Marsh inhaled the morning air as he headed out for his daily jog. These minutes before sunrise were his favorite of the day, not yet overheated, dark and quiet. A few houses on his route had lights on, but most of his neighbors had yet to stir.
Setting off through the neighborhood, he sorted out his day, considering the files on his desk. Sweet Olive work required skills as lawyer and counselor, son and friend. He had originally favored a quick deal. But after extensive late-night research and visits with his father and Ginny, he knew a more deliberate approach was called for.
Marsh had scoffed at their original request—keep the oil companies out of Sweet Olive. He had figured the best they could hope for was a hefty price per acre and assurances about noise, traffic, and their water supply.
Until Camille had come along. She might be the miracle Sweet Olive had prayed for.
Turning down the street where his mother lived, he wiped the sweat from his face with the hem of his T-shirt.
If he could navigate this Sweet Olive maze, maybe he would walk away from the big retainers and direct-deposit salary and explore going out on his own again. He could restructure his schedule. He might get another dog.
He picked up his pace, glancing at his watch. He had shaved two minutes off his run, pretty good considering he had stayed out later than intended with Ross and Valerie.
Marsh stumbled on the sidewalk where a large root protruded, but he didn’t slow down. His best ideas came when he pushed himself, and he was in dire need of ideas today.
Camille Gardner’s arrival had stirred everyone, including him, up. He expected to know exactly how to deal with her, but she was unlike the businesswomen he usually encountered.
“I certainly didn’t expect to see you two sitting here all chummy,” he had said to Valerie when Camille departed the evening before.
Valerie smiled and sipped on her margarita, blotting the sweating glass with a napkin. “You don’t know everything,” she teased but didn’t volunteer more.
Marsh didn’t say anything and glanced at his watch.
“Do you really have something better to do?”
“I’d like to catch the end of the Rangers game,” he said.
“You’re acting like an old man,” Ross said. “Baseball’s about as exciting as counting the chips in this basket.”
“That’s because you lack the intellect to follow it,” Marsh said, the familiar argument relaxing him. “A man who can’t tell the National League from the American League is not to be trusted.”
Valerie leaned back in her chair as though watching a show. “This is more like it,” she murmured and signaled for another drink. “Finally, a conversation that doesn’t revolve around land deals.”
“Who’s driving you home?” Lawrence asked her when he approached the table.
“You sound like Camille. That woman is so self-righteous she would hardly take a wedge of lemon in her water.”
Enticing was more the word that entered Marsh’s mind when he thought of Camille, but he shook the thought off. “No drinking and driving. It’s our pact.”
“It’s only my third,” she said. “I had dinner, and I’ve been here for hours.”
“You know the drill, Val,” Ross said. “We’re not fooling around about this.”
“All riiiight. One of you can drop me off, and I’ll pick up my car in the morning.”
Lawrence gave her an angry look and rubbed the back of his neck as he walked away.
As Marsh jogged, he realized he didn’t have time for his planned six-mile route. Since he was nearby, he might as well bum a cup of coffee from Valerie and arrange to pick her up before work.
As he turned onto the boulevard, the first streaks of sunlight inched their way up in the east. Oaks arched over the median, and majestic old homes lined one side of the street.
Val’s place sat on the other side, among a collection of recent New Orleans–style townhomes. Marsh bent to pick up her newspaper, slipped it out of its plastic bag, and read the headlines as he strolled to the front door.
A sound caught his ear and he glanced up, expecting to see one of the familiar early morning runners. He prepared to nod and speak—but froze.
Camille Gardner had great legs.
She missed a step when she saw him, recovered, and ran on past. Checking her watch, she slowed and turned back, jogging slowly over to where he stood.
“I didn’t realize you were a runner.” He might as well have been a college student bumping into a cute girl on campus.
“Depends on what day it is,” Camille said. “You too?”
“I took up track in high school and decided I liked it.”
“I’ve never met anyone who actually likes running.” The look on her face was curious. “Did you move?”
Marsh didn’t quite follow her at first and then looked down at the newspaper and over at the front door of Valerie’s house. “Oh,” he said, “this is Val’s place.”
“I see. Well, tell Valerie ‘hi.’”
Before he could answer, she had resumed her run, faster than before.
Annoyed with Valerie, Marsh knew he had only himself to blame.
Camille had gotten up that morning feeling as though she’d been sick with the flu. Her muscles ached, and her head was stuffy. She’d never been a drinker—her father had cured her of any interest in alcohol—but she thought this must be what a bad hangover felt like.
Seeing Marsh at Valerie’s house had made her feel worse.
She rebuked Valerie in her mind, telling herself she was concerned about a J&S employee sleeping with the enemy. But, as she ran, she acknowledged that she was more than a little disappointed. She somehow had expected better of Marsh.
Checking the time, she cut across a side street and found herself on Trumpet Avenue.
She turned and headed for the familiar house.
Sweating by the time she got there, she dashed into the ramshackle convenience store on the northeast corner, now open, and bought a bottle of water. Then she jogged across the street and sat on the front porch.
While she resented Scott for his controlling nature, she’d been in his debt since she was fifteen. He’d saved her and—more important—her mother.
She considered how he would handle Sweet Olive, how he’d barge in on Ginny and issue an ultimatum, visit Sweet Olive residents and imply their community association was ruining their future, and whirl through downtown Samford, pounding on desks and reminding the business community how much they owed him.
Camille sipped the water, her muscles tight.
For Scott, jobs like Sweet Olive were plain. Make J&S look good. Tie up a few loose ends.
He liked mud and machines, wildcatting and drilling. His vision for the gas deep in the shale of North Louisiana was all about the prize—and nothing about the people.
But to Camille, the past few days had been a new look into the untidy world of emotion and money.
This she knew: With the Martinezes committed, the rest of Sweet Olive would come around in a few days. That kind of money turned heads.
She felt no pleasure.
Her run back to the hotel was five minutes faster than her earlier pace, and she sprinted through the back door to the lobby. A man was talking to the desk clerk, his tone querulous. He turned as she drew closer.
“There you are!” Slattery said. “I wanted to stop by on my way to the office to congratulate you.”
She adjusted her glasses, buying a moment.
“I heard you struck a deal last night. That should get everyone else moving.”
In small towns, word of oil money often spread as quickly as a major illness on the prayer chain at her mother’s church, but this was definitely a record. “That deal has nothing to do with you.” She didn’t blink as she spoke.
Slattery looked smug. “Every deal in Cypress Parish has something to do with me. I’d encourage you to remember that.”