Love Starts with Elle

by Rachel Hauck

  “When did we love this place and make up stories?” Elle hitched up her baggy, paint-stained shorts.

  “I thought it was you. Maybe it was Candace and me.” Julianne jumped to the center of the porch and flung her arms wide. “Elle, ta-da! Welcome to Julianne’s, Beaufort’s newest and hippest salon.” The clouds moved away from the sun and light fell over Julianne’s feet.

  “You bought this place?” Elle joined her on the porch, scarred and beat up with the rugged wheel marks of skateboarders. “When? How?”

  “Today.” Julianne held up a single key connected to a red twisty tie. “I finally have my own shop. No more working for the man.” She scrunched up her shoulders and wrinkled her nose. “Even though Charlie is a woman.”

  “Is this why you’ve been so secretive?” Elle followed Julianne inside, breathing a dense, musty odor.

  “Elle, open the window over there, will you?”

  “Jules . . .” Elle tugged at the lower pane. “This place needs a lot of work.” The window was painted shut.

  “Most great things do, Elle.” Julianne’s hips wiggled as she tried to raise her window, but it was also sealed shut. In fact, none of the windows opened and when Julianne flipped the switch for the ceiling fans, the paddles moved once, then stopped.

  Julianne gazed up, hands on her hips. “Looks like I’ll have to get Buster out here first thing.” Elle noted her relaxed attitude. “Now I know how you felt when you bought the gallery. Elle, let’s spend the night here.”

  “We’d have to sleep with the front door open, Julianne. What’d you pay for this place?”

  “I got it at a fair price, Elle.” Julianne opened the cupboard doors, wincing as she pulled out a dead rat by the tail. “Ew.”

  “What’s a fair price? You bought that piece-o-junk car for a thousand more than it was worth new in ’85. Did you at least talk to Daddy or Candy?”

  “I had all the expert advice I needed.” Julianne dumped the rat in the solitary trash can. Her tone chilled the air between them. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a big girl, all grown up with a daughter of my own.”

  “Whose advice? Money is not your strong suit, Jules.” Elle walked past the out-of-date stylist stations.

  “Really, Elle, you ask too many questions.”

  “You have too many secrets. Where are you going to get the money to remodel? Every one of the sinks needs to be replaced. The stations are old, the vinyl ripped.” Elle kicked loose plywood dangling from the bottom drawer of one of the cabinets. “Did you get a termite inspection?”

  “You know, Elle, you’re a snob.”

  She spun around. “Snob?”

  “You heard me. You think you’re the only one who can run a business, do her own thing? Look at you, couldn’t even compromise on a house with Jeremiah. You had to have it your way.”

  The accusation cut and Elle started to strike back, but when she saw the timidity behind her sister’s eyes, she knew Julianne needed her kindness, not justification.

  “I’m sorry, Jules.”

  “Elle, I know I can do this. I’ve loved doing hair as long as you’ve loved art. I’ve worked six years at Charlie’s.” Julianne slapped her hand to her heart. “It’s in here. I’m ready.”

  “Jules, I don’t doubt your heart or ability. I’m just concerned about the money.” Elle glanced around the square room with a row of tall windows on each side. Beneath the dirt and grim, she imagined the salon’s former charm.

  Yet cracks slithered along the plaster from the ceiling to the floor. The dry hardwood needed sanding and polishing. When Elle twisted the knob on one of the old hair dryers, it broke off in her hand. “It’s going to take money to fix all of this, get new equipment.”

  Julianne jammed the knob back on the dryer. “If you must know, I used the last of my Aunt Rose inheritance, and I have a personal investor.”

  “Personal investor?”

  “Your enthusiasm is wearing me out, Elle. Let’s go. I need to pick up Rio.” She halted when the front door opened with a soprano squeak and Danny Simmons breezed in, tan and smiling, wearing golf shorts and an over-sized pullover.

  “Is this Julianne’s Place—” His expression darkened the moment his gaze fell on Elle. “Hey, Elle.”

  “Hey, Danny.” Did he expect her to believe he thought this place was open?

  “I saw the cars . . . thought we had a new salon in town.” Danny roamed the room, arms akimbo, pretending to inspect the place. He stopped by the sinks and the three of them—Elle, Julianne, and Danny—stood in a triangle of silence.

  “Guess this place is not quite ready for business.” His chuckle sounded hollow. “I’ll run by Charlie’s for my trim.”

  Julianne gripped her hands together. “Yes, Mr. Simmons, set up an appointment at Charlie’s.” She attempted to walk him to the door, but her feet seemed glued to the floor.

  “Tell your daddy we need to hit the links soon.” Danny hesitated as if he wanted to say more, then nodded at Elle and left.

  “Jules, what’s going on?” Elle asked.

  “Nothing. You heard him; he thought we were open for business.” Retrieving her handbag from where she’d dropped it by the painted-closed window, Julianne smacked the dust from its bottom.

  “He’s married,” Elle said softly.

  “Was married.” Julianne stopped pounding her purse. “She left him for another man two years ago and they were separated long before.”

  “And you know that because . . .”

  Roaming the length of the stylist stations, Julianne tried to tug open the top drawers, but the handle snapped off. She whimpered and threw it to the floor. “Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

  “I am happy for you, honey. I am. I’m also curious and a little scared. More for your heart than anything else.”

  “My heart is safe, Elle, trust me. I know all about walls and boundaries.” A crimson hue crept along the edge of her face and neck.

  “I’m not so sure Danny Simmons­is—”

  Julianne’s stiff posture broke. “I love him.” The confession hung between them.

  “Jules, really? How? When?”

  Julianne stared out the window, arms crossed. “I ran into him one night during last summer’s Water Festival. We were both on our way to the shuttles, but we started talking and walking, next thing I knew it was three in the morning and we’d circled the city a hundred times.”

  “He’s twenty years older than you, Julianne. What do you have in common?”

  “Lots of things, actually.” She smiled. “Sara Beth always said I had an old soul. Danny and I like the same movies and sitcoms, music and books, same political and religious views. We’re both single parents.”

  “Is he your investor?”

  She nodded.

  “Is he cosigning a loan? Giving you money?” Elle kept her voice low and even, not wanting to be the combatant.

  Julianne flicked a tear from her cheek with her finger. “He’s helping me, Elle. Isn’t that enough or do you have to know all the details?” She stuffed her purse under her arm. “I need to go.”

  “I’m sorry I rained on your parade.” Elle stopped her with an embrace. “Sweetie, I’m happy for you. More for the salon than him, but if he makes you happy—”

  “He does, Elle.” Julianne broke free from Elle’s arms. “But please, please, what happened here today is between me and you.”

  Julianne held up her pinky finger. “Pinky swear. No one outside this room right now will ever hear of this.”

  “What? You’re in love. Most people want to tell the whole world.”

  “Elle, pinky swear.” Julianne’s voice left no room for debate. “If you don’t, I’ll make up a lie so horrible about you—”

  “Your own sister?” Elle slowly raised her pinky, challenged by the hard glint in Julianne’s eyes.

  “Not a word, Elle.”

  She wrapped her pinky with Julianne’s. “Pinky swear. Not a word.”

 
EIGHTEEN

  MANHATTAN

  Mitzy Canon’s art gallery, 821, was a converted Chelsea warehouse with high ceilings, exposed steel beams, a thousand carefully aimed lights, and a definite chill in the air. At least to Heath, though he liked the paint on the cement floor—fiery red. Nice touch. Made him feel like he walked on the cover of hell.

  A stringed quartet played Brahms in the far corner while gallery guests and patrons viewed colorful images of headless bodies painted by new artist Geraldine V.

  Heath considered himself to be opened-minded about artistic expression, but this Geraldine V. baffled him. If he looked too long at her images, a darkness weighted his soul. The opposite of how he felt holding Elle’s Coffin Creek painting—which he’d hung in the cottage living room (over her protests).

  A black-tie server handed him a glass of white wine without asking if he wanted it. When the next tray passed by, Heath returned the favor.

  Where was Rock? He’d gone off to find Mitzy fifteen minutes ago. Heath walked the perimeter of the gallery, recapping last night’s awards ceremony and tonight’s dinner with Rock.

  The ceremony was lovely and honoring of Ava. But even as he accepted the gold and crystal award on her behalf, the gesture felt vain.

  She’s not here, he wanted to say. The place where she now lives outshines the sun. Yet spending an evening reminiscing and laughing did his heart good, and put some distance between his growing feelings for Elle.

  He wondered what she and Tracey-Love were doing. He’d called in the morning to check on TL, who cried the entire call. But Elle seemed to have things under command.

  “She’s afraid you’re not coming back, Heath. But I’m assuring her you will, so nothing stupid, McCord.”

  “Promise. Nothing stupid.”

  So the tremors from Ava’s death still shook his little girl.

  This evening he’d dined with Rock. Heath decided if the man ever left the law, he could go into acupuncture. He knew all of Heath’s pressure points and how to massage them. Until they arrived at the gallery, Heath had all but decided to fly back to St. Helena, pack up, and return to Calloway & Gardner next week.

  Yes, they had some critical and interesting cases coming up, but Rock needed him to help balance the power. And Heath expertly played that game.

  “Heath . . .” Rock waved as he made his way across the gallery with a slender woman draped with a silver gown and lots of diamonds. The voice of the American art scene, Mitzy Canon.

  “Heath McCord.” She stretched her hand for him to kiss, not shake. Very Morticia Addams. “So sorry to hear of your wife’s tragic demise.”

  He cast a glance at Rock, who shrugged; he hadn’t told her.

  “Thank you, but I’m confident she’s in a better place.”

  “One can only hope.”The reflective gallery lighting made Mitzy’s eyes appear hollow in her attenuated face. “Rock tells me you have an artist friend. Don’t we all?”

  “Her name is Elle Garvey.”

  “And what’s her story?”

  “She owned a gallery. Sold it to move away, but things didn’t work out. She’s down on her luck, trying to sort out life. She’s been a good friend to me . . . after my wife’s tragic demise.” Behind him, Rock snorted. “And I’d appreciate it if you could look at her work. Help her out.”

  Mitzy sipped her wine, flirting, winking at a passing gallery guest. If Heath hadn’t been standing two feet from her, he’d wonder if she heard a word he said.

  “Is she tortured?”

  Heath arched his brow. “Tortured?” Rock nudged him in the back. “Yes, very tortured.”

  “The good ones always are.” Mitzy motioned to a man on the other side of the gallery. “I’ll be happy to review her work. I’m always looking for new stars.” When the man appeared at her side, Mitzy asked Heath to write down Elle’s information. “If we like her, we’ll ask her to show in our spring opening.”

  Heath gave Mitzy’s assistant Elle’s information—e-mail and cell— then backed toward the door. “Rock, it’s been fun.”

  “You’ll be in touch?”

  “I’ll be in touch.” Heath shoved the door open and stepped into the crisp Manhattan night. People hurried along the sidewalk and the street was a sea of red taillights. In the distance, a horn blew. A taxi stopped at the corner to pick up a fare and from the open doors of a nearby café, music played.

  But all he wanted to hear was the sound of the wind in live oaks and the cicada’s river song.

  “All right, ladies, these are the rules.”

  Elle knelt down in front of Rio and Tracey-Love. Twins with different mothers, the two of them—both with round blue eyes, button noses, and pink cheeks. One with blonde hair, the other with brown.

  “Dip your feet in the paint, then hit the canvas, running, walking, or twirling, whatever you like. Fall down, roll around.” Elle held up her finger and tried to sound firm. “But you must have fun. Ready?”

  “Ready,” they said in unison with bent-knees bouncing.

  Elle raced with them to the bowls of tempera paint, steering each girl to the right canvas board on the studio floor. “This one is for Rio’s mama, and—yeah, over there, TL—that one is for your daddy.”

  Squeaking like puppy-dog chew toys, the four-year-olds skated, slipped, and slithered around the canvas, mixing body and paint. Elle had bundled their curls with do-rags and dressed them in Rio’s old shorts and T-shirts, but they managed to cover every inch of themselves with paint.

  “Tracey-Love, here’s a spot you missed.” Elle pointed to a small corner of the white canvas. TL stomped her reddish-blue foot on the spot, very pleased with herself.

  “Look it, Auntie Elle.” Rio pointed to a red face print.

  “Rio, very creative.” A glob of paint dripped from her chin.

  When the entire canvas was covered without a square of white, Elle threw the girls into the shower with a large bar of soap.

  “Rio, your mama’s coming to get you. And, TL, your daddy’s coming home tomorrow.”

  “I w-w-wanna st-stay with you.” It’d taken until this moment for the girl to exhale and find security within herself.

  “Me too.” Rio, the mimic.

  “Tell you what, we’ll have a sleepover real soon.”

  She peeked in the shower. The girls were trying, but remained covered with paint. Elle would have to get wet if she wanted to return them to their parents clean. Clothes and all, she stepped in.

  “Aunt Elle forgot to take off her clothes.” The girls covered their mouths and giggled.

  Once she toweled them off and dressed them in clean clothes, she dashed in the shower for her own quick clean up and change, setting the girls to work with coloring books on the futon.

  “Knock, knock.” The studio door eased open. A male voice asked, “Everyone decent?”

  Elle came out of the bathroom with an armload of wet towels as Danny Simmons stepped inside.

  “Danny.”

  “Evening, Elle.” His eyes roamed over to where the girls colored. “Julianne had a meeting with the contractor for the work on her new shop. She asked me to pick up Rio.”

  “You won’t mind if I call her to check, will you?” Elle glanced around for her phone.

  Danny flipped his forward. “Use mine.”

  Elle hesitated, reaching slowly. “What’s her speed dial?”

  He cleared his throat, fist to his lips. “One.”

  Elle pressed One, then Talk. “Hey, Julianne, it’s me, Elle. Did you send Danny to get Rio? Well, I was just checking . . . right . . . I do trust you . . . okay, fine.”

  Elle shut the phone and handed it back to Danny. “Rio, get your things. Mr. Danny is taking you home.”

  Rio chattered on with Tracey-Love about something as she slipped on her backpack. Elle stepped toward Danny. “Are you serious about my sister?”

  “Yes.” Simple, but without explanation. The Beaufort businessman and philanthropist moved away from Elle. “Rio, you
ready?”

  The little girl was flopped over the futon, showing Tracey-Love her doll, not disturbed at all by Danny’s presence.

  “Is Julianne your mid-life crisis? Last grab at your fleeting youth?”

  “When my wife left, I canceled my mid-life crisis. I’d had enough drama.” He leaned toward Elle. “This may be hard to believe, but I love your sister. Age has nothing to do with it. Rio, you ready?”

  “She leads with her heart, Danny. And there’s more at stake here than you and Jules.” Elle motioned to Rio with her chin.

  He reached for Rio’s hand and led her to the door. “I’m fully aware of all that’s at stake, Elle.”

  A light burned in the front cottage window as Heath parked on the brick drive, finally home. The digital dash clock clicked to 12:00. Midnight.

  He pulled his keys from the ignition and reached to the passenger seat for his bag. The delayed flight from JFK had aggravated him, reminding him of the things he didn’t like about the city—the pace, the congestion, the traffic and flight delays, not to mention high prices and taxes.

  The moment he’d exited the Charleston airport, he’d powered down the windows and all but hung his head out like an eager dog lapping up the wind.

  Inside the cottage, a single lamp lit the living room from a front corner and Elle slept on the couch with her arm draped over a curled-up Tracey-Love.

  Heath dropped his bag to the floor by the coffee table and lowered down in front of them, kissing Tracey-Love on the forehead. “Baby, I’m home.”

  Elle jerked awake, struggling to sit up, her eyes locked in a sleepy squint. “Heath, hey.”

  “Hey.” She was too cute with a frizz of orange-tinged blonde hair falling over one eye.

  “Let me put her in bed.” Heath scooped up the zonked Tracey-Love and carried her to her room. “Wait for me, okay?”

  “I’m not sure I can even move.”

  When he came out, he plopped next to Elle on the couch. “What’d you do? I’ve never seen her so worn out.”

  “We played a lot.” She yawned. “Did you have a good trip?”

  “Interesting and reminiscent. When I took a leave from the firm, the partners gave me a six-month limit or lose my position. The senior partner wants me back. Claims he’s losing the firm and needs me to keep the power balanced.”