Love Starts with Elle

by Rachel Hauck

  Last bowl in the dishwasher. Heath loaded the detergent and pressed Start. The machine’s low hum was the only noise in the quiet house. He’d enrolled Tracey-Love in a day school this week, and he missed her little-girl sounds—singing softly, playing with her dolls—and the way she set her hand on his knee before asking, “C-can you put on a movie?”

  But the interaction with other children seemed to be boosting her little confidence.

  Meanwhile, he used the alone time—ten to three—to write and research. He’d spent today researching the Aleutian Islands, the Warhawk P-40, North Pacific war history, and war babies. The further he dug into history, the more he wrote, the more the story gripped him.

  Leaning against the sink, he gazed at the heat waves rolling across the yard and found it hard to imagine Chet suffering in icy Alaska. He’d have to dig around his boyhood memories of New York winters, playing outside with Mark until they couldn’t feel the tips of their toes, to write a true experience for the southern flyer.

  Suddenly Elle emerged from the heat waves, dressed casually and free-looking in baggy brown shorts and a white tank top. She carried a metal box by its handle, striding for her car, her arms and legs moving in graceful synchronization.

  Art in motion. More and more, his fictional heroine Kelly mirrored the real-life woman of Elle Garvey.

  Watching her drive away, Heath thought of their little encounters the past two weeks—Elle wandering over as he sat out on the screened porch, or grabbing a quick dinner out with Tracey-Love.

  A couple of times as he walked out to the van to go pick up Tracey-Love, Elle threw open her window and yelled down at him, “Afternoon, McCord.”

  “Afternoon, Garvey.”

  The other night she told him a story about her friend Caroline, a K-Mart blue light she’d wired to her old Mustang, a dark night, and a Beaufort County deputy. Had him doubled over.

  He wondered where she was off to this afternoon?

  The tip of Ava’s waiting letter caught his eye. Making sure his hands were dry, Heath reached for the envelope. If he ever thought he’d want more than friendship with Elle, or anyone like her, he’d have to read this letter.

  Turning it over, he flicked at the small tear, then returned the letter to its perch on the windowsill behind the lock. Not today. Leaving the kitchen, Heath flipped off the light.

  Sitting on the tarp-covered floor of Julianne’s salon, her wood palette next to her, Elle painted a marsh scene over fresh drywall. Despite initial doubts, she conceded Julianne’s success. The shop remodel had gone quickly, though the subject of her boyfriend-investor remained taboo.

  Concentrating on painting the last blade of grass in the shade, Elle jerked around when her cell beckoned with an out-of-area tone.

  Oh, let it ring. Then an odd, pinging thought. What if it’s Jeremiah? She reached back for the phone lying on the edge of the tarp. “Helloooo.”

  Oops, she’d swiped the side of Julianne’s new beige cabinets with paint. She psssted at Jules to wipe it off. Not surprisingly, Julianne muttered a few blue words before and after Elle’s name.

  “Is this Elle?” Crisp, pristine, foreign.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “This is Mitzy Canon of 821 Gallery in Manhattan.”

  Elle held the phone away from he ear, reviewing the number, but the screen read PRIVATE. “Excuse me, I thought you said Mitzy Canon.”

  “Listen, I’m pressed for time, but a friend suggested I review your work.”

  Her heart pumped blood so fast her arms went limp. “Did Darcy Campbell call you?”

  “I’m speaking of Heath McCord, married to the reporter who died, Ava. What a tragedy. She was beautiful. Can you send me a résumé and samples of your work? There’s a possibility of featuring you as a debut artist in our spring show.”

  “T-this spring?”

  Mitzy rattled off her personal e-mail so quickly Elle’s only writing implement was her paint brush, her only writing surface Julianne’s wall.

  mcprivate@821gallery.com.

  “How soon would you like—”

  “Yesterday.” End of conversation.

  Elle closed her phone, trying to comprehend what had happened. Mitzy Canon? Heath knew the artist maker?

  “Who was that?” Julianne gathered up the paint-stained paper towels, the cabinet wiped clean. “Elle, you look green. Is everything okay?”

  “I just agreed to send Mitzy Canon—the Mitzy Canon—samples of my work. Oh my gosh.” She rose off the floor. “And I harassed Darcy Campbell for inviting Ruby Barnett to write reviews during the Summer Art Walk.”

  Julianne mashed the dirty towels on top of the over-stuffed trash can. “Mitzy Canon? The artist maker woman?”

  “Yes, the Mitzy Canon.” Elle’s voice echoed down the salon and back. “Somehow Heath knows her, and because of him or something, she called for samples of my work.”

  Julianne’s eyes popped wide. “Go Heath.”

  “I don’t know, Jules, why would I—”

  “Uh-uh, no you don’t, Elle. You’re not backing out.” Julianne gripped her shoulders. “You are strong and brave about everything, it seems, but this. Forget college and the cranky professor. Go for it.”

  Elle made a face. “She said with no risk to herself.”

  Julianne went back to unloading boxes. “It can’t hurt to send them, right? You already think you stink. What’s one more opinion?”

  “What a comforting notion, Jules.” Elle smacked back down to the floor, facing her mural. “It’s enough to believe I stink, why not have the top voice in American art agree with me?”

  Elle dipped her brush in the marsh grass paint. Heath, what’d you do to me? Leaning back for her phone, she autodialed him.

  “Did you talk to Mitzy Canon? Why? Um-hmm . . . thank me?

  Heath, I was just being a good neighbor . . . like I’m not going to go with you to the ER . . . You took me to dinner.” She chewed the tip of her thumbnail. “I’m not sure I want Mitzy . . . right . . . I know . . . got to start somewhere, sometime. But this is Mitzy Canon, top of the food chain . . . I do know my own work and talent, Heath. I live in my skin . . . um-hum . . . Okay, okay, don’t get testy. I’ll send her something. Dinner?” Elle checked the salon’s new wall clock. “About an hour? Want to go to Luther’s? Okay . . . bye.”

  TWENTY

  At five o’clock, Heath came out of the bedroom slipping his wallet into his jean’s back pocket. Elle knocked on the kitchen door. “Heath, you ready?”

  “I was just about to get you.” He opened the door to let her in, raking back his damp hair from his eyes. She carried a large canvas board. “Another Elle Garvey masterpiece?”

  “No, the first Tracey-Love McCord.” Elle turned the canvas board for him to see. “Your daughter’s handiwork.”

  Heath picked his watch off the coffee table, snapping it on. “Incredible. How’d you do this?” He took the board from her, studying the swirls of paint.

  “Filled pans with tempura paints and told the girls to have fun. Julianne hung Rio’s in the salon.”

  Heath ran his fingers lightly over the dried surface of red, blue, and green, and all the shades in between. “This is a true gift. Thank you. I’ll hang it in my office.” He set Tracey-Love’s masterpiece against the wall, motioning to a check on the coffee table.

  Elle read the number, then peered at him. He liked the surprise in her eyes. “Five hundred dollars. For what?”

  “My first Elle Garvey. Coffin Creek Fog.”

  “Heath, you said a hundred. I can’t take this. You’re raising TL alone and not working.”

  “You can and you will.” He whispered, “Sadly, death comes with high dividends.”

  “Now I know I can’t take it.” Elle thrust the check at him.

  “You will. I bought your work and this is the price I’m paying.

  Besides, Ava loved art and would be thrilled to discover a new artist and pay for an original piece.” Heath angled to see dow
n the hall. “Tracey-Love, did you get lost in there?”

  Elle slipped the folded check into her bag. “Then I’m glad my first sale is to you, Heath McCord.” She sat in front of his open laptop. “When do I get to read your first chapters?”

  “It’ll cost you.” He pushed the laptop closed, afraid she’d see her reflection in the voice and movement of Kelly Carrington.

  “Five hundred dollars?” Elle retrieved the check, waving it under his nose.

  Heath laughed. “Keep your money, Garvey. You can read it when it’s ready.”

  She captured his arm with her hand. “I owe you more than money, Heath. How can I replay you for speaking to Mitzy Canon? It’d take years, if not a lifetime, for me to get her attention.”

  “Elle, it was my pleasure. Besides, I didn’t do much. Just asked my boss for an introduction.” When he peered at her, his heart stirred. Pulling away, he called for TL again. “Let’s go, Daddy and Miss Elle are hungry.” He turned to Elle. “She’s going to be a woman who is always late.”

  Elle sat back in the club chair, legs crossed, foot swinging. “My sister Mary Jo drove Daddy nuts. We actually left her behind several times. Daddy thought everyone was loaded up and off we’d go.”

  Tracey-Love bounced into the room. “It’s about time, girly. girl.” Heath swung her up in his arms.

  In the van, Heath snapped TL in to her car seat while Elle combed and tied back her hair.

  “There, ready to go. Daddy strapped you in and Miss Elle fixed your hair.”

  Tracey-Love grinned, hugging her doll, crossing her ankles as if she’d been ready to go for hours and the grown-ups had kept her waiting.

  Opening Elle’s door, Heath said, “To Luther’s for a burger.”

  A car turned onto Coffin Point. Heath leaned toward the sound. A blue Ford rental stopped next to the van.

  “Who’s that?” Elle stooped to see the man behind the wheel.

  “You know him?” Heath stooped too.

  “Oh my gosh.” Elle snapped back her head. Heath glanced between her and the man stepping out of the car. Her cheeks paled under wide, unbelieving eyes.

  “You know him?” But as she uttered, “Jeremiah,” he’d recognized the former star athlete.

  The man was large, commanding, absorbing pheromones. Heath puffed out his chest, lifted his chin.

  “Hey, Elle,” said the pheromone hog, surprisingly low and uncertain.

  “What are you doing here?” Elle moved into the space between them.

  Yep, drawing all the female molecules for himself. Heath knew the type. Hated them.

  “Hey, babe.” Jeremiah’s smile was white, magnetic, a beacon.

  Heath took a step into the space too. Couldn’t send Elle to the sharks alone.

  “Jeremiah, what are you doing here?”

  “Came to see you, Elle. I’ve missed you.” He peered at Heath. “Jeremiah Franklin.”

  “Heath McCord.”

  Their hands clasped with a pop.

  “I’m not interrupting, am I?” Jeremiah motioned to Elle, then Heath, his confidence surging beyond his tentativeness.

  “We’re on our way to dinner,” Heath said with another step toward Elle.

  “I was wondering if we could talk.” Jeremiah tipped his head to one side, eyes squinting, his tone solid but beckoning.

  “We’re on our way to dinner,” Heath repeated.

  Elle pressed her hand against his chest. “Give us a minute, Heath, please?”

  Was no an option? He’d rather stand sentry to make sure this guy didn’t hoodwink her. His vibe was snaky. If Heath walked into his church, he’d have left before the announcements.

  “Heath, please.”

  “I’ll wait inside with Tracey-Love.”

  Back in the cottage, Heath tucked behind the sheers and peeked out the window slats. Jeremiah chatted with Elle, all cool and breezy, as if he were asking her out on a first date.

  With her back to him, he had no idea what was going on with her. She nodded her head. Jeremiah stroked his hand down her arm, then angled to kiss her forehead.

  Ooh, she was coming to the house. Heath jerked away from the window.

  “Heath?”

  “In here.” He met her at the door, struggling to tone down his attitude. “What does he want?”

  “Heath, easy. He didn’t break your heart.”

  “No, but this is a perfect play from the guys-with-big-egos book. Drop a girl, realize there’s nothing better out there, and come running back.”

  “Heath, I need to hear him out. He came all this way.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. Heath, what is your problem? I need to go with him, see what he wants.”

  “Of course, because it’s the perfect play from the book—the dumped girl goes running back to the guy-with-big-ego because she’s stupid and he gets what he wants.”

  “Stupid? Because I want to hear why he flew fifteen hundred miles to talk to me? And stop calling him guy-with-big-ego. It’s like the pot calling the kettle black.”

  “Me? No, don’t put me in his brand of he-men. This is what’s wrong with women.” Heath gestured wildly, hands in the air, as if the entire female population was running amuck. “You forget yourselves, turn off your brains the moment a handsome man says pretty please. But we like the chase, Elle. Don’t let him manipulate you.”

  “There’s no chase, Heath. I’m not running. He’s being nice and humble. Something’s happened and he wants to talk about it.”

  “That’s humble? He couldn’t buy humble.” He’d gone too far. He could tell by Elle’s expression. “Elle, I’m sorry. This is none of my business. Go, have fun. I hope it turns out well for you.”

  “I’m sorry about dinner, Heath. We’ll go later.” She paused in the doorway. “You know I have to do this, right? And it doesn’t make me a dumb dame.”

  “Elle, you are a million things, and dumb dame is not one of them.”

  “Don’t worry, I know all about the guys-with-big-egos playbook.”

  “I won’t. You’re a grown woman and can take care of yourself.”

  She jutted out her chin. “Exactly. See you in the funny papers.”

  Yeah, right next to Charlie Brown.

  Jeremiah stopped at the Shrimp Shack for a couple of shrimp burgers, then continued down Hwy 21 toward Huntington State Park.

  Their conversation started out stiff and formal, but gradually the tension evaporated as Jeremiah asked what she was up to these days.You know, everything that’s happened since I broke your heart.

  Really, she’d worked the broken-heart angle long enough. Hated being trapped there. With her hands gripped in her lap, Elle gave him a breezy update.

  “So, my days are about the two Ps—painting and prayer.”

  “Painting and prayer. Interesting.”

  “I meet with Miss Anna for prayer and that’s how I started painting.”

  He glanced over at her as he steered down Hwy 21, a seriousness shrouding his almond-shaped eyes. “You’re as beautiful as ever.”

  “So are you.” She gazed out her window at the palmettos and pines, squinting at the glassy marsh.

  Okay, she’d lied to Heath. The only thing she knew about the plays in the guys-with-big-egos book was that sometimes they worked.

  Jeremiah turned into Huntington State Park, paid the fee, and chose a picnic area on the ocean side. So far, he spoke little of himself.

  A brisk salty breeze combed through Elle’s hair as she sat under the canopy of pines and faced the surf.

  “Shrimp burger and fries.” Jeremiah handed Elle her food, sitting next to her. She waited for him to say grace, but he bit into his shrimp sandwich without so much as a pause or glint of reflection.

  “I’ve missed the Shrimp Shack,” he mumbled, mouth full, wiping mayonnaise from the corner of his lips.

  Elle took a small bite, chewing quickly and swallowing, smashing down the napkins when the wind whistled through the pines and whi
sked them across the table.

  “Jeremiah, what is going on? You didn’t come all the way here to have a shrimp burger with me in the park.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Jeremiah flicked crumbs from his finger. “I’m still in love with you, Elle. I’ve missed you and regretted how things ended between us.”

  “Not an e-mail or a call in three months. How much was I really on your mind?”

  He scooted closer to her, and the heat from his skin caused her to tingle. “Out of sight, but not out of my mind or heart. I was a fool to let you go, and I want you back.”

  Elle shoved her food aside, hearing him but not comprehending. “Just like that? Here’s a shrimp burger and my heart? What changed, Jeremiah?”

  “Me. I’ve changed.” His turned her face to his by the tip of her chin. “Do you still love me?”

  “No.” Even she didn’t believe her answer. “I don’t know.” Sitting here, expressing his heart, wanting her, humble and handsome . . . she didn’t know what she wanted. She’d spent the last four months letting go of everything, starting over, a clean, blank canvas before God.

  “Candace thinks I sabotaged my Dallas trip because I didn’t want to marry you.”

  “That theory only matters if it’s what you think.”

  “Jeremiah,” Elle started, “what changed you?”

  He picked at the table’s peeling paint. “I quit.”

  “W-what?” she whispered, grabbing his forearm. “You didn’t.”

  “Taking on that church was the biggest mistake of my life. It cost me friends, time, desire—you. I let myself be blinded by delusions of television and big ministry. Move over, T. D. Jakes, Jeremiah Franklin has entered the building.”

  “What happened?” Her fingers squeezed his skin.

  “Clash of power. Little did I know this small band of leaders only wanted a puppet.” He peeked at her from under his brow. “And here I came, prideful, arrogant, thinking I was being promoted by God. After all, I deserved it. Look at all I can do for God’s kingdom. I walked right into their trap, close-eyed and stupid.”