Sweet Olive (9780310330554) by Zondervan Publishing House

de-hairing itself on his navy slacks. Stooping to pick up the dog, he collected his thoughts. His father and the row of old friends had much at stake, and he had committed to help them.
    While he might not be much use with a hammer, like T. J., or with glass, like Lawrence, he knew the law. He wanted a chance to work more with everyday folks, people whose lives could be changed by the right champion at the right moment.
Wouldn’t Mother love to hear that?
    Camille came to the kitchen door and looked from him to the dog in his lap. “Are you ready for me?”
    “Excellent timing,” Marsh said. “I think Ginny was about to fire me.”
    “I was not firing you,” Ginny protested, orange nails tapping on the kitchen table. “I want to make sure you know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
    Camille looked from one to the other.
    “He’s not an artist, so he doesn’t quite understand,” Ginny said.
    “How can you say that? I was born a few miles from here.”
    That tidbit seemed to take Camille by surprise.
    Ginny smiled. “Marsh’s father, Bud, is an excellent woodworker. There’s nothing that man can’t carve.”
    Marsh set the dog down on the floor and brushed at his pants. How had they wound up talking about his personal life? “Camille, I represent one of the most unique artists’ groups in the country.” He paused. “I consider that a blessing.”
    Ginny reached over and patted his hand, as though he were one of the young students.
    Leaning forward with her elbows on the table, Camille murmured in agreement. “Do you think it’s possible to move this deal forward?”
    In an instant, she transformed from perky art tutor to serious businesswoman. That he found easier to handle. Her affectionate work with the students and the way she looked in those jeans wreaked havoc with his resolve.
    “I’ll draft a list of Sweet Olive questions and get them to you within the next week,” he said. “You submit your answers, and the Sweet Olive group will vote on the direction to take.”
    The words were hardly out of his mouth before Camille shook her head. “I—we—don’t have that kind of time. And this is a rare opportunity—”
    Ginny adjusted her big black glasses. “We’ve waited this long, Camille. We’d rather do it right than do it in a rush.”
    Camille’s face had gotten pale underneath the paint. “There’s a lot at stake here,” she said.
    From across the table, Ginny nodded. “We depend on each other—and we have to work together.”
    “Maybe you should tell her your Artists’ Guild’s motto,” Marsh said.
    “It’s a passage from Ecclesiastes,” Ginny said. “‘Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow … A threefold cord is not quickly broken.’”
    Ginny’s voice sounded like a Louisiana melody as she reverently recited the Scripture. Marsh couldn’t tell what Camille was thinking—and his own thoughts were scrambled. Camille’s background—outlined online and confirmed by his colleagues in Texas, Oklahoma, and a half-dozen other states—wasexemplary. She discussed oil and gas with confidence, more informed than any of the men who had ambushed her in her office Monday.
    But Marsh had learned to read people from his very wise father, and Sweet Olive seemed to bring out a pained look in her whiskey-colored eyes.
    He hadn’t figured out what was different about this case, but he would.

Chapter 12
    A n 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