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.
“I’m not at the head table,” Camille said as they stepped away. “I should have waited my turn like everyone else.”
“Of course you’re at the head table. All of our speakers sit up there.”
“But I’m not a—” Sweat poured off of her. “Are you telling me I’m on the program?”
He gave a small frown. “Only briefly. You’ll lead into the keynote.”
Camille swallowed. Her mind felt like the one time she had tried ice-skating. Her thoughts slid around, and she feared she might land on her rear. “I don’t speak before large groups.”
Slattery’s response sounded like a growl. “All you have to do is say hello.” He looked at her as though she were a preschooler who didn’t want to go down the tall slide.
With his hand on her back, he guided her to a corner near the front, effectively blocking her from other guests. “You’re underwriting this event.” He pointed to the discreet J&S Production sign attached to a lectern at the head table. “You’re also a club member. Working for J&S has plenty of perks.”
“I don’t like public speaking.” Camille restrained a nervous laugh. “And I’m supposed to offer perks, not take advantage of them.”
“I get it.” He nodded slowly. “You don’t want to throw your weight around until the right time. That’s a smart strategy.”
“It’s not a strategy.” A pulse pounded in her head. “It’s good manners.”
Slattery’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded again. “We need someone with charm to clear this mess up.”
Marsh stepped into the outdated club and greeted the headwaiter. An army of helpers lined up behind him with trays of food.
“You’re right on time, Marsh. They just started their salads.”
“Thanks, Lawrence.” Marsh lowered his voice. “I hope to have an update for you soon.”
“Mama’s cancer may change things.”
“It’ll work out.” Marsh halted as Slattery stood to open the meeting. Camille sat to the left at the head table. She laid her fork down and shifted to watch as Slattery lounged against the lectern.
Looking for an open seat, Marsh saw Valerie wave him to a chair next to her. He headed for the table, his mood lowering after Lawrence’s mention of Evelyn’s health.
Slattery, never missing a beat in his good-old-boy opening remarks, acknowledged Marsh subtly as he worked his way to the table. Marsh tilted his chin up in return and allowed his gaze to drift over to Camille, who tapped her fingers lightly on the white tablecloth.
He slid into the chair next to Valerie, and she gave him a big smile. He turned his chair to face the head table, and Val shifted her chair so their knees nearly touched. “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered. “My dear father is long-winded today. He wants to impress Camille.”
“Shh,” Marsh said softly. “You know he hates it when we whisper.” Marsh focused his eyes on the head table, staring at the woman who had drawn him to the meeting despite his overloaded schedule.
Slattery was in the midst of an enthusiastic litany of Camille’s qualifications, including her degree, with honors, “in geology and—get this—a double major in art.”
Her double major in science and art from SMU had come up in her background check, but he had dismissed it as unimportant. Hearing Slattery’s introduction called to mind Camille’s cheerful volunteer work at Ginny’s. Maybe art was the key to getting the right deal for Sweet Olive.
When Camille stood, she seemed nervous, running her hand through her hair, leaving one strand sticking up. She adjusted the microphone, looked across the full room—and offered a super-sized smile.
Camille was one of those women whose face was transformed by a smile. While Valerie was glamorous, Camille was enchanting—and the smile made her glow.
Marsh felt certain he wasn’t the only man in the room who hoped her look might be directed at him.
“Thank you, Slattery.” She glanced at him before surveying the others at the head table. “I’m certain I shouldn’t be up front with all these distinguished folks, but I’m delighted to be in North Louisiana.”
“I bet she is,” Valerie said in Marsh’s ear.
Camille seemed to gaze right at him at that moment, and her smile faltered for a split second. She paused and gripped the lectern.
“I’m not a public speaker, so you may notice I’m perspiring,” she said, drawing a few chuckles. “I didn’t expect the honor of speaking today, so I’ll keep it brief.” She glanced out toward Marsh and Valerie again. “But I appreciate the chance to say thank you for what you’ve done to make Samford stronger.”
“She’s more polished than I realized,” Valerie murmured.
Marsh ignored Val, watching the way Camille’s eyes darted around the room, as though seeking a friendly face.
“I especially thank Valerie Richmond, who many of you know.” A smattering of applause went through the club.
“Unbelievable,” Valerie said through clenched teeth. “Doesn’t she know I hate her for taking my job?”
Marsh sighed. “Val, people are looking at you. Smile, and be quiet.”
“You’re right, as always.” She put her hand on his shoulder.
Marsh moved his chair away from the table a couple of feet for a better view of the podium.
An out-of-town marketing consultant followed Camille’s brief comments, giving a PowerPoint presentation on how North Louisiana could improve its image. Marsh wasn’t all that interested in image, but he did hold on to the idea that Samford could be more than it was.
For that to happen, companies like J&S would have to learn they couldn’t always get their way.
When the meeting ended, he walked to the front, Valerie at his side. A mass of attendees surged forward, reaching the head table to welcome Camille and slip her their business cards.
Ross Broussard, his oldest friend, made his way across the room, looking like a golf pro instead of a real estate genius. He gave Valerie a quick hug and shook hands with Marsh. “Late night?” he asked as Marsh rubbed his eyes.
“Way too late.”
“Tell us more.” Ross grinned. “A new romance?”
Val frowned.
“Hardly. I worked until three this morning trying to unravel archaic statutes.”
“If you’d gone to law school in Louisiana instead of at Hahvod,” Ross mocked, “maybe you’d have it figured out by now.”
“Not this one,” Marsh said. The choices in this case were murkier than the water in the Red River.
The law he had studied—and practiced so successfully these past nine years—had been law of the intellect. This case involved the heart.
Landowners needed the money.
But that money carried a high price for the row of neighbors he held in such regard. They wanted an art colony in Sweet Olive, not an oilfield.
“Did you doze off on us?” Ross asked.
“You poor man.” Val wrapped her arm around his waist, as though holding him up. “You’re asleep on your feet.”
“Val,” he said, edging away.
“Your competition gave a good speech,” Ross said.
“My competition?” Valerie raised an arched eyebrow.
“He was talking to me,” Marsh said dryly. “Camille seems to know what she’s talking about.”
“Good thing because she’ll need that and more when she heads out to Sweet Olive,” Valerie said. “They’ll eat her alive.”
“Didn’t happen,” Marsh said. “She’s been out there a couple of times—that I know about.”
Valerie flipped her long, blond hair back from her shoulder, irritation etched on her face. “Daddy says you’re as hardheaded as the rest of Sweet Olive. She hasn’t caused them to go with Bienville Oil, has she?”
Marsh looked across the room where the Bienville Oil manager had been trying to catch his eye. “No comment,” he said. “How’s the real estate business, Ross?”
As his friend laughed, Marsh shifted his gaze to Camille, whose outward nervousness had vanished. She laughed occasionally and mentioned her delight with the Sweet Olive community. She didn’t refer to Samford, except in polite generalities. Although she wasn’t talkative, she leaned in to listen to each person who approached.
Valerie had gotten it right—sort of. Camille was polished. But it went deeper than that. She radiated an affection for the artists. She seemed right at home, which troubled him.
Camille’s heart was still pounding from the impromptu speech, and she tried to concentrate on the civic leaders welcoming her to Louisiana.
But even with their kind words and hearty handshakes, Camille couldn’t keep her eyes from veering to Marsh. She told herself it was because she needed to know what he was up to, but she also enjoyed the assured way he moved through the room. In his tailored suit, he looked as though he had been born for the private club.
Leaving Valerie’s side, he stopped to greet a variety of people but seemed to be looking for someone and stayed in conversations only a moment or two. His longest chat was with a middle-aged man in a sport coat and golf shirt.
Marsh was animated as they spoke and pulled out a card, wrote something on it, and passed it to him before walking to the side of the room where Lawrence cleared a messy table.
As Marsh approached, Lawrence wiped his hands on the edge of the tablecloth he had just removed and stepped into a corner by a row of windows.
Camille’s position on the platform gave her a good view of the two, but she regretted that she couldn’t hear their conversation. Marsh pulled another piece of paper out of his jacket pocket, wrote on it, and handed it over. They shook hands and exchanged smiles before Marsh strode toward the elevator.
Disappointed that he hadn’t shown her the courtesy of a hello, Camille shifted her attention to Valerie, smiling and talking to nearly everyone who strolled by—until her father approached. Walking away with Slattery, she paused for a brief look at Lawrence, and her father nudged her.
The clatter of dishes being cleared from the round tables rang through the room. Camille drew a deep breath and faced the last of the well-wishers, the man in the sport coat who she had seen talking with Marsh.
“Welcome to the best oil state in the country, Miss Gardner,” the man said, his voice scratchy, like a heavy smoker’s. “I’m an old friend of your uncle’s.”
Camille had wondered how long it would be before someone made the connection between her and Scott, half expecting it every time she encountered Marsh.
“I hope you won’t hold that against me,” she said with a silly little laugh.
The man’s smile didn’t work its way up to his eyes, but his yellow teeth flashed at the quip. “Scott and Slattery and I worked together in the oilfield one summer during college. I’m Jason Dinkins.”
Camille studied him for a moment, trying to figure out how much he knew about those early days. “It’s nice to meet you, Jason. I’m sure Scott will be tickled to hear I ran into you.”
“I doubt that. I’m the field manager for Bienville Oil.” He waited a beat, as though to ensure the words sank in. “I’m sure I’ll see you out in Sweet Olive.”