Love Starts with Elle (12 page)

A debate started. Who would go back home and win Bess’s
heart, overlooking her lack of cooking skills? “I’d marry her. Don’t
care if she can’t cook,” determined a flyer from the back of the hut.

“You’ll have to get in line behind me, Downs.” This from
Wilkins.

As an icy blast shook the hall, Chet hunkered down over his
coffee, listening to the men argue over marrying a girl they’d never
meet.

Heath reviewed his prose. Not bad. Maybe passable. He liked the escape of writing about another place and time, incorporating his love of history and heroes like his granddad.

Talk to me, Chet McCord. What’s it like up there in the cold, frozen
Aleutians?

A small, distant crash snapped Heath’s attention. Looking up, he listened. Another crash. Louder this time. Shoving his laptop to the ottoman, he stood with a glance at Tracey-Love. She slept undisturbed.
Crash,
again. Who was breaking glass? Heath eased in the direction of the sound.

Crash.
A high-pitched yell. Heath peered out the sink window, where Ava’s letter still waited, and through the blueish-orange twilight caught Elle firing objects at the garage wall just under the studio’s stairs. Something white and glistening exploded like porcelain fireworks and fell into the tall grass.

She bent to a box for another item. Heath squinted. A gravy boat? She lunged it, but this time the piece barely broke in two. He stepped outside and hollered from the deck.

“You throw like a girl.”

Without breaking rhythm, Elle whipped another piece through the air. “In case you haven’t noticed, I am a girl.”

Yeah, he’d noticed. Too much. First time since Ava’s death he’d
noticed
a woman. He eased her way, carefully, in case she got a wild hair and decided to lob something at him. A white-and-rose teapot popped against the block wall, cracked in two, and thudded to the ground.

“Put more shoulder into it,” he offered.

“Of all the possible renters in the world, I get Roger Clemens?”

Elle picked up a round platter and flipped it like a Frisbee, smashing it into pieces. “Satisfied?”

“Better, Garvey. Much better.” He angled over to see her face.

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” She Frisbeed another plate.

Heath smiled when it hit. She was getting a rhythm. “Breaking dishes? But why?”

Stopping to catch her breath, Elle stared up at him, then pitched a petite vase.

Heath stood aside, gaining understanding. He’d been in the same place, grief iced with anger. He’d wanted to smash a few things, but in the end couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d given up too much to waste the things he and Ava had shared together. In many ways,
things
were all he had left to help him remember.

Elle side-armed a teacup. Good smash, nice tinkling resonance. “Remind me not to let Tracey-Love run around here barefoot.”

“I’ll shop vac later.”

“Is this making you feel better?” he asked. The exercise didn’t appear to be relieving her of anything, only fueling her anger.

“No, actually, it isn’t.”

“Are you destroying wedding gifts?”

“Sort of.” She kicked the box. “Things I’ve collected over the years. Stupid things . . .” Her voice faded into a watery quiver.

“I’m sorry, Elle.” Heath slipped his hands into his jeans pocket and just waited for her to go on. Throw another stupid thing or walk away.

“Why do girls want to be married so badly? Stupid, isn’t it?” She wiped a light sheen of sweat from her forehead.

“No. And don’t fool yourself; men want to be married just as much, if not more. Love and commitment are wonderful things.”

Elle eyed him through blowing strands of her hair. “Is there a pile of broken china in your past? Lying on some New York lawn?”

Beautiful
and
perceptive. He was
noticing
her more every time they talked. “I can relate to your pain and frustration, Elle.”

“You know what bites me most? I’m literally left with nothing while Jeremiah sits in his fancy Dallas pastor’s office.” She shoved the box again with her foot. “No husband, no gallery, no cottage, no life.”

“Say the word and we’ll move, Elle.”

“I can’t do that to you and Tracey-Love. Besides, you’re paying my mortgage. Thank you very much.”

“So maybe this whole breakup scene is a great opportunity instead of a horrible problem.”

“Oh, crud, you’re one of those glass-half-full guys.” Elle fluttered her fingers at him. “Well, move on, there’s nothing to see here. All the glasses are emp-tee.”

He regarded her for a second, then, “Ever watch your soul mate sleeping in a casket? Ever watch the person who caused your heart to skip a beat be lowered into the ground with the preacher declaring, ‘Ashes to ashes’?”

Elle’s green gaze faded from impatience to concern and lingered on his face. “No, I haven’t.”

“Ever wake up feeling helpless and frightened, reaching for someone who’s not there but should be. Ever wake up racked with guilt because you wonder if you’d just said no, or been more assertive, the one you love would be alive?”

Understanding blossomed across her face. “Heath, I’m so sorry. Here I am whining and complaining over a short-lived engagement. How long has she been gone?”

“Almost eight months.”

“So you came here for more than writing a book.”

“Yes. Needed a change, a break, a way to jump-start our lives and heal.”

Elle slipped her arms around his waist, hugging him softly. “May you find it at Coffin Creek.”

Caught off guard, Heath’s arms hung at his side for a long second. It’d been so long since he hugged another woman. But when he felt she was about to step away, he slipped his arms around her shoulders.

“Same to you, Elle. Same to you.”

NINE

May

The first Sunday in May Elle woke up with a craving to sing and decided she’d avoided church long enough. After showering and dressing in jeans and a wrinkled blouse, she stood in the middle of the studio.

One step forward, she’d be tracking for the door. One step back, she’d be on the futon sleeping the day away.

Nine forty-five. Decision time. Go or stay? She tried to press the wrinkles from her shirt with her moist palm. If she left now, she’d only be a few minutes late. But where was her handbag? Couldn’t drive without her keys.

Bible? She had one of those, somewhere. Searching the boxes from the cottage bedroom, she found the Good Book under a pile of stuff from her bedroom.

Car keys in hand, she hesitated. How could she face all those people? Her church family? A congregation of folks who had expected to attend her wedding next Saturday? Folks who had adored and loved Jeremiah Franklin.

Elle jiggled the keys. Maybe she wasn’t ready for church just yet. As the “loser” in this wedding-day disaster, she could only imagine all the speculations.

What did Elle do to make him dump her?

She must be crazy. If I had a man like Jeremiah . . .

Stop, Elle, and get moving.
Grabbing her bag from the table, tucking her Bible under her arm, she started for the door. Then she saw it, just like the first one.

A feather, surfing the morning sunbeams, its twin lying on the worktable. Catching it in mid-float, Elle felt a wave of awe.

God, what are You doing?

Slipping into the back pew, Elle tried to focus on Jesus rather than the fact she was at Beaufort Community Church without Jeremiah.

Were people staring and whispering? With a quick gaze, she knew. The congregation was not preoccupied with her love life and marital status.

Burley, kind Andy Castleton, the Frogmore Café’s owner, caught her eye and jutted out his chin.
Be strong, gal.

All right, Andy.

She closed her eyes, ready to join the singing, when a small voice asked, “Is there room for me here?”

Elle looked down to see tiny Miss Anna standing in the aisle.

“Certainly, yes, please join me.” Elle slid down to let her in.

“I’ve been praying for you,” she whispered, her pulpy cool hand soft on Elle’s arm.

Her declaration generated peace in Elle and when Spicy Brown got up in her frog-green suit to give the announcements, Elle sincerely exhaled.

In the pew by the sanctuary doors, she spied Heath with his eyes closed, the tip of Tracey-Love’s blonde head barely peeking above the pew.

She admired his courage in starting over. And it was good to see him in the sanctuary.

Pastor O’Neal took the pulpit, his sermon lovely and lyrical, but wasted on Elle, who struggled with missing Jeremiah. For the first time, she understood how people succumbed to bitterness.

When the pastor concluded the service with an “Amen,” Miss Anna turned to Elle. “I could use some company in the mornings at the prayer chapel. One puts a thousand to flight. Two, ten thousand.”

Elle faced her pew companion. “What? The prayer chapel?” Damaged in Category 1 Hurricane Howard last year, the church had yet to raise funds to fix the ancient, original sanctuary. Boards still covered several of the windows. The last time Elle had gone in there with Daddy to box up the hymnals for safekeeping, she felt claustrophobic.

“How’s 7:00 a.m.?” Miss Anna slipped her pocketbook down her arm, cradling her worn Bible.

“I don’t know, Miss Anna . . . don’t you have a regular prayer group?”

She plopped her blue hat on her head. Elle grinned as it slipped sideways. “Thursdays at ten. I’m talking about something different.”

“Different? Prayer is prayer.” Elle stood in the aisle with her.

“No, there’s intercession, then there’s face-to-face with the One who loves you intimately. That’s what you’re a-needing, Elle. And God has given you a unique gift—free time.”

Face-to-face? Had anyone seen God face-to-face and lived? Even Moses had to hide in the rock when God passed by. But free time? Yeah, Elle had plenty. “Why the old chapel?”

“Been praying there for forty years. It’s a special place, no distractions. Besides, it’ll get you out of your house. This is your season, Elle.” Miss Anna tapped her heart. “The Lord’s been speaking to me about you. Seek Him now when nothing is demanding your attention. No schedule, no expectations. Then, when demand comes, you’ll be ready.”

God talked to Miss Anna about her? In church her whole life, Elle confessed she always found Miss Anna somewhat odd, but this morning her exhortation carried authority. “Seven a.m.?”

“Elle . . .” Miss Anna laughed. “You have too many faulty ideas. Now, come let the Lord set you straight.”

Faulty ideas. Really? Pretty bold of Miss Anna, if not rude.

“All righty now.” Miss Anna wagged her finger at Elle, stepping out of the row. “Seven a.m. See you there. Edna, are you free for lunch? My treat.”

Watching her shuffle away, Elle wondered how she could break it to the kind, gentle old lady that she probably wouldn’t be at 7:00 a.m. prayer. In fact, she probably wouldn’t even be awake.

Dang it. Had that odd little lady hexed her? Not only was Elle awake, but she was wide awake. At 6:00 a.m. to boot.

After an I’ve-been-dumped-and-want-to-sleep-my-life-away effort, Elle untangled herself from the sheets and headed for the shower. Might as well see what was going on at the dank, smelly prayer chapel.

Soon after, grabbing a packet of stale crackers, she headed toward Mossy Oak in the predawn light. Thinking as she drove, she decided she had a few questions for God. Like why He’d let Jeremiah propose if he was going to dump her. Why He’d let her sell her gallery when two weeks later she’d be without a future.

Maybe a couple of mornings in the prayer chapel would help her reckon with her circumstances.

Turning into the gravel-and-shell parking lot, Elle cut the engine and slipped her keys into her purse. The chapel looked wounded and forlorn sitting on sandy soil, nestled between a half dozen thick live oak branches.

Grabbing her Bible, thinking she’d give this routine three, maybe four days, then resort to sleeping in again, Elle went inside. Yes, she needed to seek direction, but praying at four in the afternoon while driving down Ribaut was as good as 7:00 a.m. in the chapel.