Love Starts with Elle (19 page)

“You mean, what are you doing to put her panties in a wad? She’s friends with the owners of Bay Street Trading Company. Last night they told her they were renting the second story to someone who will be opening an art gallery.”

“So, yeah, Leslie Harper and I looked at it. Candace, it’s perfect.” Elle stooped over, propping her elbows on the table, too tired to stand. “I couldn’t believe it was available.”

Candace flashed a set of documents. “Hang on to your hat, sister, because you can’t open an art gallery in this county. Elle, when you sold to Angela, you signed a noncompete. Are you collecting feathers?” Candace stretched to pick up one of the two white feathers.

Elle slapped her hand over Candace’s. “What’s this about a noncompete?”

“These are gorgeous. Where did you find them?” Candace held the white plume up in the light. “It’s perfect.”

Elle ran her hands over her eyes. “They just appeared. One when Julianne prayed for me after the Jeremiah ordeal and the other before I went to church one Sunday.”

“You’re serious? Out of nowhere? What do you think it means?”

“God watching over me? Angels hanging around? People suing me?” Elle shook her sister’s shoulder. “Talk to me, Goose.”

Candace ran her finger along the tip of the thick plume. “Gives me chills.” She looked at Elle. “Can I have this?”

Elle hesitated. Could she give away a God feather? “I don’t know. I mean . . .” She reached for the second feather. God was generous, Jesus being His prime example. What was a feather among sisters? “Take it.”

“Thank you.” Candace tucked the feather in her attaché like a kid who’d just found candy. “Okay, to the business at hand. Elle, when you sold the gallery, Angela asked you to sign a noncompete.”

“I vaguely remember.” Those first months of being engaged were frantic and, in retrospect, a blur.

“And in doing so, you promised not to open another gallery for three years.” Candace held up a document for Elle to read.

. . . agrees will not directly or indirectly engage in any business that
competes with Angela Dooley in regard to art, the acquiring of,
selling, or distribution for a period of three years.

The sun drifted behind a cloud and the studio faded to gray. “I can’t open another gallery for three years?”

“You told me you read the addendum.”

“I did, I did.” Sort of. “But I was so busy . . . why didn’t you tell me?”

“I asked you. I said, ‘Elle, did you read the addendum?’ You said, ‘Yes, Candy, I’m not stupid.’ And I said, ‘Okay, just checking.’”

Moaning, Elle draped herself over the table. “I meant to read it thoroughly, but I was so distracted with wedding plans, closing the gallery . . .”

“The best you can do in this county is create and sell your own work.”

“But I’m not supposed to be in this county. I’m supposed to be married, living in Dallas.” She hammered the table with her fist.

“I’d never say this to anyone else, but, Elle, if you wanted to be married to Jeremiah, wouldn’t you be?”

“Um, he dumped me.” For a lawyer, Candace could be dense at times.

“Really? You didn’t do a little sabotage work? Who draws a line in the sand over a haute couture home and a vintage?”

“Me, that’s who,” she said, face still pressed to the table. “Besides, it was more about opposing purposes. The day we sold the gallery, he sat in your office and promised me I could open one in Dallas. A week later, he reneged.”

“And that was it? ‘I can’t open a gallery so I quit.’ ”

“I never quit, he did.” Elle shoved her hair out of her face and leaned against the table. Heat prickled over her skin, more from the conversation than the temperature of the studio.

“Whether it was on some subconscious level or not, Elle, you sent him the message you weren’t ready for marriage.”

“Candy, you’re crazy. Why would I sabotage my own life? I run around Beaufort for a year executing Operation Wedding Day against everyone’s sound advice, humiliating myself, kissing a few toads,
blech
. Then, when someone finally invites me to the dance, I back out? He’s the one who said he didn’t have time for marriage. Not me.”

Candace slipped the sale addendum into her case. “You said it first without words. You’re an amazing woman, Elle, but I don’t see you married to a pastor. Growing up, you hated the label “Deacon Garvey’s daughter.” You always defended Mitch O’Neal, the rogue preacher’s kid, because you felt the congregation placed unrealistic expectations on him. Now apply that to yourself as an independent, grown woman being married to a minister. Some women make great pastor’s wives, but it’d drive you crazy.”

“I loved Jeremiah, Candace. Isn’t that enough?”

“Apparently not, because here you sit.” She looked around the studio. “To be honest, I think you like this bohemian existence.”

Elle’s stared at her feet. After a night in the hospital and a day on her futon, she didn’t know what she believed or wanted. “Maybe you’re right.”

Candace zipped her attaché. “Elle, if anyone can make lemonade out of lemons, it’s you.”

“Do you think Wild Wally has room for me on his lawn crew?”

Candace walked to the door. “Be serious.”

“I am. If I can’t open a gallery, what am I going to do?” Elle brushed the rebel tears from her cheek. She was tired of crying about herself, her past.

“You’re not joining Wally’s crew, Elle. I’ll hire you at the firm first. Your job? Paint. And I don’t mean with Sherman Williams. Get your courage back. Forget what your hardnosed, bitter professor said. Elle, trust me, somewhere in this rubble is a lovely silver lining.”

“When you find it, give me a call.”

“Will do. Listen, I’ve got to go. You okay?”

“If not, I will be.”

It’d been years since she’d run, but this evening the stretch of her legs, the ache of her weak lungs straining for air, felt good.

Breath in. Breath out. Elle stretched further and faster, running in the sandy soil and grass along Hwy 21, the pine-perfumed wind in her face. Her ponytail swished from side to side with each stride.

When she returned to the studio, she showered, ate a bowl of dry cereal, and checked e-mail for the first time in days. Out-of-touch artists and clients still e-mailed about GG Gallery business.

The inbox also contained more “so sorry” messages. And a new one from Caroline.

To: Elle Garvey

From: CSweeney

Subject: You have to be sitting down for this one

Elle,

Unplanned and not what we intended, but so romantic and perfect, Mitch and I were married last Saturday on the beach.

Elle jerked back with a shock of tears. Her best friend? Married?

When he came to visit, it just felt right. He called Daddy and Posey to make sure they wouldn’t be hurt if we decided to get married without all the family and trimmings.

They blessed us over and over and promised a big reception when we came home.

Mitch’s daddy had always wanted to officiate our ceremony, if and when, but he said, “Son, if you know it’s right, marry her. We’ve been waiting a long time.”

Isn’t he the best?

Oh, Elle, it feels so good and right to be his wife. The timing was perfect. God knew. I can’t believe I wasted so many years and countless hours sitting in the old live oak tree talking to No One when I could’ve been talking to the True One.

My boss, good ole Carlos, gave us a nice wedding gift—money and two weeks off. Mitch has to go back to Nashville, but we can manage our marriage long distance for the next few months.

Hazel and a few friends from SRG International were witnesses. I’m sorry you were not one of them. We always promised we’d be each other’s maid-of-honor, didn’t we?

But if marriage is about the relationship, not the ceremony, then Mitch and I did exactly the right thing. We’ll celebrate together when I come home.

I love you, Elle, and hope this news isn’t sad for you in light of everything. But I wanted you to know. Praying for you.

Caroline Sweeney O’Neal

(O’Neal, did you see? My name is O’Neal!)

Elle read the e-mail twice more.
Way to go, Caroline.

To: CSweeney

From: Elle Garvey

Subject: Congratulations!

Caroline,

Married? Ahhhhh . . . can you hear me screaming all the way from St. Helena? I’m so happy for you and Mitch. We’ve all waited a long time for this day. Remember when we were seventeen and Mitch started the pluff mud fight during the Water Festival? Then that night he kissed you in the back booth at the Frogmore Café. You’ve waited twelve years for that kiss to come to fruition. (smile)

I am doing well other than being sad I missed your wedding. I feel thickheaded and dazed sometimes, but with each hurdle, my inner strength grows. Recent news: can’t open a new gallery. Sale addendum to GG Gallery prohibits.

Your comment, “God knew,” challenged me. I’ve known Him my whole life, Caroline. Grew up in church. But I’m no more confident or aware of Him than when I was a girl. Only now, in the midst of pain and failure, do I find myself running to Him. I can speak to Him, but my ear is not tuned to hearing. That realization frightens me.

Is my life in shambles because He wanted me to stop and face Him, not dialog with my back to Him as I went about my day with half-hearted faith? Maybe. Either way, He gets to see my mug every weekday morning, seven a.m., Beaufort Community Church’s prayer chapel. We have a standing date.

Candace actually thinks I sabotaged my relationship with Jer because at some deep level I didn’t want to be married to him and living in Dallas. She claims I’d hate being a pastor’s wife. Sheez, does that make me sound shallow or what?

Can’t wait to see you. Send pics if you have any.

Love you most dearly, Elle

Without rereading, Elle sent her e-mail into cyber space, suspicious she’d written to herself as much as Caroline.

By now, late evening approached and Elle wondered when Heath would call. She fished her phone from her bag. Shoot, dead battery.

Plugging it in, she powered it up to find five messages from Heath. The last one thirty minutes ago. She dialed his phone.

“Heath, it’s Elle.”

“Where have you been?” Sharp, curt, a tad testy.

“My battery died and I just noticed. I’m sorry.” She gazed around for her flip-flops. What was with this studio eating her shoes?

“Did you think to check? They were ready to release TL two hours ago. Can you please come and get us? If it’s not too much of a bother.”

Heath certainly wore lack of sleep like an ugly sweater. In a calm, low tone, she answered, “I’ll be right there.”

Rain drummed against the windows as Heath stretched out on the floor in
front of the fire. He locked his hand behind his head, settling back against
the pile of pillows, smiling when her footsteps resounded down the hall.

“Is she sleeping?” he asked.

“Like a baby.” Ava smiled and lowered herself to the floor, pillowing her
head on his chest. Absently Heath wrapped his arm around her.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Yes. And perfect. You do nice work, Mr. McCord.”

“So do you, Mrs. McCord.”

She raised up, propping on her elbow. “You’re glad, aren’t you? We made
the decision so fast.”

He brushed her hair away from her oval face. “If I were any happier, my
heart would burst.”

Ava nestled against his chest again. “Sometimes I hold her and cry. I
can’t believe she’s ours.”

“Want to try for another one?” He pressed her close.

Ava laughed gently, swatting his belly. “She’s only two months old. I’m
not ready for another one.”

“Then you don’t get my drift.”

She responded to him with a lingering kiss.“I believe I do.”

Heath rolled her onto her back, eyes to eyes, nose to nose, lips to lips. The
fire wood crackled and popped. Ava’s expression grew serious.

“If something happens to me, Heath, will you fall in love again?”

“What? Why are you talking about dying? Besides, there’s only you for me,
Ava.”