Love Starts with Elle (25 page)

“You would’ve liked her, become friends and terrorized me, I’m sure.”

“Someone has to do it.”

“I was sleeping when they called. We’d been e-mail arguing intensely for a week about this embedded trip. Too dangerous. She accused me of not trusting her instincts. And I didn’t. Passion can blind reason sometimes. Plus, the firm was in the middle of a capital case and I couldn’t focus on TL like I needed to.” Heath sat forward. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Water sounds good.”

“We argued the night before she headed south, got cut off, and couldn’t reconnect.” Heath got up for the kitchen, opened the fridge, then walked back to the living room with two waters, running his stocking feet lazily over the floor. “Fourteen hours later, she was dead.”

“Listening to you now, it seems so impossible, like, ‘No, it can’t be. Bring her back.’”

“I felt that way for about three months, wrestling with the permanence. Ava wasn’t coming back.” He sat down, closer to Elle than he’d been before, and passed over a water. “It meant a lot to me to know Tracey-Love was safe with you while I was gone. Since Ava died, I haven’t left her with anyone overnight. So, did she do okay after I called?”

“She missed you, Heath, but she finally settled down last night. I let TL and Rio paint with their whole bodies. They’re quite a pair.”

“Bookends. One without a daddy. The other without a mama.”

“I never thought of it, but yeah . . .” Elle twisted the cap off her water. “Here’s some gossip you missed.”

Heath swigged his water, cooling his parched throat. “Do tell.”

“Julianne is opening her own salon, and it appears she’s dating one of Daddy’s friends, Danny Simmons.” Elle gave him a how-do-you-like-them-apples expression and took a shot of water.

“Do I know Danny Simmons? Is this a bad thing?”

Elle laughed, tossing the afghan off. “He’s twenty years older than she is, Heath.” She took another gulp of water, then wiggled her toes into her shoes.

“Right, right, I forgot love came with age boundaries.”

Elle made a face at him. “Whose side are you on?”

“No one’s. What’s wrong with this guy other than being ancient? You know, I have a good mind to accuse you of ageism.”

“Oh, please. Save me your New York lawyer speak.” Elle headed toward the kitchen. Heath rose to follow. “There’s nothing wrong with Danny. He’s a good man, successful, kind, but twenty years older than Jules. Just feels creepy.” She shoved open the screen door. “Thank you for telling me about Ava. I’m sorry you lost such a treasure.”

“Thanks for listening.” He flipped on the outside lights. “Look at me, walking you out your own door.”

She gazed toward the studio. A lone light shown from the window. “It doesn’t feel weird to me. My sister Candace accused me of being a bohemian.”

“I suppose there’s a little bohemian in all of us.” Heath tucked his hands in his pockets as Elle stepped off the deck. “Thanks again for everything.”

She walked backward across the yard, her smile standing out in the darkness. “Anytime.”

NINETEEN

Prayer at the chapel became a crimson ribbon woven through the top of Elle’s June days, tied neatly around afternoons of painting in her studio.

This particular morning she’d felt restless, unable to focus, prayer more difficult than usual. Miss Anna prayed out loud with her Bible open so Elle hitched to her spiritual wagon. The woman prayed a lot for faith, the ability to trust and give up her unbelief.

Elle considered her own loyalties.
Who do I trust most, God or
Daddy?

First response? Daddy, of course. He loved her, cared for her. He’d raised her. Worked his whole life to provide for her. But at the end of the day, he was still a weak, flawed man.

God, on the other hand, Elle thought, loved her beyond expression, beyond understanding. At least that’s what the Good Book said. So, if she had to choose, even with her weak faith, she’d have to choose the unseen God.

The idea? Trust God over man. Trust Him over herself.

The notion lingered with her all day. Elle paused from working around the studio, preparing for Huckleberry to come by for an art lesson.

“Lord, give me the kind of faith that believes wholeheartedly.”

“Elle, you here?” Footsteps resonated from the studio stairs.

She grabbed the hair tie lying by the sink and opened the door to Huckleberry. “Come on in, Huck.”

Dang, if the boy didn’t look like his namesake, Huckleberry Finn. Plaid shirt, buckle overalls, cuffed pant legs up to his shins, flip-flops. All he needed was a piece of straw dangling from between his teeth.

She motioned for him to enter. “Ready to paint?”

He popped his hands together. “Where’s my easel?” Coming around the work table, he stood in front of the only white canvas Elle had set up.

“We’re going to paint this together.” She tapped the picture taped to a second easel. It was an old picture Granddaddy Garvey had taken of Factory Creek at sunset during the seventies. Granddaddy had captured orange and red rays bouncing off the dark water. And up in the top left corner, a small paddle boat sat alone in the marsh grass.

The image always evoked an emotion from Elle, as if she understood the boat drifting, waiting to fulfill its calling, even at sunset.

Huckleberry squinted at the picture. “An itsy boat? Can I add some trash, ’cause I can tell you, Elle, the creeks are becoming more and more polluted.”

She cupped her hand over his mouth. “We are painting it exactly as we see it.”

“No trash?” he asked through her fingers.

She dropped her hand, wiping it against her apron. “No trash.

I’m trying to get you to expand your horizons.”

“Why don’t we paint in tandem, you know, then compare our expressions?” He picked up the palette knife.

Elle took it away from him. “Don’t make me regret doing this.”

“Testy.” He dug his hands into his big pockets, trying to frown.

“Okay, let’s mix some paint, then talk about how we want to approach the painting.”

Trying to get Huckleberry to settle down and paint the original picture was like trying to bridle a fly and train it to fetch. But after an hour of forcing him to focus and start over (thank goodness for the fluidity of oils), she sat back and watched him recreate a beautiful scene, emotion and all. He had incredible talent, and if he applied himself, he could have the impact he so desperately wanted.

When his session ended, they set up a future date before he left, then Elle cleaned the brushes and palette, thinking she needed to run over to Mama and Daddy’s to do laundry. The dirty clothes pile was beginning to merge with the clean. Her cell phone rang as she started sorting whites and colors.

“I hear you’re painting.” Darcy Campbell, owner of downtown’s Wild Heart Gallery, was on the other end.

“A vicious rumor, Darcy.”

“Huckleberry told me. He was in trying to peddle his smelly art. I tell you, Elle, I’d support his cause if he could present it in a socially ingratiating fashion. Last time he came in, the place reeked of dead fish for two days.”

“When was he there? He just left my place.”

“Yeah, he said you’re helping him paint.”

“Trying.” Elle dumped her whites into a Wal-Mart bag. “He’s really talented, Darcy, but so fascinated with garbage.”

Darcy’s chuckle spilled into Elle’s ear. “No kidding. So, was he right? Are you painting?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Great. I’m featuring you for the Summer Art Walk and don’t go letting any of the other galleries talk you into showing with them. You’re exclusive with me for September. Can you be ready?”

“Ready? No, I can’t be ready.” Darcy’s Charles Street gallery was
the
best gallery in the lowcountry. Located in an 1886 home, it had elaborate cast-plaster moldings, ceiling medallions, stone fireplaces in every room, and jib doors opening to the verandahs. She maintained its rustic, cultured atmosphere and often showed work by New York and London artists. Names. Not wannabes.

“Then get ready. Nothing like a little pressure to motivate you creative types. I want to help launch your career, Elle.”

“Darcy, I have no career. I’m dabbling, not painting-painting.”

“Well, stop dabbling and get serious.”

Sigh.
The woman kidded not. Darcy took the business side of running a gallery extremely seriously and Elle had learned a lot from her. Darcy also had the marketing acumen and art-world connections to give an artist a leg up toward New York or London, Paris, or LA.

“Darcy, please hear me. I appreciate you, but I have nothing to show. I am barely painting. Most of this is just for me. Therapy. Worship, if you will. I’m not good enough to have people pay ten dollars, let alone hundreds.”

A car door slammed on Darcy’s side of the call. Keys jingled. “You forget I’ve seen some of your early work. I’ve always admired your use of color and ability to capture the emotion of a scene.”

“You flatter me, but no.” Elle snapped open a second Wal-Mart bag to start bagging her jeans and tops.

“I’m not flattering you. I’m tired of watching you
play
at art.”

The AC unit kicked on, shoving aside the warm air for cool. The afternoon sun heated the studio through the glass.

“Darcy, I appreciate you, I do, but give me a year or two.”

“Do you really want to waste another year? If you’re pushing Huckleberry to be the artist and the man he’s called to be, then I’m doing the same to you. Feel my finger in your back?”

Elle dropped the laundry-filled Wal-Mart bag and walked over to her paintings. She liked
Feathers
. And
Girls in the Grass
. There was the unfinished
Downtown Beaufort
, and oh, a painting from last fall when Hurricane Howard went over them and she hunkered down with Caroline at her place.

Then Heath’s voice haunted her.
God is wiser than Dr. Petit . . .

“Five paintings.”

“Six.”

“Maybe.”

“Now I can tell you Sir Lloyd Parcel will be showing too.”

“Darcy, Sir Lloyd Parcel? You can’t hang my work in the same gallery as his, let alone the same county, the same state, the same country.”

“Simmer down. Ruby Barnett is coming down to do the review. This will help her ease into your work. It’s a brilliant plan. I’m featuring Lloyd and you in my
ArtNews
ad.”

“Ruby Barnett? Dang, Darcy, are you trying to destroy me before I even get started? She’s one of the toughest art critics.”

“All the more to have her view your work now. Elle, I heard Angela boxed you out, and while I’m not a religious person, looking at what’s happened to you the last few months makes me think the Divine is trying to get your attention.”

A needlelike chill raced down Elle’s arm. “Perhaps, maybe, we’ll see. But Darcy, let this first show be the hometown girl with her homegrown paintings. Give me a chance to see if I’m any good. No press, please.”

“Sure, whatever you say.” Darcy didn’t mean one hollow word. “You won’t regret this.”

Elle pressed End. She already regretted it.

In the den, Kelly paced, listening to NBC’s “Saturday Night Dance
Party” while her fourteen-year-old sister played Monopoly with
their sixteen-year-old brother.

“Hal, you landed on my hotels.” Christie held her palm under
Hal’s nose. “You owe me a million bucks.”

Hal slapped her palm. “There.”

“Cheater. Give me the money. Kelly, tell him to play fair.”

“Hal. And Christie, he doesn’t owe you a million bucks. Tell
him how much he owes. Fair and square.”

Another week without a letter from Chet. She felt ill just
thinking about it. Was he hurt? Dead? In prison? No longer in
love with her?

Surely his mama would call if he was missing in action or
killed. Kelly pressed her hand against her growing middle. At times,
fear dwelt there as much as their child. She feared the worst. Not
death, but that he no longer loved her. By this time next month,
their secret would be known. She’d let out her skirt waist as far as it
could go.

“Kelly, I declare you’re making me nervous with all that pacing,”
Mama said without looking up from her knitting. “Why don’t
you call Rose or Shirley, see if they want to go downtown. Get a
malt or something.”

“Sure, Mama.”

Kelly phoned Rose, who was “dying to get out of the house” and
promised to call Shirley. “Meet you at Harry’s in fifteen.”

Upstairs, Kelly changed her blouse and shoes, then combed
her hair and found the Johnny Jeep hat she’d worn on her first
date with Chet. When she turned to go, Mama stood in the
doorway.

“Oh, you scared me.” Kelly exhaled, thrusting her hand over
her heart. “What are you doing sneaking around a girl’s room?”

Mama eased the door closed, her eyes on Kelly’s middle. “We
should talk about it now before your daddy sees.”

Heath scrubbed cereal from yesterday’s bowls before loading them in the dishwasher, staring out the kitchen window toward the grove of oak and pine in the lot next to Elle’s, pondering the lives of Kelly Carrington and Chet McCord.