Free Sweet Olive (9780310330554) by Zondervan Publishing House

soaked up the entire scene along the short stretch of road—porch swings and yard chairs and hummingbird feeders by the dozens. Towels flapped from the occasional clothesline, reminding her of the whirligigs.
    “Now you see why we don’t want gas wells nearby,” Ginny said. “They’ll take away any charm we might have. Art’s about all we’ve got in Sweet Olive.”
    Before Camille could address the sinking feeling in her heart, Kylie ran toward the house. “There’s Lawrence!” she shrieked, practically flying across the yard.
    A tall man rounded the corner of the teal-and-brown house. As he drew closer, Camille saw the tuxedoed waiter from the night before. Shirtless, he had a bandanna over his shaggy black hair and a tattoo of a Celtic cross on his light brown forearm. His jeans were tight, and his feet were bare.
    “Hey, Lawrence,” Ginny called. “We’re giving Camille the tour.”
    “Hey.” He smiled down at Kylie, who was only a step or two away from him. “Let me grab a shirt.”
    “My,” Camille said.
    “Yep,” Ginny said, her gaze following Lawrence. “Nice art, nice artist.”
    “But what was, I mean, the party …” Camille stopped and thought. “Lawrence?”
    “Lawrence Martinez. Some people in town call him Larry. He works a couple of jobs.”
    “He does this?” Camille didn’t try to hide her awe.
    “He does art on the side—for now.” Ginny shrugged. “Pretty amazing, isn’t it? His father immigrated here from Mexico and married a local girl. He brought a different kind of art to Sweet Olive.”
    They settled in a wooden glider in the yard as they waited. The slats in the back and sides were shaped like bottles, and Camille ran her hands across the varnished wood. Sunlight shot through the glass bottles, making rainbows. The children chased the patterns on the ground and danced around the trees.
    Lawrence emerged from the house wearing a black T-shirt that pulled across his broad shoulders. He dragged a yellow bayou chair up next to the glider. With the black shirt and yellow chair, he gave Camille the impression of a good-looking bumblebee.
    He looked at her. “Sorta figured you’d come around.” His tone was polite, but not friendly.
    “Your work’s beautiful.” Camille pointed to the displays.
    Lawrence surveyed the yard, a thoughtful look on his face. “Thanks,” he said after a second. “I’ve got a ways to go, but I’m improving … I hope.”
    “Camille’s out here to learn about our art,” Ginny said.
    Lawrence twisted his head around, his eyes perplexed. “I thought she wanted to convince us to sign away our mineral rights.”
    “That too,” Ginny said.
    “Darn,” he said with a crooked grin. “And she’s so cute.” He stood abruptly and leaned in to the side of the swing, his hands on the metal bar. “I suppose Ginny explained to you that we don’t do business with people who presume to know what’s best for us.”
    “Something like that.” Camille’s face was still warm from the “cute” comment.
    “Camille knows we’re not inclined to sign,” Ginny said.
    His gaze locked with hers and he raised an eyebrow. “And yet you’re still here.”
    “The money could do so much,” Camille said. “I won’t go back to Texas until I know you understand its potential impact.”
    “That’s more encouraging than what we’ve been hearing,” Lawrence said.
    “I’m authorized to increase the earlier offers and to provide community help, that sort of thing.” These people deserved candor.
    He frowned. “Sweet Olive means more to us than a new car or a vacation to the beach.”
    “I can see why you’re fighting for this place,” Camille said. “But you can trust me.”
    His gaze was steady. “Folks think you tricked us. They hold that against you.”
    “I didn’t trick anyone. I’m here to help you.” Her frustration with the way the landowners had been treated mounted.
    “Your company tried to lease our land for much less than it