Love Starts with Elle

by Rachel Hauck

  Heath had driven Elle and Rio home after eating cones from Southern Sweets. When Julianne came by later, Elle gave her the dickens for rushing out of the Frogmore Café with Jess to attend a faux meeting. “What were you thinking?”

  “Hey, just giving you a fresh chance at love.”

  “Fresh chance? Forget it, the kitchen is closed.”

  Julianne tried to argue with her, but Elle shoved her out the door so she could shower and slipped into her pajamas. Curling up on the futon, she formulated a new romantic motto based on the carefree song “Que Sera, Sera.” “Whatever will be, will be.” Sing it, Doris Day.

  Next she worked on a gallery business plan so when Leslie called with a lease agreement, she’d be ready to go. Elle decided to run it by Candace for review.

  At eleven, she clicked off the light and dozed for few minutes, but between the gallery possibility and the evening with Heath, she couldn’t sleep.

  One fifteen a.m. Elle kicked off the covers, realizing the quiet, hot studio was missing the hum of the window AC unit. Probably frozen again. Clicking on the light, she shoved open the windows and clicked on the fans.

  Wandering around the studio, Elle thought if she lived in the cottage, she’d grab the remote and click on the TV. Back on the futon, she lay on top of the quilt and tried to sleep again to the hum of the fan. Her thoughts quieted and wandered like a slow ride on the river . . .

  The banging studio door jolted her awake and sent her heart careening. She tried to stumble out of bed, but her foot was caught in the sheets.

  “Elle, it’s me, Heath.” Panic.

  “Just a minute.” Thump, thud. Let go of my foot . . . She felt disoriented and weak.

  “Elle . . .” His voice commanded her to open the door.

  “Coming, coming.” Free from the linens, she stumbled across the dark studio, reaching for the lamp by the work table. At the door, she dropped the security chain.

  “What’s wrong?” Her heart banged in her chest as Heath entered. She tugged at her baggy pajamas bottoms hanging low on her hips.

  “It’s my girl.” Heath wrung his hands. “She’s sick.” His sandy-blond hair went every which way. “Throwing up, diarrhea—”

  “Does she have a fever?”

  Heath’s skin appeared ghostly in the yellow light. “Yes. I think so. Yes.”

  “How long has she been sick?” Elle went back for her jeans and T-shirt.

  “After we got home. Almost four hours now.” Heath rocked back and forth with his fists tucked under his armpits. So unsure, this man.

  “Let’s get her to the hospital, Heath. Go get her ready. I’ll be down in two seconds.” But he remained dazed and frozen. Elle turned him toward the door and gently shoved him forward. “Heath, go.”

  The entire studio rattled as he bolted down the stairs.

  “Jesus, he looks pretty upset . . . ,” Elle prayed as she slipped on her jeans and searched for her shoes. Dang studio ate her flip-flops. Living in the cramped quarters had its drawbacks. Mainly, lack of closet space. Her clothes were everywhere, piled on the dresser, hanging off her easels, from the bathroom door, over back of the futon.

  Ah, there they were. How had her shoes gotten wedged behind the blank canvases Julianne brought over from the gallery? No time to ponder. Elle grabbed her purse and headed down to the yard, where she found Heath waiting by his van.

  “You drive. I’m going to ride in the back holding her.” Heath tossed her his keys. “Elle, please hurry.”

  Heath exited the exam room, his joints aching, tension gripping his jaw and temples. He found Elle alone in the ER waiting room sitting under an ominous dark window. She had a solid too-much-caffeine jiggle going on with her right leg.

  When she saw him, she jerked to her feet. “What’d they say? Is she all right?”

  “She’s sleeping.” He sat on the blue vinyl chair next to her, but only for a second. It hurt to stay still. “They hooked her up to an IV, drew blood.” He walked to the edge of the room. “She screamed bloody murder.”

  “Do they know what’s wrong? Virus? The flu?” The heat of her hand resting on his back comforted him.

  “The doctor is guessing meningitis. Guessing. ‘Hello, Mr. McCord, your daughter is dying and I’m guessing it’s meningitis.’ How do you even get meningitis?”

  “Heath, she’s not dying. Didn’t you say she was sleeping? And after they run the test, the doctor will know what’s going on. A kid can get meningitis any number of ways.”

  He stood with his feet apart, hands hooked over his crossed arms. “I’m horrible, Elle. A horrible father.”

  “Because your daughter is sick? Every one of my nieces and nephews spent a night or two in the hospital. Rio must have gone three times to the ER as a baby.”

  “Babies, yes. Tracey-Love, if you haven’t noticed, is a little girl.”

  For a split second, Heath let himself be fiery mad at Ava. Justifying the heat in his chest by the idea she’d be cussing him right now if the situation were reversed. I never signed up to do this alone, God.

  Elle moved in front of him. “I’m not going to let you be the martyr. You’re tired and frustrated, I get that, but children of all ages get sick. It doesn’t make you or anyone else a bad father unless you did it on purpose. Did you do it on purpose?”

  He stared at some vague point beyond the reception desk. “No.”

  “I rest my case.” She pressed her hand on his arm. “Heath, I’ve watched you, you’re a wonderful father.”

  “No, I’m not.” His posture softened with his tone as he gazed at Elle. “When we moved down here, I knew practically nothing about her. I can recite case studies, list a hundred client names and their case numbers, if we won in or out of court. Worse, I can give you stats on athletes dating back to their college days. Height, weight, averages per game, the names of their celebrity girlfriends. But my kid?” The look in her eyes contradicted his tirade. “The nanny sent me down here with a ten-page instruction manual, typed, single spaced. What Tracey-Love wore, what she ate and when. Bed and bath time . . . I didn’t even know that Dora the Explorer was a cartoon.”

  “Heath, you’re yelling.”

  “Maybe I want to yell.” Heath stepped into the corridor. “Hey, everyone. I. Am. A. Bad. Father. That’s right, you heard me. Bad father, right here.”

  Elle jerked him back to the chairs. “You want them calling social services? Crazy-acting single dads don’t sit well with some folks.” She stared at him, hands on her hips. “I didn’t take you for the self-pity type. Listen to me, Tracey-Love is going to be fine.”

  He dropped down to the padded chair with a thump. “And what if she’s not fine?”

  “Heath.” Elle knelt in front of him, her hands resting on his knees, and for the first time he realized he’d shown up in public wearing his sleeping pants. “Can we just take it one step at a time? Wait to hear what the doctor says.”

  “This is why we agreed to never have children. Ava and I were career people. What do I know about raising a kid?” He ran his hands over his face, laughing without merriment. “And guess what? Tracey-Love inherited my Fred Flintstones. We still didn’t preserve the legacy of Ava’s feet.”

  Elle slipped into the chair next to him. “Are you saying you wish she’d never been born? Heath, please . . . ,” she whispered.

  “No, no. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m mad at myself, mad at Ava . . .” He reached for Elle’s hand and wrapped his fingers around hers. “Just keep saying TL’s going to be fine, okay?”

  “She’s going to be fine. I mean it; I’m not just trying to make you feel better.”

  His eyes burned. “He wouldn’t take her, would He?”

  “Who?” Elle bent to see his face. The tip of her hair brushed his knee.

  “God.” He looked at Elle for hope, for assurance that a loving God would extend him mercy.

  “Heath, no. I mean, He’s God and He can do what He wants, but remember He is good and He is love.
Even when we don’t understand our circumstances. But right here, right now, I get the feeling He’s not going to allow anything to happen to Tracey-Love.”

  Lord, help my weak faith.

  Maybe this was a wake-up call. Get his head out of the clouds, forget novel writing, call Rock and return to the law. Rehire Tracey-Love’s nanny, enroll her in a preschool where PhDs in child development could raise her, watch her, warn him if she was coming down with something.

  Elle squeezed his hand. “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing.” He squeezed her hand back.

  “Mr. McCord?”

  “Dr. Morgan.” Heath jumped up, dragging Elle with him. “Is she all right?”

  The doctor slipped his hands into the large pockets of his white coat. “We’re almost certain it’s viral meningitis, but we won’t know until the labs come back in about an hour. We put her on a low dose of steroids. I want to admit her for twenty-four hours.”

  “Okay, fine, whatever. Where is she? I’m staying with her.” The idea of his girl waking up in the hospital alone, crying . . . it physically pained him.

  “Why don’t you go home, get some sleep? A few hours. She’ll be asleep at least that long, I assure you.” Dr. Morgan placed a firm hand on Heath’s shoulder. “Tracey-Love is in good hands. You’ll be more value to her if you’re rested and stable, Mr. McCord.”

  The good doctor was crazy. “I’m not leaving her alone. She is afraid of the dark and strange places.”

  “Heath,” Elle said softly but firmly. “Go home, shower. Change your clothes. I’ll stay with TL. You can bring back one of her toys, clothes for tomorrow. What do you say?”

  Heath looked down at his old T-shirt and pajama bottoms. They were soiled from caring for Tracey-Love. “No, you go, Elle. Stop by Wal-Mart, get her a doll or a stuffed animal. But no bears. She doesn’t like bears.”

  “Heath, you have a long day ahead of you. Go shower and change.” Elle leaned in with a sniff. “You smell, friend, and you’re going to embarrass your daughter.”

  He growled. “She’s four.”

  Dr. Morgan turned to go. “I’ll leave you two to duke it out.”

  Elle shoved Heath toward the exit. “Go. I promise I will not leave her.”

  He paused as the doors slid open. “I can’t lose her, Elle. I can’t.”

  “You won’t. Have faith.”

  Faith? He’d poured out his last ounce the day they lowered Ava into the ground.

  As Tracey-Love slept in the quiet hospital room, Elle ran her thumb over the pulpy spot around the girl’s thumb.

  Keep her, God. Give Heath strength.

  TL’s skin felt dry. In the yellow light haloing the bed, Elle found her handbag and searched for a compact bottle of lotion.

  Cotton blossom. Elle poured a drop into her palm and massaged the lotion into Tracey-Love’s hand.

  “If your mama were here, I think she’d do this for you. Don’t you? The doctor says you’re going to be fine, up and playing in a few weeks.”

  The room door creaked open and Heath slipped inside, clean and combed, wearing a fresh button-down and jeans. “How is she?” He leaned over to kiss his daughter, dropping a Wal-Mart bag onto the foot of the bed.

  Elle capped the lotion and dropped it into her purse. “Fever broke. The doctor came by . . . said it’s viral meningitis.”

  “Yeah, he called my cell.” Heath opened the bag and produced a pink-faced, cherubic doll with shiny, short blonde curls. “She wanted this doll the other day when we were shopping. I told her no, wait for her birthday.”

  “Very pretty. But you buy her gifts when she’s sick and she might like being sick,” Elle said with a wink.

  “She better not. My heart can’t take it.” Heath broke the doll out of the box and set it under the covers with Tracey-Love. “It’s cold in here. Is it cold to you?”

  “No, worry wart.” Elle stretched and yawned. The moment he walked into the room, her weariness took over. “What time is it?”

  “Five thirty.” He came around the edge of the bed and drew her into his arms. His clean breath brushed her hair. “Thank you.”

  “What are friends for?” It felt good to rest against him, but she smelled ripe and day-old. She needed a shower and sleep. “If you don’t need me . . .”

  Health stepped back to the bag on the bed. “You’ll need a way home.” He tossed over the van keys.

  Right. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be back in the afternoon.” Elle rested her hand on the door. “I told you, she’s going to be fine.”

  “So you said.” He smiled. “You are my voice of reason.”

  She slung her bag to her shoulder. “Have you seen my life, Heath? I don’t think you want my voice whispering anything in your ear. I’ll let you call a mulligan on that one.”

  “All right, how about when I’m a panicked, out-of-my-mind father with a sick girl, you are my voice of reason.”

  “Deal.”

  Walking down the corridor, Elle felt right about Heath being her friend, an intangible knowing that bypassed the mind and settled in her spirit. As she approached his van, she absently sniffed the sleeve of her shirt where his fragrance lingered.

  FOURTEEN

  After a shower, Elle burrowed under the futon blankets with a long sigh. It felt so good to stretch out and squish down into the mattress and pillows.

  The AC had run all night without freezing up so the studio was cool and crisp. Perfect for sleeping. As she drifted off, she thought of Miss Anna praying alone in the chapel this morning . . .

  The ring of her phone jerked her from a deep sleep. Curled comfortably in bed, she half decided not to answer it until she realized Heath might be calling.

  But it was Mama.

  “I heard about Heath’s girl. Is everything all right? What’s her name again? Something Love?”

  “Tracey-Love.” Elle needed water. “How’d you hear?”

  “Sissy Doolittle works at the hospital. She called.”

  Eleven o’clock. The AC had finally broken down and the white lines of sun streaking through the gaps in the blinds heated the studio.

  “Mama, can you organize some hospitality and prayer?” Elle popped open the minifridge with her foot. Empty. One of these days she’d have to grocery shop, seriously.

  “Already called the hospitality coordinator at church and the ladies’ Bible study.”

  “Thank you.” Elle turned on the water and ducked her mouth under the cold stream.

  “How are you? Sissy said you looked like an antique prom queen left out in the rain.”

  She wiped water from her chin. Antique prom queen? Lovely. “I’m fine, mostly tired.”

  “Well then, get on back to sleep.”

  Mama clicked off, and Elle fell face-first onto the futon. But her thoughts were starting to wake up. She’d wanted to call Daddy today to get a recommendation on a contractor for the gallery work.

  Rolling onto her back, Elle peered through weary eye slits at her phone and autodialed her dad.

  “Give ole Chaz Berkus a call,” he said. “Tell him I sent you and to remember sixty-eight.”

  “Remember sixty-eight? What does that mean?”

  “He’ll know. You just tell him.”

  “Does this mean I get the work for free?”

  Daddy laughed. “No, but pretty darn close.”

  When Elle’s phone jarred her awake again, the windows were dark and the studio temperature had risen from cool to boiling. Dang AC.

  She answered without looking at the number. “Heath?”

  “No, Candace. Where are you?”

  “Home, the studio.” Water, she needed more water. She sat up, feeling eerie and foggy from the day’s weird sleep.

  “I’ll be there in five minutes,” Candace said.

  “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “Not much. Just a little thing of Angela Dooley wanting to sue you.”

  “What?” Water ran down Elle’s chin, dripping to
her foot. “What are you talking about.”

  “I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  Muttering to herself, Elle opened all the blinds, shoved open the windows, and clicked on the fan. By the pitch of the studio’s shadow in the grass, she figured it to be late afternoon.

  Angela Dooley suing her? What was wrong with that woman?

  By the time Candace arrived, Elle was somewhere between freaked out and ticked off. “Candy, what is her problem?”

  “You.” Candace checked the table for paint stains before dropping her black leather bag down. “I could kill for a Diet Coke. You got one? Elle, it’s roasting in here.”

  “The AC is on the fritz. And all I have is tap water.”

  Candace made a face. “Then let’s do this quickly.” She pulled papers out of her case and sat on the stool, pausing to fan herself. “Mama called about Heath’s daughter. What a scare for him.”

  “Yeah, he was pretty upset, but she’s doing well. Or at least she was when I left at five thirty.”

  “I was thinking on my way over here you should call Julianne, let her know since Heath’s girl played with Rio.” Candace pointed to the spot by her stool. “Stand here.”

  Elle stood where she was told—Candace had that kind of effect on her—and scooped her hair away from her face. She’d slept with it wet and now the ends were tangled. “All right, what has Angela Dooley’s panties in a wad?”

  “You mean, what are you doing to put her panties in a wad? She’s friends with the owners of Bay Street Trading Company. Last night they told her they were renting the second story to someone who will be opening an art gallery.”

  “So, yeah, Leslie Harper and I looked at it. Candace, it’s perfect.” Elle stooped over, propping her elbows on the table, too tired to stand. “I couldn’t believe it was available.”

  Candace flashed a set of documents. “Hang on to your hat, sister, because you can’t open an art gallery in this county. Elle, when you sold to Angela, you signed a noncompete. Are you collecting feathers?” Candace stretched to pick up one of the two white feathers.

  Elle slapped her hand over Candace’s. “What’s this about a non­compete?”