Love Starts with Elle (33 page)

He paused to watch a couple of jet skis, reaching for Elle, locking her between his arms. “Hmm, interesting.”

Really? Could’ve fooled her. But he was trying. His breath and lips were hot on her cheek, then neck.

What if they called Pastor O’Neal? Would he even marry them? Jeremiah’s hands moved around and up her waist. Elle caught her breath. “So, Jer—”

He backed away at the ring of his cell. “Alex, what’s up?”

Elle fell against the concrete pylon as Jeremiah released her. New rule: make no decision while in physical contact with Jeremiah. Brushing a mist of perspiration from her forehead, Elle steadied her pulse with deep breaths.

In the distance, Jeremiah’s footsteps smacked against the pavement. “You’re kidding . . . He signed a letter of intent? Excellent. I’m sure Coach was relieved . . . Yeah, Florida almost convinced him . . .”

As he circled back toward her, Elle grabbed his arm and steered Jeremiah toward the swings, where she’d come that night with Heath and the girls. She hadn’t thought of it until now, but Heath’s Freddy story still resonated in her heart.

She sat, setting the swing in motion, feeling her senses returned. Run off and get married. No, she would not do it.

Jeremiah walked back and forth, talking. He was all smiles when he snapped his phone shut.

“We’ve been in huge competition over this high school quarterback with the University of Florida.”

“And you won?”

“We did. This is really going to rev up the team and the boosters.” His cell rang again. More animated talk about football stars and who was going to beat the Gators next season.

The conversation lasted a few minutes and the moment Jeremiah hung up, Elle moved to recapture the conversation. “So, you wanted to know about Mitzy Canon? She asked for samples of my work and I e-mailed them off.”

Jeremiah eyed her for a second. “Babe, am I wrong here or did you just send this artist maker mediocre work? Artists paint for years to get some kind of recognition. You, you know, owned a gallery. Just started painting a month ago. Are you sure you want this Mitzy looking at your paintings when you’re not confident it’s your best?”

Dread steals one’s breath away at the oddest times.

“I sent some of my recent paintings, Jeremiah. Heath thought they were good.”

“Heath? That guy’s in love with you, Elle. What does he know? What does he do anyway?”

“He’s a lawyer and a writer.”

Jeremiah made a face.
See?

“He wouldn’t lie to me, Jer.” They’d tangoed enough times for her to know he was an upfront, honest man.

“Not on purpose, but, hey, men have gone to war over a pretty face.”

“Thanks a lot; you’re no help.” Her heart raced.
Don’t panic, Elle.
He’s just yapping.

“I’m sorry, but I’m in the business of perfection. If you can’t show or do your best, wait until you can.”

Go ahead, panic, Elle. He’s right.
Jeremiah’s little speech resurrected every doubt and fear Elle thought she’d conquered during her summer of prayer and painting.

“What should I do, then, call her and say never mind?”
Help me,
Jeremiah. Advise me.

“That might not be a bad idea—” Cell phone again. “Franklin.” Jeremiah listened, his slow, white smile forming. “Yeah, Pete, I heard. Alex called . . .Yes, it’s great news . . .”

Why was it so hot? Elle lifted her hair off her neck. Was Jeremiah right about sending her work to Mitzy? When he finally hung up, she pressed him.

“What if she likes my work, Jer? Wouldn’t that be incredible? I’d have my first New York show.”

“It happens. But, Elle, come on, those kind of situations are rare. Making it as a writer, artist, even athlete takes years and—” Cell phone, again. He answered.
Why not? He wasn’t doing anything important.

“Yeah, can you believe it? This kid will bring the other recruits who are teetering . . .”

Anxious, a little angry, wanting to make a point, Elle snatched Jeremiah’s silver nuisance from his hand and hurled it toward the murky marina water like it was a pulled-pin grenade.

“Elle, what’re you doing? My new phone—” Jeremiah lunged for it, way too late, as it made an insignificant splash. Probably didn’t even bother the hungry fish. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m sick of competing with that thing. You’re a cell-phone whore, Jeremiah.”

“It’s business.”

“No, it’s yuk-yuk-yuk, look who we stole from the Gators. Well, bubba, good for you. I’m no Gator fan, but I’m not going to compete for your attention. This”—she circled her hand between them—“is what I was talking about. We can do together, eat, go to church, walk, talk about you, but there’s no room in your world for me, Jeremiah. Can’t you see?”

“No, I don’t. There’s plenty of room for you in my world.”

As if caught in some cosmic paradox, Elle’s cell rang mid-diatribe. Jeremiah glared.

“It’s the first time all night.” Elle fished it from her bag. “Hello?”

“Elle Garvey? It’s Mitzy Canon.”

TWENTY-FIVE

June 1, 1942, Umnak Island, Aleutians

The camp slept in an eerie silence as Chet stepped outside his
tent into the dull, gray light of the Aleutian summer morning, zipping
up his mackinaw. Ducking into the chilly and constant breeze,
he trekked toward the tarmac where the new P-40s were tethered.

A group of new recruits to the 11th Pursuit Squadron slept
huddled under the belly of the planes with no hope in sight for better
quarters. Umnak was a new, ill-supplied post.

Coming to the end of the steel-mat runway, Chet scanned the
barren, desolate horizon. Not a tree or shrub to engage his line of
sight. Just gray.

The words of Kelly’s latest letter surfaced in his thoughts. He’d
memorized every word, every curlicue, dotted
i
and crossed
t
of her
elegant script. He thought he was a hero until she wrote of her own
bravery. Though she’d never call it courage. Only facing her fears.

The lover part of him wanted to climb atop a P-40 and shout
it to the fog-laden mountains, “I’m the luckiest man alive.”

Knowing he was bringing a kid into the world, knowing the
strength of his future wife changed his heart and how he planned
to fight the war.

He’d make it home alive. He’d see the sunrise over the ocean,
watch the moon gliding over the marsh grass.

“Out for an early constitution, Captain?” Lieutenant Cimowsky
nudged him with a cup of black coffee. “It tastes like cow pies smell
back home, but it’s hot and will give you a morning jolt.”

Chet hooked his finger through the handle. “Just what I ordered.”

Cimowsky tipped his face to the fog. “Do you think the sun’s up
there? Somewhere?”

“Sun? What’s a sun?”

Cimowsky laughed, spewing a little spray of coffee. “The big
yellow ball we used to wake up to back in the lower forty-eight.”

Chet sighed.“It’s been too long. Too long.”

Cimowsky motioned with his mug. “Eerie, isn’t it. Like something’s
not right. A silence deeper than the quiet.”

Chet’s gut churned. “Yep, something is up. Can’t see it, but I
feel it.”

Cimowsky tapped Chet’s arm. “Let’s grab some chow.”

“Be there in a second.” Chet took Kelly’s letter from his inside
pocket. It was wrinkled from his constant refolding.

Darling,

I hope this letter finds you well. I miss you so much. With our baby growing every day, I cannot help but think of you and pray for God to keep you. Are your ears burning? I talked to Him about you a hundred times a day.

Mama and I spoke to Daddy about our situation. He was upset, disappointed, and I cried until my stomach ached. Then he came around to me, Chet, kissed me, prayed for me, for you and our baby.

I asked if I could speak to the congregation. Why let the gossips have one up on me. If I confess and repent, what can they do to me? I’ll trust my reputation to my Savior.

Daddy refused, but I think Mama and Jesus convinced him. So this Sunday I stood up and said what I’d done.

Chet’s belly lurched at the image of Kelly standing alone, exposing
her sin. As if she were the only one among them.

“I’m pregnant,” I said. “Yes, I sinned, let my passions take over, but I love my man, and he loves me. We’ll make it right.

But before God and you, I repent.”

Oh, darling, I trembled like a pup during a storm. Judge Brown sat right on the front row with the most sour look of condemnation. Mrs. Parsons shamed me out loud and demanded Daddy put me out of fellowship.

Then, of all things, Carwood Nixon stood up in the back row and said, “I’ve been having an affair for the last six months.”

And his wife sat smack next to him.

Art Samson stood next. “I’m drinking away the family fortunes.”

Ginger Levine got up saying she couldn’t stop gossiping and knew she’d hurt so many people by spreading stories.

We had a revival meeting right then and there, folks weeping at the altar, asking God and each other for forgiveness.

Everyone had forgotten what I’d confessed. Afterward, the love was so thick in the room I could taste it.

I think our child is going to do great things. Not even born and look what he started.

Chet folded the letter and tucked it away. Kelly Carrington, his
brave girl. “God,” he whispered,“if You can see fit to forgive Kelly and
all those folks, maybe You can see fit to forgive me.”

On the trailing breath of Chet’s prayer, a private busted out the
hanger along the tarmac.

“Japs! Japs!” He pulled on his gear and dove into a bunker.

Chet’s gaze shot to the gray soup over head. He saw nothing,
but heard the hum of the enemy. Tossing his coffee to the ground, he
raced toward his aircraft as Rufe float planes cut through the clouds
and descended over the base.

A car door slammed. Heath lifted his head, listening, half his brain stuck in the scene he’d just rewritten. Did he like the revival interlude? Too preachy? Maybe, but certainly authentic for the forties healing-and-revival era.

Rufe float planes. Did the Japanese fly them in the Aleutians? He’d dropped the term in from memory, so he’d better Google it.

A second car door slammed. Voices. Heath shoved his laptop to the club chair’s ottoman and stood. Ten fifteen. The house had been quiet except for the
tap-tap-tapping
of his fingers on the keyboard.

Heath had tucked Tracey-Love into bed an hour ago, and so far she remained there. Rock retired to Heath’s room a little before ten. His flight back to NewYork left Charleston at nine a.m., so he planned to rise early.

Muffled yelling.

The noise came from the kitchen side of the house so Heath strolled to the fridge without turning on extra lights.

He craved something cold and fizzy to drink, warm from writing with the laptop on his legs, but if he drank caffeine now he’d never go to sleep. He opted for water.

Chugging down half the bottle, Heath peered out the window, above the edge of Ava’s letter. Elle? The studio’s stairway light haloed her silhouette. A broader, darker shadow followed. Must be Jeremiah.

Their voices rose, then fell. She angled toward him, then turned away. He grabbed her arm.

Fight for yourself, Elle. Don’t let him manipulate you.
Heath had half a mind to open the door and cheer her on. But he knew . . . it was none of his business.

But if he were Jeremiah, he’d fight for Elle. She’d be worth every emotion, every act of love.

The silhouettes stood apart for a long moment, then Elle pressed her hand against Jeremiah’s arm. She pointed to the studio and started up the stairs. It took a few seconds, but he trailed behind her.

Years of trial law had trained Heath in body language, but tonight, peering through the darkness wearing the spectacles of his own emotions, he was clueless.

Are they taking the argument inside? Making up?

When his cell rang, he jumped and darted for the living room, snatching the phone from the end table.

“McCord.”

“Did I call too late?” Nate. Couldn’t think to check the time before he dialed. Ambient noise filled the background—laughter, clicking glass, and clashing plates.

“You always call late.” Heath straddled the ottoman, easing into the club chair.

“Yeah, that’s because I’m out here stumping for you.” The voices dimmed.

“Stumping for me? At a party?”

“Some swanky dinner where I met up with some old editor pals of mine.”

“Yeah?” Heath gripped the water bottle. Face a difficult judge? No problem. Persuade a jury? Piece of cake. Hear his book was rejected? Nervous water-bottle crusher.

“Seems they’re interested in war novels, think they’ll make a comeback in a few years and are scouting for good manuscripts.”

“No word from the small press, Poplar?”

A second, then two ticked off before Nate said, “They passed, Heath.”

“I figured.” Heath scooted to the edge of the chair.

“They loved the concept, so much they just bought a war book and are putting a lot behind it. But they loved your writing. So, while I shmoozed with my editor friends tonight, I dropped this little tidbit and got the conversation rolling. Heath, we’ll find a place for this story. But if you want to work on a legal thriller—”

His posture slumped as he fell against the back of the chair. “Rock came down for a surprise visit this weekend, Nate.”

“Can’t live without you?”

“Something like that. Wanted to make sure I remembered my six-month deadline. I’ll be back in the city by the middle of September.” His decision came swift, without contemplation. “Guess I got this novelist thing worked out of my system.”

“Heath, don’t give up. We’ve gotten close. Your talent will make a way. Keep sending me what you’ve got, I’ll pitch it. Shoot, I’m doing this as much for Ava as you.”