Love Starts with Elle

by Rachel Hauck

  The man had just described a world she’d never imagined. “Of course, Jeremiah, but I don’t want to abandon my work. Putting a ring on my finger doesn’t negate the gifts and calling God has given me. At least that’s not what I was raised to believe. I’m not Elle Garvey, art advocate and gallery owner, until some man gives me his name and then I’m a mini-him, his shadow.”

  His countenance darkened.

  “Mini-me? A shadow? Is that what you think this is all about?

  Elle, I’m not asking you to be my shadow. I’m asking you to be my partner in ministry.”

  Elle shoved away from the table, carrying her plate to the dishwasher. How did he turn her arguments around so she felt selfish and silly?

  “I understand, Jeremiah, but right now all I hear is me, me, me. And I don’t mean Elle, Elle, Elle. This whole week has been about you. What you’re doing, where you’re going, what you want, who you know. Jeremiah, other than buying the house, you haven’t asked me once about how I feel about any of this ministry stuff. Not one ‘Pray about it with me’ or ‘What do you think of me doing television or writing a book?’”

  “Babe, I-I would. It’s just that, well, you’re new, not in the loop, caught up with the details.”

  “And whose fault is that? Look, I don’t want to sit in meetings or share every phone call, but I’d like an invitation to talk it over. All I get is the latest news flash.”

  “Fine, and I’d like to be in on your decisions. I don’t feel good about your opening a gallery. At least not yet. Besides, there are hundreds of art galleries in the greater Dallas area. It’ll take a long time and a lot of work to get established.”

  Elle crossed her arms and leaned against the kitchen counter. “And there are not ten times the number of pastors and charismatic preachers hocking the gospel on TV?” Her words snapped like the sharp end of a wet towel.

  “I can’t believe you.” Jeremiah met her in the kitchen, his six-foot-three frame towering over her. “The more ministers of the gospel, the more we win to Christ. Babe, let’s not blow this out of proportion. I’m just saying maybe the gallery is not a good idea. At least not right now.” Jeremiah stopped, glancing at his watch. “Come on, it’s time to meet Lyle.”

  “Jeremiah, you sat in Candace’s office and promised.”

  He stopped at the edge of his living room, easing his wallet into his pocket. “I did, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Then let’s talk after the wedding. Can you give me until then?” His smile radiated little warmth.

  Elle appreciated his compromise but felt the echo of his first hollow promise. “All right, if that’s what you want.” She picked her purse off the table and followed him out the door.

  “Elle, what do you think?” Jeremiah leaned against the kitchen island. “The location is good. Lyle says we can close next week.”

  Elle’s bracelets made a tinkling sound as she brushed her hands though her hair, stretching the tenseness out of her back and neck. “I like the house if you do.”

  He shook his head, exhaling a hot breath. “If we move in and six months later you hate it . . .” He walked to the breakfast nook, arms akimbo. “Are you doing this because of what I said about the gallery?”

  Elle’s insides burned. “Is that what you think of me?”

  He looked over at her. “No, but I had to ask.”

  If they failed at finding a house this trip, they failed even greater at communicating, each blinded in some way by their own expectations.

  “Jeremiah, I won’t hate it. Let’s buy it.”

  “I’m not putting hundreds of thousands down on ‘I won’t hate it.’ I don’t understand why we can’t find a house we both love.”

  His cell rang, and when he answered, he walked out the French doors.

  Elle picked at the edge of the counter, batting away tears. Horrible was the only word she had for this visit.

  Lyle entered the kitchen, his cell phone in hand. “Just talked with the seller . . . Oh, hey, Elle, you in here by yourself? Let me flip on the light. Guess this kitchen is kind of dark, I do admit. Maybe we can see to putting in some sky lights.” He opened the door to the deck. “Get on in here, Jeremiah.”

  Lyle restarted his spiel when Jeremiah came inside.

  “They’ll take five grand less than asking, and”—Lyle wiggled his eyebrows. Elle hid a smile—“pay closing.”

  Jeremiah glanced at Elle, and she longed for the warmth she always felt from him. “It’s up to you, Elle. Decide. I guess we can hole up in my apartment if we can’t find a place.”

  “Don’t you dare blame me.” She didn’t care if Lyle listened in; she’d not have Jeremiah dump their failure on her.

  He sighed. “I’m not blaming anything on anyone.”

  Dallas had revealed a new side of both of them. Elle, the unrelenting artist. Jeremiah, the conquering achiever. She refused to be bulldozed, especially by the man she was marrying. But for the moment she embraced compromise.

  “Let’s buy it, Jeremiah.” She smiled with all the confidence she could muster.

  “Lyle, looks like you made the sale. Well deserved.” Jeremiah came around the island to kiss Elle’s cheek. His lips were wet and cool.

  BEAUFORT

  The quiet dark of the Sea Island Parkway—also known as Hwy 21, he’d discovered after finally consulting a map—spooked Heath. Turn on a light, somebody.

  He’d passed the turn onto Fripp Point Road three times and was about to pass it again when, Wait, was that it? Mashing the brake, he whipped the van around in a U-turn.

  “A-are we t-there, D-daddy?” After two long days on the road, Tracey-Love was ready to be home.

  “Just about, sweetie.”

  “M-my t-tummy hu-hurts.”

  Heath angled around to see her, though she was barely visible in the dash lights. Four-year-old Tracey-Love had been sick since they left IHOP this morning.

  “Hold on, we’re almost”—the van nosed down with a hard bounce as the pavement ended in dirt and gravel—“there.”

  Turn right on Coffin Point . . . If that street name wasn’t loaded with irony. Heath scanned the e-mailed directions in the dome light as Tracey-Love moaned quietly. Buckled into a car seat, Heath figured he’d do more than moan.

  Lights glowed from the cottage at the end of the drive. Is this it? When the van lights landed on the side of the house, he caught the numbers. He parked on the red brick drive and cut the van’s motor.

  “Da-daddy.”

  “We’re here, Tracey-Love.” But not in time to keep her from retching all over the side of the seat. He unsnapped his seatbelt while shoving open his door. “I’m coming around.”

  Before leaving New York, Tracey-Love’s nanny had handed over a list of instructions for her care and diet, but he’d tossed the list aside once they started traveling, figuring TL deserved a little carefree fun. Now . . . perhaps not such a wise idea.

  The nanny followed his wife’s health-food diet while Heath had followed the easy-going fast-food diet during this trip. Her stomach chose this moment to revolt.

  The sweet, marsh-scented air mingled with the sour odor of vomit as Heath slid open the van door. Tracey-Love cried softly as he removed her from the seat.

  “It’s okay. Daddy let you eat too much junk. How about a nice warm bath?”

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Ava.

  He hugged her to his chest, not caring if he soiled his last clean Ralph Lauren. “How do you like our new house, TL? Can you hear the frogs singing from the creek? The air is warm and thick. Tomorrow we’ll go exploring.”

  Heath fished the house key from his pocket, the lowcountry perfume and night song confirming his decision to leave New York. He propped open the screen door with his foot and inserted the key. “Looks like our Realtor came by and clicked on the lights for us. Isn’t that nice?”

  “D-daddy . . .” Tracey-Love gagged, spilling the last of her Happy Meal down his back before d
issolving into tears.

  “Don’t cry now. Come on, it’s going to be fine.” Heath fumbled with the lock, finally unlatching the door. “Once you’re clean and in a soft bed, you’ll feel better. Here we go. Look, isn’t this pretty?”

  After two long days, they were finally home.

  Elle came out of the bathroom tying her robe around her waist, reliving Dallas for the hundredth time.

  If being driven and an overachiever was Jeremiah’s weakness, rehashing things in her head was one of hers. But she needed to understand, figure things out, find her bearings.

  After saying yes to the house, Jeremiah had taken Elle and her host family out to a lovely dinner, and the next morning he kissed her good-bye at airport security and promised to call soon.

  They exchanged an “I love you” and lingered in an embrace, but the entire flight home Elle ping-ponged between empty and bothered, elated and content.

  She’d heard marriage was hard, but she didn’t expect so much friction over opposite goals and desires. Over a house. Over expectations.

  Sara Beth had ridden with Mama to pick Elle up from the airport. “Tell me, how’d it go? I want to hear all about the house.”

  “Do you know your daddy and I were married ten years before we bought our first home?”

  “We argued a lot, Mama.” She gritted her teeth when her eyes flooded. “We don’t seem to like many of the same things.”

  Hadn’t they liked the same things at one time? Food, movies, music? So far, nothing translated into the bigger areas of their life.

  Elle gave the abbreviated version of her week with Jeremiah, careful not to paint him in too bad a light.

  Mama was undaunted by the story of disagreements and differences. “Sara Beth here came home from her honeymoon ready for divorce court.”

  “Really, Sara Beth?”

  “Yeah, we had a pretty horrible time.” Elle’s oldest sister had thick brown hair like Mama and wide-set brown eyes on a broad-boned face. “Parker and I had dated for over a year and never fought once. Went on the honeymoon and fought nonstop.”

  “Yeah, you unlocked all the sexual tension,” Mama said with all authority.

  “Mama,” Elle squealed, heat prickling over her cheeks.

  Sara Beth waved her off. “She’s right. All the issues we’d ignored while dancing around unsatisfied passion started rearing their ugly heads.”

  Great, what did all this arguing and discontentedness say about Elle and Jeremiah? Sexual tension? Hardly. Elle pressed her hand to her middle, remembering how she tightened and shivered every time his warm breath breezed her cheek or ear. Until this past week . . .

  “Elle, don’t worry. This will work itself out.” Mama always said not to worry, as if, poof, just like that all worry vanished. “Oh, and good news. The invitations came while you were in Dallas. Your sisters and I spent an evening addressing them. I dropped them by the post office yesterday.” She turned around in the passenger seat with a fake frown as if to lecture Elle. “So, young lady, you’re getting married no matter what.”

  Well, in that case, what’s a girl to do?

  Elle remembered feeling better after that, kissing Mama’s cheek and asking to pull into a drive-thru. She felt half starved.

  At home now a little over a day, Elle had taken time to reflect and adjust her perspective. She’d hoped Jeremiah had done the same. What time was it? Nine ten. She’d wait another hour and give him a call before she went to bed.

  “Hello, anyone here? Marsha?”

  Elle stopped on the edge of the hallway leading into the living room. A tall, dark-haired man with a winter complexion stood by the front door with a tiny bit of a girl draped over his shoulder.

  “Marsha?” His eyes fell on her face, then slipped down her neck to her robe . . .

  “Who are you?” Elle gripped the loose edges of her robe and took a slow step backward. Her softball bat was in the hall closet, right-hand side.

  “Heath McCord. Who are you?” he asked.

  “Elle Garvey.” She jerked open the door, fumbled for the bat, knocking boxes to the floor with a thump. She cocked the bat over her shoulder. “Don’t take another step.”

  His eyes roamed the length of the bat. “Isn’t this 21 Coffin Creek Point?”

  “Back it up, bubba. Outside.” Elle shifted the bat off her shoulder, circling it in the air as she stepped into the living room. Most robbers were cowards at heart. “What’s with the girl?”

  “My daughter.”

  When he was on the other side of the screen, Elle slammed the door and locked it, addressing him through the window. “Okay, who are you and how’d you get into my house?”

  “Key. I’ve rented this place.” He shifted the girl to sit on the crook of his arm, exposing a long, wet stain running down the front of his shirt. Her golden curls were tangled and frizzing around her pale face and hollow blue eyes. “My lease started today.”

  “Impossible. I’m the owner, and as you can see . . . still here.” Elle lowered the bat. The name Heath McCord did have a familiar pitch. Was that the one Marsha had given her? “Doesn’t your lease start in April?”

  He shifted the girl again and Elle could see their weariness. “I asked for March fifteenth and Marsha Downey said fine and dandy.”

  Crud. Elle slumped, lowering the bat, recognizing the woman’s catchphrase. Darn her. “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not moving out for another month.”

  “Is that my problem?” Heath cocked his head to one side, studying her through the window. “I’ve paid in full. Have the proof in my van.”

  Elle gripped her robe tighter. “You can have an extra month at the end of the lease.”

  “Thanks just the same, but I’d like my lease to start right now. It’s been a hard year and a long trip.” The girl lifted her head, muttered something, then shivered and buckled, covering herself and her daddy with bile.

  Elle swung open the door. “Bathroom is down the hall. Towels are in the closet.”

  “He’s here now, Marsha.” Elle paced the length of her front-porch verandah, passing under the yellow door lamp, then into the dark corners and back to the light again. The summer material of her robe was too thin to protect against the chill clinging to the night.

  “Sugar, what do you want me to do? The man’s paid his money. Signed a lease.”

  Elle pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “Why did you tell him March fifteenth?”

  “As I live and breathe, you said he could move in mid-March. I remember the night I called you.”

  “The night you were out . . . eating Mexican . . .” And drinking Coronas.

  Silence. Then Marsha’s wrinkled chuckle. “George tells me I forget details lately, but I could’ve sworn on my mama’s grave you said March fifteenth. Goodness, I can hear your voice in my head now. March. You were going to set up house in Dallas before the wedding, as I recall.”

  Elle let her hip fall against the porch post. “Have a good night, Marsha.” She glanced into the living room, through the window’s sheers. Now what? A stranger was inside her cottage caring for his sick daughter expecting to be home after a long journey.

  But Elle had been looking forward to her final days at home, prepping for the wedding, finalizing her packing and shipping boxes to her new home in Dallas. Taking a nap or two.

  She turned to go inside as Heath crossed the living room carrying a towel-wrapped little girl. Slipping inside, Elle let the door click behind her. “Is she all right?”

  “Too much junk food. Her mom was into healthy eating and I don’t think her stomach found chicken nuggets friendly.” Heath glanced at Elle. “Thanks for letting us in.” Then to his girl, “Tracey-Love, wait here while I get your jammies?”

  The girl shook her head and slung her arms around his neck. “S-stay w-w-with m-me.”

  “I will, but Daddy needs to get your suitcase from the van. Do you want to wear your new princess pajamas?”

  Elle eased across the
floor to the couch. This strange man in her living room, comforting his daughter in tender tones seemed so . . . lost.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Tracey-Love.”

  “Hey, Tracey-Love, my little niece Rio is about your age and she left a pair of pajamas in the back room.” She stooped to see her clear blues. “Do you like ponies?”

  The girl stared, hands tight around Heath’s.

  “Yes, she does,” Heath answered, locking his gaze with Elle’s. Thank you.

  “I’ll run get them.”

  When Elle retuned with pony pajamas, she nodded toward the hall. “You can put her in there.” The girl was already half asleep.

  “Thank you.” Heath slipped the gown over her head before unwrapping the towel. He picked her up. “Back this way? Which room?”

  “There’s only one. Can’t miss it. The master bedroom is here, off the living room. And if she wants a drink of water, there’re paper cups in the bathroom.”

  Heath stopped, turning to her with an easy smile. “I noticed. Thanks. Do you have children?”

  “My niece is here a lot.”

  While Heath tucked in his daughter, Elle unloaded the dishwasher, meditating over the situation. What’s your tale, Heath McCord? Lonely-looking man with a four-year-old girl. And please don’t be a parental kid­napping case. Hadn’t Marsha said he was a big-shot New York lawyer?

  “Thank you again.” He stood between the living room and kitchen. “This place is nicer than Marsha described. She said you’re an artist.”

  “Gallery owner. Former artist who realized her limited talent.”

  Health regarded her for a second as if trying to understand. “I guess it’s good to be self-aware.” He held his stained shirt away from his body. “Mind if I grab a shower? Your name’s Elle, right?”

  “E-l-l-e. ‘L’ like the letter.”