by Rachel Hauck
“Come on now, give a guy a break.” He kicked the air around her leg, then stretching for his new cooler, producing a cold Pepsi. “Twelve packs were on sale at Wal-Mart.”
“Can’t beat that, now.” The cold can felt good in her warm hand.
“I took Tracey-Love to the beach.” She heard his smile. “It’s incredible to watch her discover the world. I was so busy before—”
“Today was my wedding day,” Elle confessed without much consideration or preamble. All day long she’d waited for someone in the family to ask her about it, let her talk for a few minutes, but no one had dared.
“Has it been a good day or bad?”
“Family day, trying to distract me. Sisters took me shopping.
Then we had a barbecue.”
“Dd-daddy?” A sweet voice pressed through the kitchen door.
Heath lifted up from his chair. “TL, what are you doing awake?”
“I-I-I had a sc-scary dream.”
He held out his arm, beckoning her. Tracey-Love ran out, her little-girl feet barely making a sound against the porch boards.
“What’d you dream?” He cradled her in his lap.
Elle curled into her chair, watching. Listening.
“A-a-a big sh-sh-shark got me. Right he-he-here.” She jammed her foot into the air, pointing to her heel.
“There?” Heath grabbed her foot and kissed her heel. Tracey-Loved laughed. “No shark can bite my girl. Did you know when a daddy kisses his girl’s foot, no shark can get her?”
Tracey-Love lifted her other foot. Heath gingerly kissed away his daughter’s fears. “All better?”
“Kiss Miss E-Elle s-so no sh-shark can get her.”
Heath gazed at Elle. “I bet Miss Elle’s daddy already kissed her feet.”
“Yes, after a lifetime of training, my daddy has kissed all his girl’s feet.” She wagged her finger at him. “It’s true, bubba. The wrapping around her finger began the day she was born.”
“Help,” he gasped like a drowning man.
“However,” Elle said, reaching over the side of her chair to tug on Tracey-Love’s toes. “I’m all safe from sharks, but I would like an inoculation against dating shallow men. What do you got?”
TL shrugged, palms up. “I don’t know.”
Elle laughed. “Yeah, me neither.”
“All right, it’s back to bed.” Heath kissed her forehead, then set her on her feet. “Run get in Daddy’s bed. Don’t turn on the TV.”
“’Kay.” She threw herself against Elle’s legs, her arms hugging her at the knees. “S-see you, M-miss Elle.”
The screen door creaked and slammed. Tracey-Love’s running feet thudded through the house.
“She’s gorgeous, Heath.”
“My heart.”
“Can I ask what happened to her mama?” After rescuing the man from pluff mud, Elle felt bold enough to inquire.
He scooted his chair closer to hers. “It’s a long story and I believe you were saying this was your wedding day?”
She set her Pepsi on the porch floor. The cold beverage gave her the shivers. “I’d be dancing at my reception about now. We’d hired this great cover band and picked out a bunch of favorites and oldies for them to play.”
How’d he make it so easy for her to expose her heart?
“Tell me, do you grieve the day or the man?” Heath sat with his head against the back of the chair, his face toward hers, softened by the light of porch lamps. An oldie drifted from the radio speakers.
“Maybe both. I did love him.” She leaned on the chair’s arm. “What is it about smart women choosing the completely wrong men?”
Heath’s laughter purchased a piece of her melancholy. “You’ve got me. But men aren’t immune. In fact, they’re probably worse.”
“Did you choose well?”
“By the grace of God, yes.” For a moment, they were silent except for the tune on the radio.
Finally, “My friends Caroline, Jess, and I hauled that old boom box to the beach every weekend, every summer for three years. I’m surprised it isn’t spewing sand.” Elle dug at the peeling paint on the chair’s wide, flat arm with the tip of her thumbnail, missing those carefree days.
“My friends and I set things on fire, blew up gas cans, ran from the police. Then I went to a youth rally at fifteen, met Jesus, and it didn’t seem as fun to toilet paper trees and let air out of car tires.”
“Really?” So, he was a friend of Jesus. Not just a seeker. “I walked the aisle at eight. Mrs. Gilmore sang ‘Just As I Am’ and I couldn’t stop crying.” Elle exhaled a bit of doubt. “It’s good he dumped me, isn’t it?”
“It was good for him to be honest, yes.”
“Why does honesty hurt so much?”
“I don’t know, but I suppose it’s why we have a lot of liars in the world.”
Elle laughed. Heath was good medicine.
“So, shopping, you said, with your sisters? What’d you buy?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” He whistled. “Is that allowed? Shopping on your ex-wedding day and coming home empty-handed?”
Elle pulled her feet up, anchoring her heels on the edge of her chair. “It’s all about breaking the rules, McCord.” The breeze from the creek carried a damp chill.
“At least you haven’t resorted to greasy hair and army fatigues.”
“Give me another week.” She peeked over at him. Was he always this easy to be around, or was it just for her in this moment?
When their eyes met, he seemed to relax, stretching his long legs in front of him. “Way yonder in Texas, there’s a man wondering if he made the right decision.”
“I doubt it. Jeremiah is focused and driven. I don’t see him wondering if he did the right thing.”
The conversation drifted to silence as another oldie played, the frog choir chiming in with a little background vocal. “This porch and the creek is why I bought this place,” Elle said softly. “It’s lyrical and peaceful.”
“Is it hard with me living here? I mean, when a person faces trial they usually like the comfort of their own home.”
“Some days I miss the space, but the studio is home for now. It has no memories of him.”
“I understand. But if at any time you—”
“I know . . .” She flopped her arm over the side of her chair, letting her fingers graze his arm. “So, Heath McCord, do you have a wedding anniversary?”
He crushed his empty Pepsi can and tucked it into a plastic bag. “December seventh.”
“A Christmas wedding?”
“Yes, and I let her have her way until she asked me to wear a Santa suit at the reception.” Heath waved his hand toward Elle. “I put my foot down. And no red cummerbund either.”
She scoffed in feigned disgust. “Red? At a Christmas wedding. Gag, how tacky.”
Heath laughed. “Ava didn’t have much family growing up, so she really hyped up birthdays and holidays. Wanted all the traditions.
Funny how two lonely, family-starved people found each other. Must be a familiar aura or something. After my mom left, Dad couldn’t find the energy or heart to recreate any of the traditions.”
“Is the letter in the kitchen window from her? I . . . saw it . . . the other day.”
“Wait, how did we get back to talking about me?”
“Guess we both have things to put behind us.” Elle tucked her legs tighter to her body, rubbing her chilled legs with her hand. The damp wet air soaked clean through her skin to her bones.
As the song ended, the DJ came on telling Beaufort and Jasper County it was ten o’clock, sixty-two degrees, and next up was a classic from Gladys Knight and the Pips. In two hours, Elle’s life with Jeremiah would be completely behind her.
“My mom loved Gladys Knight,” Heath reminisced aloud. “She’d play her albums all the time when I was about seven or eight.”
“My uncle played the best of the sixties and seventies in the bays of his auto shop. Every time I
hear Creedence Clearwater Revival, I get a hankering to play in a grease pit and tinker with old car parts.”
His laugh was becoming familiar. “Bet that’s exactly how Creedence envision their music inspiring people.”
The barrage of commercials ended and the first bars of a slow, melancholy tune drifted across the porch.
Heath stood, extending his broad palm. “I’m not Jeremiah and this day didn’t turn out like you’d hoped, but can I have this dance?”
The porch lamp captured the side of his face where a day’s-end beard shadowed his high cheek and angular jaw. His eyes never shifted from her face.
“Please?”
Elle uncurled her legs, and when she rose out of the chair, Heath lightly circled her in his arms. He began to move slowly, swaying with each gliding step. The gap between them eased closed until his cheek rested against the top of her head and her cheek found the cradle of his chest.
Was it her heart thundering or his?
“Neither one of us wants to be the first to say good-bye . . .”
“This is a weird song to be—”
“Shh, Elle, let it be.”
She closed her eyes, releasing the last of the day’s sorrows as she danced on her wedding night in another man’s arms.
TWELVE
Miss Anna scooted into the pew next to Elle, bringing the homey fragrance of liniment and Miss Clairol. Her white hair billowed above her piquant face like a summer cloud.
“Well, here you are again. Second week. How do you feel?”
“Sleepy.” The warm, low light of the chapel didn’t help.
Miss Anna chortled as she squeezed Elle’s hand. “What’s the Lord been saying to you?”
“Get more sleep.” A spontaneous yawn punctuated her point.
Miss Anna regarded Elle. “Well, you could always go to bed earlier. What are you doing with your time?”
“Squandering it.” There, she’d said it—a bold-faced confession. But two months after selling her gallery, one month after being dumped, Elle remained unmotivated. She felt beige. Uninspired.
Other than venturing out for prayer, Elle had been camped at her folks since last Monday watching Lifetime movies and eating barbecue chips and drinking Diet Coke until she had caffeine shakes.
Mama, bless her heart, finally kicked her out last Friday night. “Elle, sweetie, I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to pull yourself together. Figure out what you’re going to do with yourself. You know you’re always welcome here. Is that barbecue-chip crumbs on my new carpet?”
Elle had followed Mama’s gaze. Hmm, oops. She’d picked them up as best she could, then hopped off the couch. “See you, Mama. Thanks for everything.” Quick kiss on Mama’s cheek and she’d skedaddled.
On Sunday night, Elle flipped on the oldie station Heath had tuned into the other night and curled up on the futon to make a list.
One, find a gallery location. Two, notify her client and artist list of said change. Three, call Huckleberry for a come-into-your-sound-mind meeting. Four, stock up on barbecue chips. Five . . . find a purpose.
This morning Elle brought the list with her to prayer.
“I suppose it seems odd, doesn’t it?” Miss Anna folded her hands in her lap.
“What seems odd?” Elle doodled on an old bulletin she’d found tucked in her Bible. Out of nowhere, she’d had an idea for a painting during the prayer process.
“Prayer. Talking to a God you can’t see, listening for a voice you can’t hear, clinging to whatever faith exists in your soul.”
“Sort of like running on ice.”
“At times, yes.” Miss Anna wagged her finger. “But don’t mistake prayer for inactivity.”
“Right, because sitting here is wildly active.”
“Mercy a-mighty, we may be sitting, but the heavens are moving by the power of our words.” Miss Anne flicked the air with her wrist. “Don’t you forget that, missy.”
Elle smiled, scooping her hair behind her ears. “All right, I won’t.”
Miss Anne clung to the back of the first pew and pulled herself up. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Enjoy your walk home.”
Wednesday morning after prayer, Elle drove to Leslie Harper’s real estate office to find a property for her new gallery.
The money she’d set aside from the first gallery’s sale should get her a decent place with some left over for minor remodeling. She could be open by late summer. Tops.
“You couldn’t have picked a better time to find a new gallery.” Leslie was an überpro Realtor with intense exuberance. Elle had gone with her once to show an old broken-down double-wide to a young couple. Leslie patted the rotting aluminum side as she stood strategically in front of a gapping hole. “I tell you, a little paint and curtains in the windows . . . Good as new.” You won’t even notice how the entire thing is listing starboard, about to fall off the blocks.
The woman could sell water to a drowning man, and Elle knew she could make deals in the county like no one else.
For a while, they talked needs and price, then Leslie dangled a listing in front of Elle, looking quite pleased. “What do you say to the second story of the Bay Street Trading Company? Hmm? It’s only for rent, but I believe we can talk them into a lease with an option to buy.”
“Leslie, the Bay Street Trading Company? It’s a perfect location.”
“It’s your lucky day.” Leslie came around her desk. Tall and waifish, she seemed to sail instead of walk. “I’m really sorry about you and Jeremiah. If ever there was a match made in heaven, I thought y’all were it.”
Elle kept focused on the listing. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
“Suppose not. Well, want to check out the Trading Company?”
They drove in Leslie’s Lexus down Bay Street as she called to let the owners know she had a serious prospect. But first, a stop in Common Grounds because Leslie wanted a double espresso. Like she needed a jolt of caffeine.
“All right, let’s go see your new gallery.” Leslie said “new” with two syllables.
Down the sidewalk and up the outside stairs to the second floor of the Bay Street Trading Company. Elle wanted the space from the first glance. “Leslie, it’s beautiful.”
Bright, spacious, with polished hardwood and clean white walls. Even a bit of track lighting in place.
Leslie walked the perimeter, her heels thudding. “With a little modification for a gallery, I believe you can move right in, Elle.”
Elle gazed down on Bay Street from the wall of windows. This was it. Home. “How much?”
Flipping through her listings, Leslie looked up with a done-deal grin. “In your price range. Best hire the workers because I do believe you’ve found a new gallery.”
Kelly Carrington surveyed her appearance in the hallway mirror before heading down to breakfast, checking the patched seam in the back of her stockings, pulling her sweater tight around her middle.
Chet was out there fighting with all the other boys, facing danger or hunger, and all she could think of while getting dressed was how she wanted a new pair of stockings.
“Kelly, breakfast is getting cold. Come on, sugar.” Mama’s face appeared over the banister. “Are you wearing a sweater? Kelly, it’ll be a hundred degrees today.”
“Be right there, Mama.” A hundred degrees? Not this early in June. But it would be hot. She’d wear the sweater anyway, at least until she got to work at the Gazette.
Before going down, she pulled out last night’s letter to Chet. It was short and full of all the news going on around Beaufort, but not with her. She promised herself she’d tell him the next time she wrote. Or the next.
Are you well, Chet darling? Warm and dry, well fed and comforted? Do you have time to laugh or even cry?
She certainly did.
Heath looked up from the story, picturing Kelly, a mixture of imagination and Elle Garvey. His initial boating-day research had turned Elle into his muse. She had all the qualities of a gre
at heroine—beauty and angst.
But did he want to write a love story? Set in Beaufort? In his head, it made no sense, but when he started writing Kelly’s point of view, his heart shifted to her. She had a story to tell.
Nate’s definitely going to have a coronary.
It was late and Heath decided to call it a night. Shutting down his laptop, he lay in bed on top of the sheets. Tracey-Love slept on the other side, curled and hidden under the covers.
For a long time, he chased sleep as words and ideas rattled around his head, every once in a while bumping into the vision of a strawberry blonde with green eyes and an armful of bracelets.
He couldn’t forget the feel of her back under his hand as they danced, nor the fragrance of her hair. Something like a meadow, warm and earthy.
Since their dance, however, his dreams of Ava had returned, and often he woke up restless, feeling guilty.
He punched the pillow behind his head and clicked on the beside lamp. A yellow glow illuminated his corner. Checking on Tracey-Love, he peeled back the sheet, pressing his palm to her golden but strawlike hair.
You’re missing her, Ava. She’s beautiful.
In the last eight months, he’d experienced a lifetime of emotions, ending with him uprooting his career and child, returning to a place of his childhood innocence. Even though his new life without Ava took him farther away from the life they’d shared, in the quiet moments he missed her and wished he could hold her one more time.
In the expanded dining room of Frogmore Café, Beaufort’s little dining treasure on the corner of Harrington and Bay, Penny Collins sang from the middle of the fresh lumber stage as Elle slid into the booth in the back with Julianne, Rio, and her friend Jessica Cimowsky for a girls’ night out.
Elle liked the homey familiarity of the Frogmore. When Caroline owned the place, she’d spent weekday afternoons in the quiet dining room, talking with her friend, eating from Andy Castleton’s yummy menu.
“Jess, where was it Stu Green dumped the ladies’ room toilet when he was fixing the plumbing?” Elle asked.
