by Rachel Hauck
“Don’t mind me,” she’d told them, her voice hollow to her own ears.
“Hey, you can’t come in here. This is a construction site.”
“Leave her alone, Frank. Elle, you okay?”
“Fine, Gilly. Just peachy.” Why she wanted to be at the gallery— or what used to be her gallery—Elle didn’t know, but she climbed to the loft and huddled on the floor, the darkness comforting her.
Jeremiah didn’t answer her initial call, nor the two dozen after. God, what is going on? Hopelessness locked on and Elle let her tears slip free. “What did I ever do to him?”
Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, feeling the grit of the construction mess grinding her skin, she’d dialed Jeremiah again and was rewarded for the twentieth time with his stupid, tired, recorded message. “You’ve reached Jeremiah Franklin, senior pastor at 3:16 Metro Church. I’m not available . . .”
Elle pressed End, her jaw tight. “You’re never available.”
Waiting for him to call in between all of her autodialing, Elle tried to fathom her relationship with Jeremiah coming to this. The enticing, electric sensations he’d created in her belly when he kissed her and slipped his fingers along the edge of temptation were distant and cold.
Drawing in a big gulp of warm, dusty loft air, Elle tried to make sense of it all. Was it Dallas and the big church? Was it her? Him? Did they not know each other as well as they pretended?
Why won’t you call me back? She resisted the urge to smash her phone against the wall.
The last glow of daylight had slipped away from the store’s pane window, leaving Elle completely in the dark when her phone finally rang.
“I’m in a meeting and my phone won’t stop vibrating,” he said without hello, without saying her name.
A string of blue words, many of which Elle had never uttered before in her life, flowed from her soul. “Then get out of the meeting.”
“I told you I’d call later.”
“The box came.” Flat, honest confession.
Silence, followed by a heavy blast of air. “It wasn’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow or later.”
“Darn the efficiency of those FedEx boys.” Her wounds dripped sarcasm.
Silence again. “It’s not going to work, Elle.”
Her tense muscles kept her from shattering into a million pieces. “What is not going to work, Jeremiah?” She’d given him way too much lead in their relationship. If he wanted to say something, he’d best speak plainly.
“You. Me. Marriage.” She heard a door click closed and the echo of Jeremiah’s footsteps in a hollow hall.
“Only because you’re sabotaging it. You’re physically and emotionally unavailable. I can’t win.”
“I can’t win with you either. I told you, Elle, the ministry would consume me at first.”
“When have I ever interrupted your ministry?” Now that it was going down, she couldn’t stop shaking.
“Face it, Elle. You don’t want to be married to a pastor.”
“Jeremiah, I love you. I want to be married to you, not your job. I feel like you want me to simply fit into your life without bringing any part of myself. It’s like I’m the right size, so give me the suit.”
“I don’t know how you can say that, but yes, I need a woman who can stand strong in ministry. Elle, if you want to do your own thing, chase your own God dreams, then go for it, but I can’t let it get in the way of what He’s called me to do.” His confession sliced through her heart, painfully cutting. “I’m sorry. Those are hard words, but I felt you needed to hear them.”
“You are so unfair and selfish, Jeremiah. How could you say that to me? I’ve never let my dreams get in the way of yours. I agreed to the house, agreed to move to Dallas after you proposed, agreed to wait on the gallery.”
“Look, let’s not cloud the issue.”
“Cloud the issue? I think it’s fairly clear, Jer—you don’t want to marry me.”
“Elle, I’m just not ready.”
“You’re thirty-five. When will you be ready?” His lame excuse angered her.
“It’s not age, it’s the work. I’m not in a place to take on marriage. I’m sorry. If I’d have known this when I took the job, I would’ve never proposed.”
“Then quit.” A sharp but logical resolution.
“Quit? The church?”
“Yes, the church. Quit for us.”
“I can’t quit the church, Elle,” Jeremiah said. “I’ve made a commitment to these people. They’ve invested time and money in me and my vision.”
“You made a commitment to me. Are you going stand before God and hear, ‘Kudos, son, for dumping the artist gal to pastor a church’? God, family, job, remember? You’re not their savior, bubba. Last I looked Jesus earned that job.”
“Can I deny God’s calling on my life? Did Paul? Did Peter? We have to leave everything to follow Him. Even fiancées, if necessary.”
If necessary? Sitting cross-legged, Elle buckled over until her forehead met the sawdust-covered floor. “You’re asking me to give up everything to watch you soar, but won’t budge one inch toward me.”
“That’s not my intention, Elle. I’m trying to be focused here. I don’t know, maybe the timing is all off. I do love you.” Elle felt his hesitation: I think . . .
“What happened to ‘Love bears all things, endures and hopes’?”
“I can love you, Elle, even if I’m not married to you.”
She resented his soft explanation. “But I want to marry you. I love you here, now.”
“Are you saying you want to marry a man who’s not ready?”
“Mama mailed the invitations, Jeremiah.”
“I’m sorry. I know this is awkward and untimely.”
The shaking faded as the sad tears began. “Daddy spent a lot of money; friends and family have made plans.”
“We can’t get married because people spent money and made plans.” His patience sounded thin. “I’ve spent hours thinking and considering the consequences to our actions. Either way, it’s difficult. But I want to do the right thing.”
“Which is?” She wanted to hear him say, “It’s over.”
“Call off the wedding.”
“All right.”
Unbidden, peace began to slip over her. The pain shooting over her scalp ceased, and the tension in her jaw vanished. She was done. With the conversation. With Jeremiah. With the idea of Happily Ever After. Staring into the darkness, Elle clicked her phone shut.
In her room, Tracey-Love slept. At least Heath hoped she did. The day of running with Rio had exhausted her. If he had any remaining doubts about uprooting her from New York, today wiped them out.
She seemed like a new kid to him. During the simple dinner of grilled chicken and salad, she’d chatted almost nonstop, her stutter more pronounced with her excitement, but barely slowing her down.
After dinner, he’d plopped her in the tub with a bag of toys he’d snatched up at the Wal-Mart checkout line. (Elle’s admonition stuck with him. Wal-Mart. Cheap.) The dirt from her feet and hands instantly browned the water, and under her sweat-stained face Heath discovered a pink sunburn on her cheeks.
“Daddy’s going to have to buy a shotgun,” he’d told her as he stuck the rinse cup under the faucet and poured it over her thick hair.
TL covered her eyes with taut little hands. “H-h-how’s come, D-daddy? B-bur-r-rglars?”
“Yes, sort of.” Heath wiped the rest of the water from her face with a washcloth. Burglars dressed as teen boys wanting to steal his daughter’s affections.
Tracey-Love’s wide eyes glistened. “Bad burglars?”
“TL, Daddy’s just kidding. There are no burglars. We’re all safe and snug. You’re my girl, aren’t you? Me and you, all the way, right?” He held out his palm.
“R-r-right.” Tracey-Love slapped her hand over his, sending a splat of water across his shirt.
After the bath, two bedtime stories, and a song Ava used to sing (T
racey-Love made him stop. “Y-you sound funny.”), Heath tucked her into bed. So far, she hadn’t come searching for him.
With the house quiet and the porch beckoning him, Heath slipped out of his wet shirt, kicked off his shoes, and sat outside, lighting Elle’s porch lamps, angling the wrought-iron rocker to face the creek.
In his hand, he gripped an unopened letter.
The edges of the handwritten, blue-ink address fanned across the crumpled white envelope. Months of being carried in his laptop case and jacket pocket had smeared the letters. Finally, he’d buried it in his top dresser drawer to pretend it didn’t exist until he was ready to read it.
The move to Beaufort resurrected its presence.
Ava’s letter.
Courage, man. Flipping it over, he gripped the small tear started on the back flap—enough to know he’d been there before, but not enough to expose the pages inside.
“Can’t do it.” Heath collapsed against the back of the chair, releasing the letter to the wrought-iron table. Ava, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
“Evening.”
Heath jerked around to see a robust man with a broad chest and a Panther’s ball cap stepping onto the porch through the screen door. “Truman Garvey, Elle’s daddy.”
“Heath McCord.”
Their hands clapped together.
“She tells me you’re from New York?”
“Yes, sir.” He glanced around for his shoes and shirt. Right, he’d left them inside.
“Nice to meet you.” Truman shoved his hat back.
“Please, have a seat.” Heath reached for the letter, slipping it in his hip pocket. “Let me get a shirt.”
“Have you seen Elle?” Truman asked, easing into an old Adirondack chair opposite Heath with an oomph.
“Not since this afternoon.” Heath slipped into the kitchen, grabbed his shirt from the back of the chair, still wet from bath time. Before heading out, he leaned to listen for Tracey-Love. All was quiet.
Heath sat in the rocker. “What can do I for you?”
“That boy broke it off with Elle tonight.”
“Her fiancé?” He couldn’t think of any other boy who might break things off.
“Got a cola or something cold in the house? I’m a bit parched. Yeah, her fiancé called of the wedding. Just mailed off three hundred invitations too.”
“Man . . . rough.” Heath pushed out of his seat. “Got a few sodas inside.”
“As long as it fizzes, it’s good with me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Heath liked this man. Reminded him of his granddaddy. Simple, straightforward, told it like it was, no messing around. He pulled two cans from the fridge. One Sprite, one root beer. “Here you go, sir. Sprite or root beer.”
“Most of my friends call me Truman.” He took the Sprite and popped it open, motioning through the screen. “I saw the baby buggy outside on my way in. You got a girl?”
“Yes, Tracey-Love. Same age as your granddaughter, Rio.”
“Tracey-Love?” Truman chuckled. “Now how’d you muster that name? Wife swindle you into it?”
Heath grinned with a swig of his root beer. “No, it happened by accident.”
“Most of the unusual ones do.”
“Her mom wanted to name her Tracey with Love as her middle name, after her great-grandma. Once we agreed, somehow we started calling her Tracey-Love and in the hoopla of her birth, Tracey-hyphen-Love was written on her birth certificate. We liked it and kept it.”
Truman nodded, seemingly satisfied. “You raising her alone?”
“Apparently.”
“Not your choice?”
“No, and no again.”
“I raised five girls. Not alone, of course. Their mama did most of the work. I just handed over my paycheck and hoped to get a turn with the remote.”
Heath whistled. “Five? And I was worried about raising one.”
“Girls come with all sorts of accessories. Fits of Emotion, Bathroom Clutter, Boy-Called-Me Voice, Boy-Dumped-Me Wail, I’m-On-A-Diet Grump, I’m-Going-Shopping Scream, Sleepy Christmas Morning Stare . . .”
“I’m a dead man.”
“Finest thing I ever produced was those girls. Wouldn’t trade them for five sons, and I mean it. Had a good buddy with three boys. One caught the curtains on fire when he was twelve and should’ve had sense to know better. The older boy wrecked the family car in one of those illegal street-racing deals and spent a year in juvenile detention. And if that weren’t bad enough, the youngest got two girls pregnant at the same time. Two. Neither one would speak to him, and my friend has two grandbabies he’s never held.”
Heath shook his head. “You make me feel lucky.”
“You are. Even when you don’t fee like it. But listen”—Truman tapped his chest—“you call me any time. I’ll see you through.”
Heath smiled, moved by the surety of the man’s pledge. “I suppose you have some daughter worries tonight, though.”
“Elle . . .” Truman tipped up his can. “She’ll land on her feet after being mad, crying it out, fuming for a few days. She gave up a lot for that boy.”
“How’d you hear about this if Elle is AWOL?”
“He called me. Go figure that, but I got to respect him for it.
Figured he’d asked permission to marry her, he’d best do the manly thing and tell me he’d called it off. He felt like his new job took too much of his time and affection. Didn’t figure it fair to Elle.”
“He sent her a box of stuff today,” Heath said. “She didn’t look happy.”
“I reckon not.”
Heath tried to imagine what was going on in the man’s life to give up a woman like the one he’d observed the past few days, church or no church. He’d witnessed the mistress of ministry destroy a man once so he made sure he kept his gaze steady on the only One who died for him.
However, when God required such a big sacrifice—Ava, his heart, his love—Heath struggled with God’s perfect will.
“You like the cottage?” Truman asked, motioning to the pale-yellow board sides. “Elle bought it for like fifty cents on the dollar. We helped her fix it up.”
“Yeah, I do—”
Truman’s phone went off. He retrieved it from his shorts pocket. “Yep?” He finished his drink, hmming a lot. After a minute, he snapped the phone shut and clipped it to his holster. “She’s at the house, weak and broken, but she’ll live. Lady, my wife, actually said Elle seemed quite peaceful, considering. Full of questions, as you can imagine, asking why and how, though none of us know the answer.”
“Certainly.” Heath wondered how this man felt so free to share his family’s intimate details with . . . well, a stranger.
Truman handed Heath his empty can. “Better go see what I can do. Thanks for the drink. See you in the funny pages.”
Heath grinned. His granddad used to say that to him and his brother Mark, adding nicknames like “squirt” or “sport.” “See you in the funny pages, squirt.”
“See you in the funny pages,Truman.”
Heath watched until the headlights disappeared into the darkness, wondering if he’d prefer to be in Elle’s shoes rather than his own.
But brokenhearted is brokenhearted. Never embraced. Never treasured. Never easy. Heath figured every human being had a certain amount of God-ordained grace to endure their own unique brand of loss and pain.
He’d had seven months to get used to his. Elle? Maybe seven hours?
“Don’t let your love grow cold, Elle Garvey.”
He’d let his love chill. And now, as he began to emerge from his season of pain, he regretted it. At the end of all truth was Jesus. He’d never let Heath down, no matter what song his circumstances sang. Funny how when he needed God’s love and peace the most, he’d given Him the stiff arm.
With the crickets harmonizing in a Coffin Creek chorus, Heath figured the place and timing was right for his own good-bye dirge to sadness and doubt.
God, Heath had lea
rned, had a profound sense of irony. Imagine moving a man recovering from grief into a charming cottage next to a place called Coffin Creek. Sometimes it was only in dying one found life.
So, yeah, he got the irony, God. Bury the past, discover the future.
Maybe Elle had the same journey, for whatever reason.
Heath pulled Ava’s letter from his pocket. He wasn’t ready to read it, but he was ready to heal and move on. He dipped his head and confessed, “Jesus, I’m sorry for my cold heart. When I said I’d love You and follow You, I understood it didn’t guarantee me a perfect life. You took Ava—or allowed her to be taken, I don’t know which—but I just want to say to You it is well with my soul.”
Tears flushed his eyes. Heat swelled in his torso. It was well with his soul. And where it wasn’t, he longed for it to be.
Heath lingered until he felt his business with God had concluded. Rising to go inside, he turned off the porch lamps and retrieved Ava’s letter. Back in the kitchen, he anchored it on the windowsill behind the lock.
By the end of summer, he’d read it. Surely the courage resided in him somewhere. If not, he’d burn it and forget it ever existed.
EIGHT
In the lowcountry, the sun didn’t ask permission to burn through the glass and wake a girl up even at two in the afternoon—and remind her to swap up the scattered pieces of her heart.
Lying belly down on the futon, cheek against her pillow, Elle saw the blue-and-white day march past her window. Mr. Miller’s hounds bayed. A mower hummed over someone’s yard of spring grass.
Six days ago, her future had been set—marry Jeremiah, move to Dallas. But a simple “I can’t marry you now, Elle” had wrecked her plans, her hopes, a little of her identity.
Tossing off the sheet and thin summer quilt, Elle walked the sun-drenched floor to shove open the windows and flipped on the fans. The window air conditioner had frozen up in the night, leaving the loft hot and stuffy.
A scented breeze slipped through the screen. One thing Elle counted on: each new day bringing its own brand of anesthesia— hope. Elle leaned against the windowsill and inhaled, the day sweet and warm.
Mama and Daddy had been great, taking care of all the cancellation details, bringing her food, pretending she might be hungry.
