Love Starts with Elle

by Rachel Hauck

  Forget Dr. Petit. “I recommend a day job, Elle. You won’t make a living as a painter.” God wanted her to paint.

  When she glanced over to Miss Anna, the woman was eyeing her.

  “I think God is telling me to paint.”

  “Then do it.”

  “But how do I know when God is speaking and not my own—”

  A white feather fluttered in the space between her and Miss Anna.

  “Another one,” Elle breathed.

  Miss Anna snatched the feather from the air. “Been a long time since I’ve seen one of these.”

  Elle stood by her prayer mentor. “I have another one in my studio. What do you think they mean?”

  Miss Anna handed Elle the feather. “God reveals Himself to us in creative ways. We’ve gotten so used to just the preaching and singing, I bet He feels a little boxed in sometimes.”

  Elle had certainly put Him in a box and on the shelf.

  “Well, an hour or so of prayer and one white feather, I’d say we had a good morning.” Miss Anna ambled up the aisle with her Bible tucked close. “Going home to tend my garden before the sun beats down on me.”

  “Can I give you a ride?”

  Miss Anna laughed as she shoved open the chapel door.

  Brooks and Dunn blasted from iTunes. The ceiling fans whirred. And Elle painted. Digging in her paint box for a tube of titanium white, she squeezed a dab onto her palette.

  After her confession and encounter with God during prayer, she’d left the chapel with a surge of creative energy and decided not to let it pass. If she only painted for God and herself, so be it.

  “Elle, hey, it’s me.” The knock on the door resounded with the bass drum of the music.

  “Heath?” She jerked open the door. “Come in? How’s Tracey-Love?”

  “Fine, watching a DVD. We went to the doctor this morning and he’s pleased with her recovery. What are you doing?”

  “I,” she said with a tip of her head, “am painting.”

  “Good for you.” He came around to see the canvas. “Feathers?”

  “You don’t like it, do you?” She lowered the music.

  “Insecure, are we?”

  Elle showed him the two feathers she’d arranged on blue silk and set in a stream of sunlight. “These . . . just appeared.”

  “Appeared? Out of nowhere?” Heath reached for one. “May I?”

  “Yeah, I had another one but gave it to Candace.” Elle recounted the feather story while mixing burnt umber, cobalt blue, and the white with her pallet knife. “Weird, isn’t it?”

  “Why not feathers? Isn’t there a Bible verse about the shadow of His wing?”

  Elle brushed a bit of the blue on the canvas. Too light. “Read that verse yesterday.”

  Heath returned the feather to Elle’s arrangement. “I’m sorry about my attitude the day we brought TL home.”

  She flicked the tip of the brush at him. “Forget it, I understand. I’m sure my attitude would’ve been worse.”

  “Don’t excuse me. It was wrong.” He walked over to the paintings leaning against the wall. “These yours?”

  “Yeah, from college and my year in Florence. A few from studying at the student’s Art League.”

  He pulled the unfinished Girls in the Grass from the pile. “This is incredible, Elle.”

  “Heath, it’s not even finished.”

  “Yet I feel like kicking off my shoes and running in the grass.”

  Elle dropped her chin to her chest, curling her shoulders forward. “Don’t patronize me, McCord.”

  She’d started Girls in the Grass during a hard summer between graduating college and growing up, during her term at the Student’s Art League when all her doubts solidified.

  Heath leaned the painting against the wall and picked up the one next to it. “Would you go to dinner with me?”

  She looked around at him. He studied her painting of Coffin Creek under fog. “Dinner?” Like on a date?

  “Dinner. I want to make it up to you for the other night.” He glanced at her, raising the painting. “Can I buy this?”

  “Buy it? You can have it. And you don’t have to make up anything to me, Heath. You’d have done the same for me.”

  “I know, but I want to . . . please. Can I give you a hundred for it?”

  “What? No, take it, please.”

  He came over to her, leaning so close her eyes could only see his. His scent filled her senses. Her skin rippled. “A hundred dollars. An artist is worth her hire. And you wouldn’t have chewed me out for a dead phone battery. Dinner?”

  Swallow. “F-fine.”

  “Tomorrow night at six?”

  “Tomorrow at six.”

  Chet McCord propelled the Hawk P-36 into the blustery headwind.The aircraft shimmied with each frigid blast and his arms already ached from holding her steady. A picture of Kelly lodged in the instrument panel fell beneath his feet.

  Nothing but soup up here today. What’s the use of dawn patrol when there ain’t no dawn? For a moment, Chet fought a slight panic, the grip of claustrophobia. If he lost his instrument panel . . .

  The radio crackled. “Chet. Do you read me? Over.”

  A voice. Pike from Signal Corp calling to wish him good morning and remind Chet he wasn’t alone in the world. He picked up the radio mike. “Did you figure out you owed me more money?” Chet had taken him in poker last night and Pike was none too happy about it.

  “The opposite—you owe me money. There was a miscalculation.” His laugh crackled over the radio. “What are you doing taking off on a morning like this?”

  “Knitting Grandma a sweater. What do you think I’m doing?”

  “Get down, McCord. You’re flying right into a big squall with fifty-mile-an-hour gusts. Don’t fool around with this. The boys at the weather station say it’s a humdinger.”

  That explained all the turbulence. “Am I ordered down?”

  “Why do you flyboys insist you can outfly the weather? Bring ’er home.”

  “If I waited for ideal conditions, I’d never take off. Short patrol, under the soup, then I’ll be down.”

  Chet struggled to pilot against the icy winds. But at fifty feet, an unexpected cloud break revealed disturbed white-capped waters below. Seeing an opening like this in the dense fog was the equivalent of seeing the wide-open plains of Oklahoma.

  Descending for a closer look at the water, Chet scouted for enemy subs or a wayward destroyer, then rolled the Hawk toward the northeast coast line and home.

  At first, the greenish gray sub tottering on the surface escaped his eye. It blended with the fog and dreariness. But once he had a visual, he knew it was a Jap I-class sub. His heart thundered as he banked around for a strafing run.

  When Heath’s cell went off, it knocked him out of his growing manuscript. For a moment, he was Chet McCord, heart racing, about to fire at an enemy sub.

  “Yeah,” he answered.

  “Blue Cooper here. Heath, how are you?”

  He shifted his laptop toward the coffee table. “Blue, long time.”

  “You’re a hard man to track down. Calloway & Gardner doesn’t release information easily. I’ve had better luck with the Pentagon. Did you get my e-mails?”

  “Yeah, sorry, guess I never responded. I moved south for a few months.” Heath walked to the bedroom to check on Tracey-Love. She slept peacefully with her arm hooked around her doll, Lola. Best purchase he’d made in a long time.

  “What do you think? Can you make it to the city in a few weeks for the Network News Awards? We’d like you to accept a lifetime achievement award on Ava’s behalf.”

  He wandered the living room in circles. “Right, right. Tell me the date again.” Only skimming Blue’s e-mail, Heath had never registered the dates.

  “June thirteenth. A Friday evening. She’d want you there, Heath.” In his broadcaster’s voice, Blue spoke as if he’d heard from Heath’s wife a few minutes ago.

  So moving on didn’t mean lea
ving everything about her behind. “Yes, I’ll be there, Blue. Thanks for calling.”

  It’d be a fast trip. Three days, maybe. He’d get with Rock, check up on Callaway & Gardner. But Tracey-Love wouldn’t be strong enough to tag along.

  Returning to the club chair and taking up his laptop, Heath wondered if he could ask Elle to watch TL and owe her another dinner of gratitude. Also, pay her five hundred for the painting. What was he thinking offering only a hundred? Cheap.

  The awards would be black-tie, probably at the Grand Hyatt or uptown at Radio City. Where’d he stored his tux?

  Reaching for his phone again, he dialed Rock. “I’m going to be in town for the Network News Awards. Want to meet for dinner?”

  “Perfect timing. I need to talk to you about coming back, son. The inmates are running the asylum.”

  Rock, always exaggerating. “What’s going on now?”

  “Doc and Tom are pushing me out, trying to take over. I need a strong ally.”

  Heath tried to imagine any man, or two, outsmarting his old boss. “And you think I can help?”

  “Absolutely. We’ll talk when you’re here.”

  “Rock, before you go, I’ve got a friend down here who’s helped me out more than I can repay. She’s an artist. You think we could stop in and see your old friend Mitzy Canon? See if she’d check out my friend’s work, give her a boost in the biz?”

  “Don’t see why not. If anyone can launch an artist’s career, it’s Mitzy Canon, the artist maker. I’ll give her a call.”

  “I owe you.”

  “Serious? Then when can I expect you back at the firm?”

  “Night, Rock.” Heath hung up and headed to the kitchen to clean up dinner.

  Note to self: Check girl-stuff sites to see what age to start assigning household chores.

  SIXTEEN

  At two o’clock, Huckleberry John lumbered into Common Ground, his dark bangs draping over his right eye, titanium rings stretching holes in his earlobes. His slightly crooked grin seemed unsure when he spotted Elle.

  “You beckoned, O great Elle Garvey?” He slumped into the chair across from her.

  “Do you want something to drink?” She eyed him, dumping sweetener into her latte.

  “Naw, I’m good.” He flicked his hand through his hair. “What’s on your mind, chicky?”

  “You. How’s your environmental art coming?”

  “Good,” he said, gazing lazily around the shop, dangling one arm over the back of his chair, drumming his fingers on the table.

  “Did Angela Dooley accept any of your work?”

  “She’s a snob, Elle. I tried to tell her about the Coffin Creek crisis—”

  “Come on, Huck. Be honest. What crisis?”

  “See?” He tapped his forefinger against the table. “This is exactly how we go wrong in this country. We don’t pay attention until it’s too late.” Passion fortified his response.

  “Good point. I hear you, but you’ve got to learn how to present yourself and your projects. And maybe actually learn a little about art. Art may be garbage to some people, Huck, but garbage is hardly ever art. Especially if it smells.”

  “But I bet people will never forget my work.” He was cocky, but cute.

  Elle sipped her latte. Too hot. “Huck, you’re ineffective.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Going around town with a fish tank of pluff mud and dead fish isn’t going to help your cause. You’re letting your message get in the way of the messenger. What are you trying to accomplish?”

  “Art that focuses on the environment.”

  “Got anything up your sleeve besides fish tanks?”

  “A few paintings, a couple of mixed-medium pieces,” he confessed.

  “Are they odorless?”

  “Fairly. But”—his grin made her laugh—“they do stay in my apartment.”

  “Huckleberry, I have a long way to go in my own art, but one thing I’ve learned: first be an artist, good or bad, weak or strong, and let your message come out of the work of your heart. You’re letting your passion ruin your art. Instead, let your passion fuel your art. Do you understand?”

  “Kind of like put the gas in the tank, not all over the outside of the car.”

  “Exactly. You have to be patient. Art takes time.”

  Heed your own advice, Elle.

  “Is that your nice way of saying I got a lot of work to do?” Huckleberry fussed, shaking his legs, stretching his neck, his arms. The man was incapable of sitting still.

  “Not just you. Me too. I’m starting over with painting myself.” A second sip from her latte burned the same spot on her tongue as the first sip.

  “We should get together sometime. Hang out, paint or something.”

  Elle paused. Could she help him? While she’d been trained, she didn’t feel much farther along than Huckleberry craft-wise. “All right, let’s meet at my place since yours, um, smells.”

  “Elle?”

  She angled around to see her friend J. D. Rand. “Hey.”

  A sheriff’s deputy, he was one of her old gang from high school. Last year he dated Caroline Sweeney until she caught him cheating.

  She introduced Huck to J. D., who said, “The man with the fish tank.” Without knowing it, J. D. fueled Huck’s cause. Elle knew then Beaufort had not seen, or smelled, the last of his eco art.

  “Did you hear about Caroline and Mitch?” Elle asked J. D.

  “Yeah, through the grapevine. About time, eh?”

  “I’ll say . . .”

  Molly called J. D.’s order, but on his way out, he stopped back at the table, slipping on his Foster Grants.

  “Bodean’s having a summer kick-off party tonight. Branan Morgan is playing with his band. Lots of good company, good food, and cold beverages. Love to see you there, Elle. Huckleberry, if you can shower and find clean clothes, come on out.”

  Huckleberry glanced down at his shirt, smoothing his hand over a big chocolate-looking stain.

  “I’ll see. Thanks, J. D.”

  Elle hadn’t been to one of Bodean’s Mars versus Venus parties since Operation Wedding Day was in full swing. Tonight she had dinner with Heath. Maybe she could talk her New York lawyer friend into an evening with some good ole boys.

  “Chet, are you out there? Come in.”

  Still banking around for a strafing run, Chet didn’t answer Pike’s call, maintaining radio silence. If the submarine located him, he’d be in the drink before he could fire one round.

  “Come in, Chet. The mother is gaining. Get home.”

  Descending from the fog, Captain Chet McCord strafed the first enemy vessel he’d seen. Six months in the Aleutians and his greatest enemy was the cold, snow, and fog. His greatest victory: arriving home alive, not plowing into the side of a mountain.

  Buzzing the con tower of the Jap sub, he peppered it with bullets, then rose into the fog before the enemy could man their guns. His fuel gauge told him to turn toward home.

  “Pike, I’m coming home.”

  As Chet banked east, he caught sight of the sub as it submerged beneath the freezing surface. He’d only infuriated the gray beast.

  His P-36 engine sputtered.

  “No you don’t.” Chet tapped the fuel gauge. He had enough to return home. What was going on? The engine sputtered again, nearly stalling.

  Chet pushed toward Kiska, gripping the stick, willing his bird to stay alive and warm. Another sputter and he knew. She was freezing up.

  Heath paced beside his van, waiting for Elle. She’d called to say she’d lost track of time while painting—he liked the excitement in her voice—and was running a few minutes behind. She’d meet him by his van.

  His van. He kicked the front tire. What he need was some cool, secondhand car like a convertible Corvair or a Triumph Spitfire.

  After he dropped off Tracey-Love at Julianne’s to spend the evening with Rio, he’d felt kind of lost.

  First-date-like flutters ran down his ribs. Just a casual
dinner, McCord. With a friend. It’d been eighteen years since he’d been alone with a woman not his girlfriend, wife, or colleague.

  To distract himself, he walked over to inspect his angel carving. The core sculpture rose out of the wood, but the details needed to be carved out, sanded, and polished. He’d finish it someday. Before returning to NewYork.

  Her fragrance arrived first. Like wild flowers in a spring meadow. When he looked around, he simply felt glad she was in the world. Proud and lucky to be with her. Even if just for one friendly night.

  Her hair fluttered over her shoulders, her long brown legs kicked the hem of a flowing blue skirt. A trio of bracelets sparkled from the end of her arm.

  He understood why men painted—to preserve images like Elle, real or imagined.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, his steady voice masking the rumba going on beneath his shirt.

  “So do you. Mighty dapper in khakis and pullover. Very summer-in-the-Hamptons-darling.”

  Her breezy tone reminded him tonight was about one friend thanking another. No more, no less. His heart simmered down, slowing from a rumba to a boring ole waltz.

  “A friend of mine is having one of his big parties tonight,” Elle said as he held open her door. “Want to swing by after dinner?”

  Absolutely. “I am at your command.”

  “Really, ’cause I have some studio windows that need washing.”

  “Windows?” Heath held his arms out to his sides, giving himself the once-over, grinning. “You got all this and you want windows washed?”

  Maybe it was the soft music hovering over Panini’s guests or the flicker of candlelight on the white linen tablecloth, but Elle’s insides felt battered by butterflies.

  Handsome Heath wore a blue shirt that matched his eyes, and his bold flirting as he helped her into the van downright messed with her.

  “You got all this and you want windows washed?”

  But as delectable as he was, her heart wanted to remain in a soft, safe place until the last fragrance of Jeremiah Franklin had faded away.

  “Give me the scoop,” he started, sitting back as their server brought a basket of warm bread and appetizer plates. “How often can I expect to get caught in the drawbridge traffic?”