Love Starts with Elle (34 page)

Heath said good-bye, tossed his phone to the table, and shut down his laptop. Clicking off the lamp, he stretched out on the couch and tugged the afghan over him. For a long time, he stared into the darkness, praying, seeking the wisdom of heaven.

Light footfalls echoed down the hall and a warm little body shoved in next to him. Rolling over on his side, Heath smoothed her rough hair with his palm and kissed her moist cheek.

In the morning, he’d confirm with Rock—the September return date worked well for him.

The prayer chapel was hallowed and quiet when Elle entered Monday morning, sitting in her usual place, second row, right side.

Miss Anna knelt in front by the altar, her hands lifted in silent worship.

Opening her Bible, Elle tried to read the words written in red, but tears interfered.

She sniffled and prayed for a long while, struggling to find contentment in God despite the weekend’s events.

“Want to tell me about it?” Miss Anna shoved Elle aside so she could sit.

Elle wiped her cheek with her fingers, wiped her nose with a very weary tissue. “Jeremiah and me . . . it’s over.”

“And you regret it?”

“No.” Lifting her head, Elle stiffened against her rolling emotions. “Not really, but I sure as shootin’ didn’t want to go through it twice.”

“Well, now you know. He’s not the one for you.”

Elle’s laugh lightened her own sadness. “I wanted him to be, but when I looked close, Miss Anna, I saw the truth.”

“One doesn’t sit before the Lord long without learning to hear the unspoken.”

“The New York gallery owner called too. The one Heath McCord put me in touch with and—”

“Heath McCord. Reminds me of my Lem. Now he’s one to mourn losing.”

Elle laughed over her tears. “Are you turning matchmaker on me?”

“No, no, just saying, you know, in case you wondered about my opinion.”

“We’re only friends.” Great friends, if she thought about it.

“I suppose it’s wise not to jump into another emotional dance just yet.”

Elle grinned at Miss Anna’s choice of words, suddenly warm with the memory of dancing with Heath.

“Tell me about this art woman.”

“Mitzy Canon. She’s a voice in the art world and called me to say clearly I was an amateur and to assure me of her opinion. She sent my work to other gallery owners and critics who agreed with her.”

Miss Anna laughed. “I see. God is making it hard on Himself. Upping the ante so He can prove Himself to you.”

“Doesn’t feel like He’s on my side at all right now.”

“Oh, oh, my dear friend, how will you ever learn of His goodness and faithfulness if you never slay a Goliath? Nothing is impossible with Him.”

Miss Anna grabbed the back of the pew, pulling herself to her feet, and gathered her Bible, pocketbook, and old sweater. “See you in the morning.”

Elle decided to pray awhile longer. “I’ll be here.”

Miss Anna paused in the open doorway, her face sweet and cherubic, her eyes almost glowing. “Yes, I know, you will.”

“Wally. Hey, it’s Elle Garvey . . . I’m good. Listen, I was wondering . . .” She paced the studio, feeling silly now that she’d called him, but she wanted something to do with her days. Add a little cash to her flow, avoid draining all her savings until she earned a living in art again. “Do you have any openings on your lawn crews?”

He guffawed. Loud, in her ear, slapping his palm against the steering wheel, repeating her story to whoever sat next to him. “It’s Elle Garvey, wanting a job . . .”

“Wally, I’m serious. I’m sort of in a setback here and thought I could use a job to get me out of the studio . . . I can’t understand why you’re . . . Wally, stop laughing . . .”

Elle pressed End. Okay, maybe it was a crazy idea, but,
aurgh,
couldn’t she have control over some element of her life? She kicked a leg of her easel. It teetered and swayed. Her reaction was emotional, even after a night’s sleep and a morning of prayer, but she’d decided to slay her Goliath by giving up on painting and men for a while.

The idea of sweating in the hot sun, challenging her muscles, letting the lowcountry sun brown her skin appealed to her. For now.

The studio stairs rattled and Elle looked toward the door. She recognized the distinct sound of someone taking two steps at a time. When he landed on the top step, she called, “Come in, Heath. The door’s open.”

He breezed in. “How’d you know it was me?”

“The rhythm of your step, running up, two at a time.”

“So, you’re on to me.” He smiled, white against brownish red.

“Yeah, McCord, I’m on to you.” Elle gathered the papers on her work table—bills, printed e-mails, notes she’d jotted during prayer, mostly painting ideas—and stacked them in a neat pile.

“Are you okay?”

Elle dusted the table with her hand. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“I heard you coming home the other night with Jeremiah.”

Hmm, right.
“I gave him his ring back. It’s over.”

“I’m sorry, Elle.” He bent to see her face.

She swatted in the air in front of him. “No, you’re not. Say it: you were right. He’s a self-focused egomaniac. Should’ve known when he stumbled over how to spell
renaissance
.”

Heath wrinkled his expression. “Renaissance?”

“Long story, but I used to say the man I married had to spell
renaissance
. Sort of my litmus test, after finding out if he loved Jesus, naturally.”

Staring across the studio, Heath moved his lips, the letters tumbling off his breath. “R-e-n-a-i-s-s-a-n-c-e.
Renaissance
.”

Elle rang an imaginary bell. “Ding-ding. We have a winner, Johnny. Tell the man what he’s won. Okay, I’ll tell you, Bob. A grand, fun-filled life married to Elle Garvey. Just say . . .”—she slowed— “. . . I do and . . .” She stopped. He was looking at her. Warm, she felt really warm. “Shew, what is up with this old AC?”

Heath billowed his T-shirt. “Is it on the fritz? It’s roasting in here.”

Elle clicked the knob up one, then glanced back at Heath. “Better?”

“Much.” He picked at a thick drop of paint on the table. “It’s good you tried with Jeremiah, Elle. Really. Now you know.”

Elle paced the studio, starting to feel the clutter.

“I didn’t see Jer was wrong for me because I didn’t want to see. Me, a college-educated woman, head in the sand.”

“Don’t put yourself down, Elle. It took a lot of courage to walk away from a successful, good-looking man offering you love, commitment, and marriage.”

“Like you were his biggest fan.”

“But I’m yours. And I didn’t want to see you with a phony like him.”

She snatched the broom from the corner. “I used to think women who stayed with cheating or abusive men were crazy and stupid. Now I understand a little bit why they do it.” Her eyes watered. “What if I didn’t have a good family, friends, a mentor like Miss Anna? What if I didn’t know Jesus? How can they walk away from the one bit of security being offered, even if it meant enduring some pain?”

“You’re right, Elle. Makes me grateful.”

“Look at me whining. You lost your wife. I can’t imagine, Heath.” Elle pointed to him with the tip of the broom handle.

“Elle, I’m going back to New York in September.”

She stopped with the broom. “I see.”

“Rock needs me and Nate’s not having much success with my book. Another publisher turned me down.”

“Mitzy Canon turned me down.”

His torso collapsed with disappointment. “What’d she say?”

“Blah, blah, immature, blah, blah, no good, blah, blah, second opinion of critics and gallery owners, blah, blah, you should do something else with your life, blah, blah.”

“Forget her. She’s a New York art scene snob.”

“Then why’d you drag my name past her? She told me to go back to my hole in the wall.”

“But you won’t.” Heath hopped off the stool and walked over to the wall of paintings. “Elle, every time I see your work, I feel something.”

“Like you’re going to be sick?”

“Stop, no. I feel hope, inspiration.” He shrugged. “Makes me want to go write something, create with words what you create with colors.”

“Then be my guest, take the paintings. Give them to friends and family for Christmas.”

He exhaled. Elle almost felt his wind on her side of the studio. “You’re showing these in the Summer Art Walk.”

“I called Darcy today and canceled. She’s ticked, but she’ll get over it. Jeremiah was dead on about one thing: if your work isn’t excellent, don’t go trying out for the A-team.”

“He’s your number one fan, is he?” Heath set the feather painting down, picking up another one. Downtown Beaufort.

“I threw his phone in the river and—” Elle snorted, leaning on the broom.

Heath snapped his gaze to her. “You didn’t.”

“Called him a phone whore.”

“Bold.” He smirked.

“I thought so.” Three days later, it was still funny.

“Why’d you throw his phone in the river?”

“Because I was trying to talk to him and he kept taking calls about football players and, yo, how cool was his team. It was stupid and I shouldn’t have done it, but it brought our relationship to center stage.”

Elle leaned the broom against the table and straightened the paintbrush carousal. Huckleberry was coming by for a lesson. “So, New York. Are you taking Tracey-Love?”

“I thought I might.”

“Rio will bawl her eyes out.”

“TL too. She loves Rio. And you.”

“She’s very special, Heath. Ava would be proud.” Elle opened the turpentine jar, dipped in a paper towel, and wiped down her already cleaned palette. “Did you read the letter yet?”

“I’ve tried, keep getting interrupted. Visitors, phone calls. But I’ll make my summer-end deadline. It’s time, I know it.”

“You’ll get your book published, Heath.”

“You’ll show your paintings around the world.”

“Ha, not if I don’t paint them.”

“If I promise to keep writing, will you promise to keep painting?”

She tossed the paper towels in the garbage, then knotted the white bag. “Maybe. Maybe.”

When she walked around the table, the trash bag dangling from her fist, Heath reached out and molded her into his embrace, his cheek firm against her hair.

Dropping the trash, Elle gripped him, burying her face into the soapy fragrance of his shirt.

To: Elle Garvey

From: CSweeney

Subject: Coming home

Elle,

Mitch and I decided today to be in Beaufort for Christmas. I cannot wait. Let’s take out my old boat and drift on the Coosaw.

I’d write more, but Carlos and I are off to Thailand for a meeting.

Love you, Caroline