Sweet Olive (9780310330554) by Zondervan Publishing House Page B
Authors: Zondervan Publishing House
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on the table. “I vowed I wouldn’t do business on the Sabbath, but it is hard to shut people up.”
Moving a stack of papers out of a chair, she motioned for Camille to take a seat. “The neighbors call this my command center. It’s a mess.” Her voice held amusement instead of embarrassment.
Sinking gracefully into a chair that resembled something from a 1950s diner, Ginny glanced at the phone, buzzing again, but didn’t answer it. She moved a pile of file folders and a yellow legal tablet to the side of the Formica table.
Camille could not keep from glancing at the papers.
“Perhaps we—” Camille was interrupted by the childrensquabbling in the other room, and Ginny gave a loud sigh and headed back into the living room.
Camille watched her disappear before straining to read the paperwork. Three or four names were listed under a heading that said
INTERESTED.
On the right side of the sheet was a list of a few more names, individuals and couples, some scratched through.
Ginny’s phone squirmed as it simultaneously rang and buzzed. The caller’s name flashed.
Marshall Cameron.
Camille apparently wasn’t the only one working Sunday.
“I thought I turned that thing off.” Ginny strolled back into the kitchen with an oversized tabby cat under one arm and Randy under the other.
How she opened the back door, Camille wasn’t sure, but she dropped the cat outside, accompanied by a dog’s barking, and sat at the table, the child in her lap.
The phone dinged again, and a text message popped up.
Camille looked out the kitchen window at the whirligigs. She was beginning to see where Ginny got her inspiration for art in motion.
“Where were we?” Ginny pushed the hair off her face with a harried shove.
“I think you’ll be pleased with the new J&S offer. Could we set up a meeting for tomorrow?”
“I don’t want to waste your time, Camille. We don’t want a bunch of gas wells messing up our community. J&S will get our mineral rights, drain our water supply, and tear up our land. We’ll be stuck with what’s left.”
“Once the wells are drilled, you’ll hardly notice they’re there,” Camille said. “And the money can help families, schools, churches. Will you at least meet to explore possibilities?”
“I teach school. Children come afterward for Kids’ Art Club. I can’t meet until later—or on Saturdays. And I have to tell you again—we’re not signing over our land.”
“We don’t want the land. J&S wants to lease the mineral rights. You’ll receive a payment up front and retain use of your property.”
Ginny was silent. A clock shaped like a cat, tail moving, ticked so loudly that Camille felt like she could hear her new job slipping away. “Will you at least consider it?”
Exhaling, Ginny leaned over the table. “You seem like a nice person, but you don’t know anything about Sweet Olive, do you?”
She spoke the words
Sweet Olive
not with reverence, as Camille half expected, but with pure affection.
Camille considered for a second and shook her head. “Not much.”
Chapter 8
T he purple-and-gold golf cart was draped with Mardi Gras beads and fringe.
From her spot in the front seat, Camille threw a rare longing look at her truck.
Ginny twisted her hair up in a clip and turned toward Camille. “You good to go?”
“I think so.” Seeking something to hang on to, Camille brushed against a feather boa and clamped her fingers around the cart’s metal frame.
Ginny gave a big, loud laugh as she looked at Camille. “Don’t be scared. I’ve only taken this thing into the ditch once.”
“That’s reassuring,” Camille said, her voice sober.
“What’s the problem? I thought you’d want to see the place you’ve come to woo.”
Camille nodded. “That’s a generous offer … but I didn’t mean to barge in on your afternoon.”
Ginny raised her eyebrows as she turned the key. “Why else would you have come out here without calling?”
“You’re right, of
Moving a stack of papers out of a chair, she motioned for Camille to take a seat. “The neighbors call this my command center. It’s a mess.” Her voice held amusement instead of embarrassment.
Sinking gracefully into a chair that resembled something from a 1950s diner, Ginny glanced at the phone, buzzing again, but didn’t answer it. She moved a pile of file folders and a yellow legal tablet to the side of the Formica table.
Camille could not keep from glancing at the papers.
“Perhaps we—” Camille was interrupted by the childrensquabbling in the other room, and Ginny gave a loud sigh and headed back into the living room.
Camille watched her disappear before straining to read the paperwork. Three or four names were listed under a heading that said
INTERESTED.
On the right side of the sheet was a list of a few more names, individuals and couples, some scratched through.
Ginny’s phone squirmed as it simultaneously rang and buzzed. The caller’s name flashed.
Marshall Cameron.
Camille apparently wasn’t the only one working Sunday.
“I thought I turned that thing off.” Ginny strolled back into the kitchen with an oversized tabby cat under one arm and Randy under the other.
How she opened the back door, Camille wasn’t sure, but she dropped the cat outside, accompanied by a dog’s barking, and sat at the table, the child in her lap.
The phone dinged again, and a text message popped up.
Camille looked out the kitchen window at the whirligigs. She was beginning to see where Ginny got her inspiration for art in motion.
“Where were we?” Ginny pushed the hair off her face with a harried shove.
“I think you’ll be pleased with the new J&S offer. Could we set up a meeting for tomorrow?”
“I don’t want to waste your time, Camille. We don’t want a bunch of gas wells messing up our community. J&S will get our mineral rights, drain our water supply, and tear up our land. We’ll be stuck with what’s left.”
“Once the wells are drilled, you’ll hardly notice they’re there,” Camille said. “And the money can help families, schools, churches. Will you at least meet to explore possibilities?”
“I teach school. Children come afterward for Kids’ Art Club. I can’t meet until later—or on Saturdays. And I have to tell you again—we’re not signing over our land.”
“We don’t want the land. J&S wants to lease the mineral rights. You’ll receive a payment up front and retain use of your property.”
Ginny was silent. A clock shaped like a cat, tail moving, ticked so loudly that Camille felt like she could hear her new job slipping away. “Will you at least consider it?”
Exhaling, Ginny leaned over the table. “You seem like a nice person, but you don’t know anything about Sweet Olive, do you?”
She spoke the words
Sweet Olive
not with reverence, as Camille half expected, but with pure affection.
Camille considered for a second and shook her head. “Not much.”
Chapter 8
T he purple-and-gold golf cart was draped with Mardi Gras beads and fringe.
From her spot in the front seat, Camille threw a rare longing look at her truck.
Ginny twisted her hair up in a clip and turned toward Camille. “You good to go?”
“I think so.” Seeking something to hang on to, Camille brushed against a feather boa and clamped her fingers around the cart’s metal frame.
Ginny gave a big, loud laugh as she looked at Camille. “Don’t be scared. I’ve only taken this thing into the ditch once.”
“That’s reassuring,” Camille said, her voice sober.
“What’s the problem? I thought you’d want to see the place you’ve come to woo.”
Camille nodded. “That’s a generous offer … but I didn’t mean to barge in on your afternoon.”
Ginny raised her eyebrows as she turned the key. “Why else would you have come out here without calling?”
“You’re right, of
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