Sweet Olive (9780310330554) by Zondervan Publishing House
Authors: Zondervan Publishing House
Ads: Link
isn’t.”
Marsh reached for a carrot and rubbed his shoulder.
“Have you hurt yourself?” She walked over to the counter where he stood. “Do you need your stepfather to look at your arm?”
“I pulled a muscle working in the yard yesterday. I’m fine.”
“I don’t know why you refuse to hire a yardman. Those Mexicans are very reliable.”
“Mother …” Her condescension troubled him, but he hated to get into yet another argument.
“You could use the help.” She opened the silverware drawer. “Especially when you move into a bigger house.”
Marsh reached for another carrot, plotting his exit. Before he could vacate the room, his mother moved on. “Did Val tell you we’re planning a party to celebrate your state commission post?”
He chewed slowly. “That’s in the early stages, and I asked you not to talk about it.”
Her hand fluttered. “We can’t throw something together at the last minute. By the time the governor makes the announcement, we’ll have the invitations ready to print. I’ve already got a calligrapher lined up.”
“Calligrapher?” A dull ache throbbed at his temples.
“Don’t worry, Marshall. It’ll look elegant.”
“No invitations, no calligrapher. If an announcement is made, we can discuss it.”
“Maybe by then you’ll have washed your hands of that silly Sweet Olive mess. Who in the world is that woman J&S sent in?”
Marsh bit his cheek to keep from groaning. “You know I can’t talk about my case.”
“It’s not like it’s a secret after that show she put on at the Richmonds’ last night.”
His resolve shattered. “What show?”
“She marched in there like she owned the place. I’m just thankful Claire was out of town. She would have been mortified.”
Valerie’s mother stayed at the Richmond beach house when she wasn’t at the family condo in Colorado. His mother pretended like Claire and Slattery still lived together, and Val commented on her rarely.
“Ms. Gardner comes in acting all warm and friendly. Why would they send someone like her to Samford?”
“I suspect they want to finish up the Sweet Olive leases.” He glanced at his watch, and his mother held up her hand.
“Don’t rush me. You know as well as I do that your father will be sitting on that porch whenever you get there.”
She was right. Bud Cameron would be in the porch swing, whittling or visiting with a friend. He would tell Marsh to change out of his “monkey suit” and regale him with stories about the neighbors, some amusing, some sad. Not one word would be critical. Marsh looked over at his mother, setting crystal water glasses on the countertop.
“I’m going to see Doc,” he said and hurried from the room.
Chapter 7
T he aluminum door creaked as Ginny opened it, a rusty noise like fingers on a chalkboard. A dog, smaller than the one in the yard, sauntered in from another room, tongue out, tail wagging. He nudged his head between Camille and Ginny.
“Aunt Ginny, come see what I drew,” a childish voice called from across the room, and a “me too, me too” joined in.
“Camille, meet North Louisiana’s future Picassos.”
“I … I didn’t realize you were in the middle of a class,” Camille stammered.
Ginny made a dismissive noise. “This is my niece and nephew. They’re used to interruptions. We’re quite popular lately.”
“I could make an appointment for another time. I don’t want to bother—”
“We’ll look at their drawings,” Ginny cut in, “and you can tell me what you’ve got on your mind.”
Before they could reach the little art table, however, Ginny’s cell phone, clipped to her pocket, rang. She glanced atthe number while a classical tune blared. “This’ll only take a minute.”
Camille stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by art. The two children, both with curly red hair, painted at easels next to a small, splattered table. A wall full of drawings was displayed behind them, and a shelf of misshapen
Marsh reached for a carrot and rubbed his shoulder.
“Have you hurt yourself?” She walked over to the counter where he stood. “Do you need your stepfather to look at your arm?”
“I pulled a muscle working in the yard yesterday. I’m fine.”
“I don’t know why you refuse to hire a yardman. Those Mexicans are very reliable.”
“Mother …” Her condescension troubled him, but he hated to get into yet another argument.
“You could use the help.” She opened the silverware drawer. “Especially when you move into a bigger house.”
Marsh reached for another carrot, plotting his exit. Before he could vacate the room, his mother moved on. “Did Val tell you we’re planning a party to celebrate your state commission post?”
He chewed slowly. “That’s in the early stages, and I asked you not to talk about it.”
Her hand fluttered. “We can’t throw something together at the last minute. By the time the governor makes the announcement, we’ll have the invitations ready to print. I’ve already got a calligrapher lined up.”
“Calligrapher?” A dull ache throbbed at his temples.
“Don’t worry, Marshall. It’ll look elegant.”
“No invitations, no calligrapher. If an announcement is made, we can discuss it.”
“Maybe by then you’ll have washed your hands of that silly Sweet Olive mess. Who in the world is that woman J&S sent in?”
Marsh bit his cheek to keep from groaning. “You know I can’t talk about my case.”
“It’s not like it’s a secret after that show she put on at the Richmonds’ last night.”
His resolve shattered. “What show?”
“She marched in there like she owned the place. I’m just thankful Claire was out of town. She would have been mortified.”
Valerie’s mother stayed at the Richmond beach house when she wasn’t at the family condo in Colorado. His mother pretended like Claire and Slattery still lived together, and Val commented on her rarely.
“Ms. Gardner comes in acting all warm and friendly. Why would they send someone like her to Samford?”
“I suspect they want to finish up the Sweet Olive leases.” He glanced at his watch, and his mother held up her hand.
“Don’t rush me. You know as well as I do that your father will be sitting on that porch whenever you get there.”
She was right. Bud Cameron would be in the porch swing, whittling or visiting with a friend. He would tell Marsh to change out of his “monkey suit” and regale him with stories about the neighbors, some amusing, some sad. Not one word would be critical. Marsh looked over at his mother, setting crystal water glasses on the countertop.
“I’m going to see Doc,” he said and hurried from the room.
Chapter 7
T he aluminum door creaked as Ginny opened it, a rusty noise like fingers on a chalkboard. A dog, smaller than the one in the yard, sauntered in from another room, tongue out, tail wagging. He nudged his head between Camille and Ginny.
“Aunt Ginny, come see what I drew,” a childish voice called from across the room, and a “me too, me too” joined in.
“Camille, meet North Louisiana’s future Picassos.”
“I … I didn’t realize you were in the middle of a class,” Camille stammered.
Ginny made a dismissive noise. “This is my niece and nephew. They’re used to interruptions. We’re quite popular lately.”
“I could make an appointment for another time. I don’t want to bother—”
“We’ll look at their drawings,” Ginny cut in, “and you can tell me what you’ve got on your mind.”
Before they could reach the little art table, however, Ginny’s cell phone, clipped to her pocket, rang. She glanced atthe number while a classical tune blared. “This’ll only take a minute.”
Camille stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by art. The two children, both with curly red hair, painted at easels next to a small, splattered table. A wall full of drawings was displayed behind them, and a shelf of misshapen
Similar Books
