn’t work out in the past doesn’t mean there’s no hope for the future.”

Camille smiled. “I’m working on it. Can we go back to arguing about your gas rights? That’s easier than talking about this stuff.”

“What stuff?”

She attempted a careless shrug. “Faith. Friendship. Family.”

Ginny seemed baffled. “You dart around like a rabbit running from a hound.”

“I’m here because J&S controls my life … I’m paying a debt to my uncle.” There. She had offered another of her secrets.

“And he depends on you?”

“Not in the way Kylie and Randy—and half of the rest of Sweet Olive—depend on you.” Camille ran her fingers through her hair. “At first I wanted to take care of my mother and pay him back for all he’s done.” She swallowed hard. “And then, I don’t know, it became a habit.”

“It sounds like it’s time for you to do something else.”

“That’s why I’m in a hurry to get back to Houston.” She wasn’t sure how much to divulge. “With a corporate job, I’ll work in an office with regular hours.”

Ginny’s face fell. “What about art?”

“The J&S job will pay for my first house.” She gave a small smile. “I’ll volunteer at a gallery and keep taking classes. By the time I retire, I’ll be able to buy a gallery—or at least be part of a co-op.”

“Just because you’re good at oil and gas doesn’t mean you
have to do it until retirement. Surely your boss doesn’t expect that.”

Camille propped her face in her hands. “My father was an oilfield roughneck. Mama says he’d rather sleep in the bed of his pickup than in a five-star hotel.”

Ginny didn’t rush her.

“In those days, they mainly looked for oil, not gas. He had an eye for it—and a good heart, according to my mother. He listened when she fussed about the need to be a steward of the earth.”

Camille pictured her father, reared back in a kitchen chair. “I guess I’m doing this job in part for him.”

“Would he have wanted that?”

A whirl of ignored memories flew through Camille’s mind—her father bringing her a paint-by-number set, a coloring book, modeling clay. One Christmas, money had been so scarce their rented trailer had no heat, but he came home with an extravagant art kit. And a six-pack.

“You have a gift, Camy,” he said as they inspected each item in the metal box. “Don’t let it slip away.”

Ginny reached out and touched Camille’s hand as a tear rolled down her face.
Why did my father waste his talent?

“Your father would be proud of you, Camille.”

“You’re supposed to be mad at me, Ginny.” She looked right into the big, black glasses. “I shouldn’t have approached Lawrence the way I did.”

“We make mistakes.” Ginny held her hands across the library table. “I wish you could quit putting your life on hold.”

“So do I.” Camille blinked back another tear. “So do I.”

T
wo small dogs—rat terriers, Camille thought—dashed out. She slammed on the brakes but couldn’t see where the animals had gone.

If she rolled forward, she feared she’d run right over them. But she couldn’t sit here the rest of the afternoon.

Should she get out of the truck? Camille unlocked the door.

But before she stepped out, Evelyn came from around the house, clapped her hands, and started down the steps with a spryness that gave no hint of her illness. Her smock-like shirt over her clothes billowed like a sail as she ran. A bright green bandanna was tied around her neck.

She yelled, and the dogs ran toward her. Waving, she gestured for Camille to turn in. “Get out of the road, and they’ll leave you alone.”

Camille sheepishly gave a little wave. “I was admiring your yard art. The dogs ran out …”

Evelyn leaned down and picked up the bigger of the two.
“These two chase every car that comes down this road.” She shook her head. “We haven’t had so much traffic down this way since Lawrence was recruited to play college football—before he hurt his knee.”

Sitting in the truck, Camille felt like a giant over the small woman, so she opened the door and stepped out. She scuffed the dirt with her old cowboy boots. The wind, with a hint of fall, ruffled her hair and brought a whiff of that unusual sweet smell she kept encountering.

“I know you were upset with me, but I’m not here for J&S.” Camille reached out for Evelyn’s hand. “I am so sorry for what I did.”

“Lawrence insists I need the money for doctor bills, and he’d like for me to take one of those cruises.” She waved at the pecan trees and ponds across the road. “What a shame it would be to lose all of this for something as temporary as that.”

“Your land wouldn’t necessarily be damaged.” Camille chose her words carefully. J&S had identified the acreage across the road for the well site, land owned by the Martinezes, but she intended to fight that—as long and hard as it took.

“You should see what they did to my sister’s place over in Webster Parish.” Evelyn shook her head, her lips flattened nearly into a straight line. “They cut every tree for a mile and tore up the land. Just flat tore it up.”

“I admit drilling can be ugly, but land can be restored once the well’s in place.”

“I’m sure it
can
be restored, but will it be? And how long will it take? Those are the real questions.” Evelyn wiped her hands on the smock. “Lawrence, Marsh, and the other young folks will be the ones who have to live with all these changes.”

Camille studied Evelyn. No matter what the Martinezes did, changes were coming to Sweet Olive. The idea unexpectedly hurt.

Camille looked at the bright flowers. “Will you please give me a quick tour of your art?” She held up her hands. “Just art. Not gas.”

Evelyn followed Camille’s gaze to the creations, a hint of a smile coming to her lips. “As long as you don’t talk anymore about gas wells or try to slip me a check.”

“I am truly not doing a good job in Sweet Olive.”

Evelyn stuck her head out so far that she looked like a little rooster strutting by. “Don’t you think we’re smart enough to know there’s no such thing as free money? Like I told Lawrence, you get something, you give up something. Plain and simple.”

“Nothing like a mother’s wisdom.” Camille smiled.

“What does your mother think about you going all over the country like you do?”

Camille gave a small moan. “About what you’d imagine. She’d like me to put down roots.”

Evelyn nodded. “That’s what we all want for our children.”

“Your son is an outstanding artist.”

“Lawrence has grown into a fine man.” Evelyn nodded. “He had troubles after his father passed, but he’s come through that. He’ll make it big one of these days.”

“I agree.” Camille pointed to the rows of colorful metal stuck in the ground—mostly flowers, birds, and assorted other bright, nonsensical objects. “May I have that tour now?”

Evelyn put her hands in the smock pockets and stared at Camille. “Are you an artist?”

“Unfortunately not. I’m a …” She hesitated and then smiled. “Well, you know, I work for the unmentionable.”

“You act like an artist,” Evelyn said. “Maybe you should try it. Come on, and I’ll show you what I do.”

She led Camille to a cluster of intricate roses with stripes painted on them. Wearing red sneakers with mismatched socks, Evelyn looked as though she had sprouted in the display herself.

Looking down, Camille felt the sun on her neck but knew it wasn’t the rays warming her heart. “What kind of metal do you use?”

“Recycled tin from barns that were torn down when the first of the wells were drilled south of here. Be careful or you’ll cut yourself.” The dogs scampered as she spoke.

Camille looked closer, murmuring with delight. “Who cuts the pieces for you?” She knelt for a better look underneath. “How do you join them?”

“I do it all, with a little help from Lawrence.” She pointed to a scar on her hand. “Art’s not for sissies.”

As they drifted through the pieces, Evelyn explained how she’d come to make each one, sometimes in minute detail. While the flowers and assorted other shapes looked random, it became clear that she put great thought—and creativity—into each one.

“You make it look simple,” Camille said, getting on her tiptoes to inspect a hodgepodge of orange and black metal poppies. “But they’re complex.”

Evelyn made a small sound. “I just put a twist on what I see around me.”

A car drove by, slowing. The dogs barked. Evelyn waved and the driver went on. “I suppose you’d better go,” she said. “Word’ll spread fast that I’m entertaining the enemy.”

Camille put her hands to her heart. “I didn’t mean to cause more trouble.”

Evelyn nodded, a serious look on her face. “I was feeling sort of low.” She fanned herself and gave a small smile. “What could it hurt if you stayed a little bit longer, right?”

“I don’t know,” she said as Evelyn put the dogs behind a fence.

“Let’s go around back, and I’ll show you my art shed.”

“I’m not sure Lawrence would like it. Marsh either.”

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them.” Evelyn loosened the bandanna and wiped her face with it.

Trailing behind the woman, Camille walked uncertainly up the concrete steps to a small utility shed. From the outside, the little shack looked like a place to store lawn mowers, but it had been transformed into a cozy mishmash of a room.

One wall was covered with faded wallpaper, another with a giant bulletin board covered in photographs and sketches. The plywood floor, painted with pastel squares, slanted slightly, and a box fan in an open window whirred softly.

Evelyn pulled out an upholstered dining chair, its fabric torn. “Take a seat, and I’ll get us some water.” She reached into a refrigerator similar to the one Camille had in her first dorm room and pulled out an old metal pitcher.

“Our water out here is so much better than that fancy bottled stuff.” Evelyn’s dark eyes glowed as she turned. “I might even be able to rustle us up a little something sweet.”

Camille smiled in return as she settled onto the lumpy chair.

“This is my nest. Always has been.”

Evelyn moved with grace, reaching for metal glasses that matched the pitcher. The condensation felt good on Camille’s hands, and she took a deep drink of cold water.

“Cookie?” Evelyn asked.

Camille smiled and reached for the plate.

“My mother’s recipe. I’ve been trying for fifty-plus years to make tea cakes as good as she did, but I can’t quite get ’em the same.”

Camille inhaled, the smell of paint mixed with the cinnamon in the cookie. “Oh my.” She closed her eyes briefly. “Your mother’s couldn’t have tasted better than this.”

“Lawrence says the same thing, but I can tell the difference.”

“Were you a cook first or an artist?”

“The women in my family have always been artistic, and when I married Manny, Lawrence’s father, I started learning. He loved art with a Latin flair—that’s what first drew me to him. My family wanted me to paint pictures, but I wanted a different approach.” Evelyn chuckled. “My daddy-in-law moved in with us and didn’t like my work at all. Complained all the time in Spanish, but my husband was proud of me.”

“Are there other artists in the family—besides you and Lawrence?”

“My daughter down in Samford quilts.” She pointed to a wall hanging that looked like a sunset made out of hundreds of tiny squares. “That’s called ‘Evening on the Bayou.’ She stitches every stitch by hand.”

As Camille absorbed the details of the quilt, Evelyn picked up a basket, about the size of a basketball, and handed it to Camille. “My sister-in-law makes baskets out of pine needles. Marsh bought one as a gift for the governor, if you can believe it.”

Camille inspected the delicate handle.

“Isn’t Marsh the nicest man?” Evelyn said. “He’s got so much of his daddy in him.”

“Is Marsh an artist?”

“He gave it up when he went to law school. But he won a big
art competition in high school and got to exhibit with his teacher. Everybody in Sweet Olive went.” She frowned. “Of course, his mother was too busy to come.”

Camille put the basket down. “I heard he got involved in this case because of his father.”

Evelyn nodded. “We’ve been a headache for him for years, but he keeps helping us.”

“You’ve worked with him before?” Camille set her glass on the table.

“A handful of times. He got us a grant and made the first donation to our art center fund.”

“I didn’t know you had an art center.”

“Oh, we don’t,” Evelyn said. “But we will one of these days. We’re going to renovate an old building and open a gallery. Every one of us will get to display our work.”

“What wonderful news! That’s the kind of community project J&S loves. We get a chance to give back to the community—”

“But J&S turned us down.”

“What?”

“Valerie Richmond said J&S wasn’t interested in country art.”

“It’s a perfect project for J&S.”

“She wouldn’t even come to our meeting, but she and Lawrence don’t get along so well.” Evelyn shook her head. “They had a parting of the ways.”

“I heard they were engaged.” Camille’s voice was tentative.

Evelyn sighed. “That woman. She’s a climber. Lawrence’s ambitions are different.” Her face brightened. “All that was before you came to town. Might you consider …?”

“Lawrence is a wonderful man,” Camille said quickly, “and extremely nice looking, but I don’t know that I’m his type.”

Evelyn gave a small cough. “I meant would you reconsider our request for a donation?”

Camille could feel her face flame. “I am so embarrassed.”

They both burst out laughing.

“I’d be thrilled if Lawrence caught your eye,” Evelyn said.

“Even though everyone’s angry with me?”

“You’ve stirred things up in Sweet Olive. We needed that.”

Camille felt a quiet burst of joy. “A local gallery sounds like a wonderful idea.”

Evelyn turned her head sideways and smiled. “You’re mighty interested in art for someone who isn’t an artist. Lots of folks think art’s frivolous. I’ve never been able to understand that, although I suppose polka-dotted butterflies might strike some as silly.”

“I’ve never favored formal art as much as primitive art.” Camille touched a heart-shaped wing.

“That’d be a fine discussion for a Guild meeting. They probably haven’t thought about that—except Lawrence. He studied art in college.”

“His glasswork is gorgeous. Very dramatic.”

“It’s a mighty hard way to earn a living.” Evelyn mopped her face again. “Since I got sick, I have these hot flashes.”

“So you just found out?” Camille asked.

“Only a few weeks ago. I’m a fighter, though.”

“I’m sorry …”

“It’s nice to meet someone who isn’t focused on when I’m having chemo or if I’m going to kick the bucket.” She made a face and held the aluminum glass to her forehead.

Camille looked around. “Have you considered a window unit?”

Evelyn frowned. “In this creaky old building? The electric bill would cost us an arm and a leg.”

“But you could have plenty of money.” The words flew out from Camille.

“What are you doing?” a stern voice said behind them, and she jumped, bumping the table with her knee. The water sloshed onto her jeans.

While Camille tried to blot up the spill, Evelyn’s eyes lit up, and she stood. “I didn’t expect you on a Saturday afternoon, son!” She craned her neck. “And Marsh.” Evelyn put her hands on Lawrence’s shoulders and looked in his face. “You’d better be staying for supper.”

Camille stood stiffly and turned with dread, noticing water had splattered onto her blouse too. Marsh, in a pair of gray slacks and a crisp blue shirt, sucked some of the air out of the already stuffy space. Lawrence, in his usual black T-shirt, looked bothered.

Evelyn stepped back from her son and Marsh and patted Camille’s hand, which clenched a soggy paper towel. “Camille and I were chatting about art.”

Marsh and Lawrence obviously didn’t share her enthusiasm.

“We couldn’t believe it when we saw your truck,” Marsh said. The formerly inviting room sizzled, and the tea cake seemed to have turned to stone in Camille’s stomach. Each of the men stood rigid.

“I drove out here to clear my head,” Camille said. “The dogs ran into the road, and I needed to turn around.”
Lame.

“I was lonesome,” Evelyn interjected.

“Mama, please.” Lawrence turned his attention to Camille. “You can’t come out here trying to talk my mother into signing.”

“Goodness gracious, Lawrence Manuel Martinez,” Evelyn said. “Camille was asking about my folk art. You two can sit down and join us or wait out front.”

She threw her son a look only a mother could give. Marsh looked as though he were facing a stern Sunday school teacher.

“Mama, we agreed on how to handle this. You can’t invite every landman in town in for tea cakes.”

“Does Camille look like a landman to you?” Evelyn raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t ask that fellow from Bienville Oil in.”

Marsh and Lawrence exchanged a glance, and Evelyn cleared her throat. “Are you listening to me, boys?”