Love Starts with Elle (24 page)

Yes, they had some critical and interesting cases coming up, but Rock needed him to help balance the power. And Heath expertly played that game.

“Heath . . .” Rock waved as he made his way across the gallery with a slender woman draped with a silver gown and lots of diamonds.
The
voice of the American art scene, Mitzy Canon.

“Heath McCord.” She stretched her hand for him to kiss, not shake. Very Morticia Addams. “So sorry to hear of your wife’s tragic demise.”

He cast a glance at Rock, who shrugged; he hadn’t told her.

“Thank you, but I’m confident she’s in a better place.”

“One can only hope.”The reflective gallery lighting made Mitzy’s eyes appear hollow in her attenuated face. “Rock tells me you have an artist friend. Don’t we all?”

“Her name is Elle Garvey.”

“And what’s her story?”

“She owned a gallery. Sold it to move away, but things didn’t work out. She’s down on her luck, trying to sort out life. She’s been a good friend to me . . . after my wife’s tragic demise.” Behind him, Rock snorted. “And I’d appreciate it if you could look at her work. Help her out.”

Mitzy sipped her wine, flirting, winking at a passing gallery guest. If Heath hadn’t been standing two feet from her, he’d wonder if she heard a word he said.

“Is she tortured?”

Heath arched his brow. “Tortured?” Rock nudged him in the back. “Yes, very tortured.”

“The good ones always are.” Mitzy motioned to a man on the other side of the gallery. “I’ll be happy to review her work. I’m always looking for new stars.” When the man appeared at her side, Mitzy asked Heath to write down Elle’s information. “If we like her, we’ll ask her to show in our spring opening.”

Heath gave Mitzy’s assistant Elle’s information—e-mail and cell— then backed toward the door. “Rock, it’s been fun.”

“You’ll be in touch?”

“I’ll be in touch.” Heath shoved the door open and stepped into the crisp Manhattan night. People hurried along the sidewalk and the street was a sea of red taillights. In the distance, a horn blew. A taxi stopped at the corner to pick up a fare and from the open doors of a nearby café, music played.

But all he wanted to hear was the sound of the wind in live oaks and the cicada’s river song.

“All right, ladies, these are the rules.”

Elle knelt down in front of Rio and Tracey-Love. Twins with different mothers, the two of them—both with round blue eyes, button noses, and pink cheeks. One with blonde hair, the other with brown.

“Dip your feet in the paint, then hit the canvas, running, walking, or twirling, whatever you like. Fall down, roll around.” Elle held up her finger and tried to sound firm. “But you must have fun. Ready?”

“Ready,” they said in unison with bent-knees bouncing.

Elle raced with them to the bowls of tempera paint, steering each girl to the right canvas board on the studio floor. “This one is for Rio’s mama, and—yeah, over there, TL—that one is for your daddy.”

Squeaking like puppy-dog chew toys, the four-year-olds skated, slipped, and slithered around the canvas, mixing body and paint. Elle had bundled their curls with do-rags and dressed them in Rio’s old shorts and T-shirts, but they managed to cover every inch of themselves with paint.

“Tracey-Love, here’s a spot you missed.” Elle pointed to a small corner of the white canvas. TL stomped her reddish-blue foot on the spot, very pleased with herself.

“Look it, Auntie Elle.” Rio pointed to a red face print.

“Rio, very creative.” A glob of paint dripped from her chin.

When the entire canvas was covered without a square of white, Elle threw the girls into the shower with a large bar of soap.

“Rio, your mama’s coming to get you. And, TL, your daddy’s coming home tomorrow.”

“I w-w-wanna st-stay with you.” It’d taken until this moment for the girl to exhale and find security within herself.

“Me too.” Rio, the mimic.

“Tell you what, we’ll have a sleepover real soon.”

She peeked in the shower. The girls were trying, but remained covered with paint. Elle would have to get wet if she wanted to return them to their parents clean. Clothes and all, she stepped in.

“Aunt Elle forgot to take off her clothes.” The girls covered their mouths and giggled.

Once she toweled them off and dressed them in clean clothes, she dashed in the shower for her own quick clean up and change, setting the girls to work with coloring books on the futon.

“Knock, knock.” The studio door eased open. A male voice asked, “Everyone decent?”

Elle came out of the bathroom with an armload of wet towels as Danny Simmons stepped inside.

“Danny.”

“Evening, Elle.” His eyes roamed over to where the girls colored. “Julianne had a meeting with the contractor for the work on her new shop. She asked me to pick up Rio.”

“You won’t mind if I call her to check, will you?” Elle glanced around for her phone.

Danny flipped his forward. “Use mine.”

Elle hesitated, reaching slowly. “What’s her speed dial?”

He cleared his throat, fist to his lips. “One.”

Elle pressed One, then Talk. “Hey, Julianne, it’s me, Elle. Did you send Danny to get Rio? Well, I was just checking . . . right . . . I do trust you . . . okay, fine.”

Elle shut the phone and handed it back to Danny. “Rio, get your things. Mr. Danny is taking you home.”

Rio chattered on with Tracey-Love about something as she slipped on her backpack. Elle stepped toward Danny. “Are you serious about my sister?”

“Yes.” Simple, but without explanation. The Beaufort businessman and philanthropist moved away from Elle. “Rio, you ready?”

The little girl was flopped over the futon, showing Tracey-Love her doll, not disturbed at all by Danny’s presence.

“Is Julianne your mid-life crisis? Last grab at your fleeting youth?”

“When my wife left, I canceled my mid-life crisis. I’d had enough drama.” He leaned toward Elle. “This may be hard to believe, but I love your sister. Age has nothing to do with it. Rio, you ready?”

“She leads with her heart, Danny. And there’s more at stake here than you and Jules.” Elle motioned to Rio with her chin.

He reached for Rio’s hand and led her to the door. “I’m fully aware of all that’s at stake, Elle.”

A light burned in the front cottage window as Heath parked on the brick drive, finally home. The digital dash clock clicked to 12:00. Midnight.

He pulled his keys from the ignition and reached to the passenger seat for his bag. The delayed flight from JFK had aggravated him, reminding him of the things he didn’t like about the city—the pace, the congestion, the traffic and flight delays, not to mention high prices and taxes.

The moment he’d exited the Charleston airport, he’d powered down the windows and all but hung his head out like an eager dog lapping up the wind.

Inside the cottage, a single lamp lit the living room from a front corner and Elle slept on the couch with her arm draped over a curled-up Tracey-Love.

Heath dropped his bag to the floor by the coffee table and lowered down in front of them, kissing Tracey-Love on the forehead. “Baby, I’m home.”

Elle jerked awake, struggling to sit up, her eyes locked in a sleepy squint. “Heath, hey.”

“Hey.” She was too cute with a frizz of orange-tinged blonde hair falling over one eye.

“Let me put her in bed.” Heath scooped up the zonked Tracey-Love and carried her to her room. “Wait for me, okay?”

“I’m not sure I can even move.”

When he came out, he plopped next to Elle on the couch. “What’d you do? I’ve never seen her so worn out.”

“We played a lot.” She yawned. “Did you have a good trip?”

“Interesting and reminiscent. When I took a leave from the firm, the partners gave me a six-month limit or lose my position. The senior partner wants me back. Claims he’s losing the firm and needs me to keep the power balanced.”

Elle leaned forward to see him, her hair falling over her shoulders, the last hint of her perfume wafting around her. Her eyelids still at half-mast. “What do you want to do?”

“Talk to God, think. But pretty sure I’m not leaving before September.”

“How did the award ceremony go?”

“Very nice, but it seemed sort of empty, after the fact.”

“Was it good for you to be there?”

“Yes, and I was honored to accept the award on her behalf.”

Elle tapped his chest, over his heart. “Bubba, how’re you doing in here?”

My heart? In here?
“Difficult, if you must know. Brought back a lot of memories, but at the same time closed windows and left doors ajar.”

She shoved her hair out of her eyes. “See, that wasn’t too hard.”

Heath regarded Elle for a moment. “She died in Iraq. Went embedded with an army unit to do a story on the plight of the Iraqi women.”

Elle eased back against the couch. “Iraq? Heath, I had no idea.”

“Last May she went over to do a story for the Network News on the Iraqi medical conditions. She found it deplorable for women. We’re in the twenty-first century, but their conditions were more like the first century. Women regularly dying in childbirth, without everyday medical and sanitary supplies. Things we take for granted.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“When she came home she couldn’t get the story out her mind.

She begged for an assignment to do a full-fledged documentary. I didn’t know about the request until she was leaving.”

“Did she think you’d say no?” Elle turned sideways, tucking her feet underneath her.

“I don’t know.”

“Would you have?”

“Probably. We had a three-year-old girl. She was gone a month the first time. I adjusted my caseload then, but I planned to make it up when she got back. We had this idea we could both be full-time, Mach-10 career people and full-time, outstanding parents.” Heath kicked his shoes off under the coffee table.

“The concept is way easier than the execution.”

“By the time I found out, Ava was all but on the plane. That’s what adds to the sadness of her death. We were at odds when she died. From the moment she left, to our last conversation.”

Elle rested her head against the top of the couch. “But she knew you loved her, right? You knew she loved you.”

“Yeah, in the I-made-a-commitment-and-I’m-not-backing-out sort of way. But we needed to be together to hash out some issues.”

She combed her hair back, slipping her fingers through the long strands. Heath felt her movement in his gut and averted his gaze.

“This is where Jeremiah and I fell off the wagon,” she said. “We didn’t want to duke it out in a forever commitment. We wanted to fall in love, get married, and both have our way, a hundred percent.”

Heath pictured Elle standing up to the all-pro wide receiver. “I’d buy a ticket to that show.”

“You would, would you? Very unentertaining. A lot of nonverbal speaking.” Elle poked his arm. “But tonight is about you. Go on with your story.”

“Turning the tables on me from your supposed wedding night, eh?” Actually, it felt good to talk about Ava outside the demand of grief.

“Yes, so go on.”

“Her second trip went well, as only an Ava trip can go. She’d filmed a lot of great stories and was excited about the women she’d interviewed. A week from coming home, she heard of a village in the southern region where a lot of insurgent fighting kept the people locked in terror. The medical conditions were very poor and she wanted to go down. The army granted her request to go embedded, and on a hot August day . . . the vehicle she rode in was shelled. The report said everyone died instantly.”

In the sparse light from the lamp, he saw the sheen in Elle’s eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“The news literally shocked me. These, like, electric impulses fired all over my body. My mind couldn’t compute the news for a long time. I try to remember Ava died doing something she loved, not caring about her own life to make a difference for others. If I could have her alive and not pursuing her passion?” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t change a thing. So few people have a passion. And if they do, they don’t pursue it. Bravo for her. She died for what she believed in.”

“You make me wish I could’ve known her.” Elle slipped the afghan from the back of the couch to cover her legs.