by Rachel Hauck
Heath had fallen asleep at the kitchen table using his laptop as a pillow, snoozing comfortably until his cell phone broke into his slumber.
He jumped up, slamming his knee into the table leg, and stumbled to the living room.
“McCord.” He fell to the couch, squinting against the afternoon light slinking through the southern windows.
“It’s Nate.”
“Nate who?” Heath propped his head against the couch arm and dropped his arm over his eyes, warding off the glare.
“Very funny. How it’s going?”
“You tell me. Did you get my pages?” As his brain eased awake and started to function, Heath became aware of time and place.
“Didn’t you get my e-mail?”
Heath glanced at his watch. Four? Crap. Tracey-Love’s day school had let out a half hour ago. He shot off the couch, scrambling for his keys, stomping around for his new boat shoes.
“What e-mail?” Forget shoes, go barefoot.
“Yes, I e-mailed. Said I loved it. I’m getting attached to Chet. I sent a proposal to six publishers.”
Heath burst out the kitchen door and jogged for the van. “Any word?” He cradled the phone on his shoulder as he buckled in and fired out of the driveway.
“It’s only been a few weeks, Heath. Publishing is hard business. Marketing wants one thing, the editors something else.” The meter of his voice was slow and casual, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to walk to the corner store for a soda or not.
“Give it to me straight, Nate.”
“They passed.”
“All of them?” The news hit hard.
“Yeah, I pressed them for an answer since I knew they’d set aside time for your proposal as soon as they got it. But right away, I heard no interest in a war piece. Legal thriller, New York City crime, suspense? Yes, but no wartime love stories.”
“I see.” Heath realized how much he wanted a book deal. Chet and Kelly deserved to have their story told and read. He paused at the Fripp Point stop sign, waiting for late-afternoon traffic to pick up before turning onto Hwy 21. If he got caught in drawbridge traffic, he’d really be late. The school should’ve called.
“They’re salivating for another The Firm.”
“What happened to fresh and original?”
Nate sighed. “Okay, a fresh and original The Firm. Heath, you’ve done your research, the writing is solid, great characters and setting, but marketing for war stories is tough right now.”
“I’m sure you did your best.”
“He said dubiously. Hey, old friend, I met editors, bought a lot of coffee and lunches on your behalf.”
“Okay, advise me.” Heath tapped his brake as the traffic over the bridge slowed. Shoot, he’d caught the bridge light. Way in the distance, two sailboats with towering masts drifted toward the bridge, unhurried, without a care.
Sure, they didn’t have a little girl, waiting for her delinquent daddy.
“You can keep working on this book. I’ll keep looking for a publisher. But it’ll take time. Or you can get to work on another legal thriller. With your improved writing, I think we’ll go to auction before the printer ink is dry. Based on your legal experience, you could pound out something in a month. Just remember to change the names to protect the innocent.”
“What are my chances with another publisher and the war story?” Heath drummed his fingers against his steering wheel. Except for the anxiety of being late for Tracey-Love and Nate’s news, he might have enjoyed the view from the crest of the bridge—a hazy pale sky, the sheen of light bouncing off a sun-kissed river, the peaceful drift of a sailboat toward home.
Elle had warned him about bridge traffic. Leave early.
“A friend of mine is a publisher over at a new house, Poplar Books. They’re very small, but serious about publishing. I can send the manuscript over there. If they want it, the advance will be in the low five figures. And they lean toward literary works.”
“Send it.”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
“I guess if I have to set it aside to write something more popular and mainstream, I will.”
“Just keep it in the back of your mind, Heath. And don’t think you’re selling out. There’s more than one kind of book in that soul of yours. So, you write a legal thriller to get established, then you can write World War II novels.”
Heath thanked him, then listened as Nate rambled on about something—a date he had last week? He kept saying “she” and “her.” Heath peppered his side of the conversation with “um-hum” and “really.” He was too distracted by the rejection news and being late to pick up Tracey-Love to listen like a good friend.
When Nate hung up, Heath tossed his phone into the passenger seat, drumming his hands on the wheel. Let’s go.
No one wanted a war novel? Bump ’em. Heath thought the world could use a few more war novels. People forgot sacrifice so easily.
The bridge light flipped to green and Heath’s foot hovered between the brake and gas, waiting for the line to move. Come on.
Tracey-Love’s white-sided daycare came into view minutes later. Heath turned into the parking lot and shifted into Park. The late-day sun splashed the center of the yard with white gold. The place felt deserted. He popped open his door.
“Tracey-Love? Anybody?”
He started for the doors when he spotted Tracey-Love. She sat alone with her feet dangling from a bench, her ankles crossed and locked.
“Hey, baby.”
She jerked her head up. Dirt streaked her cheeks and chin; her eyes were red rimmed.
“D-d-daddy.” She launched herself from the bench, her pink sundress flapping around her knees as she ran. Her backpack swung from her narrow shoulders. Slamming into Heath’s arms, TL gripped his neck so tightly he choked. She shivered with sobs.
“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay. Daddy’s here, Daddy’s here. What happened?” Heath tried to see her face, but she kept it buried against his neck. She was hot and sticky.
Still cradling her and speaking in low tones, he walked toward the school door and pried it open. “Anybody here?”
A stern-lipped Miss Millie met him at the threshold. “Well, you made it.”
“Mind telling me why my girl was sitting out on the bench alone, crying?”
“She wouldn’t wait for you in here.” Miss Millie walked around a low table, sliding pint-sized chairs underneath. “She was convinced you weren’t coming.”
“Why would she think such a thing? Tracey-Love, Daddy needs you to stop crying. Please.” He lowered her to the floor, wiping her tears with his thumbs. But one tiny arm remained locked around his neck.
The long-haired, flowing-skirt preschool teacher moved to the next table. “Where’s her mama, Mr. McCord?”
“Not here. And you should’ve called if she was so upset.”
“We tried. The later the hour, the more she fretted. Is her mama deceased?”
“Died a year ago August.”
Miss Millie’s expression softened with understanding.“She thought you weren’t coming because you’d gone to visit her mama in heaven. And once you go to heaven, you don’t come back.”
Heath recognized Tracey-Love’s adaptation of his death explanation. “Did you assure her I was coming?”
Miss Millie paused from straightening chairs. “Mr. McCord, death is a complicated issue for children. Because they don’t fully understand, adults tend to think all is well, when perhaps—”
“Since we moved here, she’s been doing well.”
“Has Tracey-Love talked about being abandoned?”
“Not to me, no.”
The woman knelt next to Tracey-Love and smoothed her hand over her tear-stained face. “It’s going to be all right. See? Like I told you.” She peered at Heath. “You might want to explain the difference between death and being late.”
Why did she have to make him feel unfit? “I’ll do that.”
Scooping up Tracey-Love, Heath carried her
to the van, making a promise he could only keep in theory. “Daddy won’t leave you. I’m here for you. Going to harass your boyfriends, teach you to drive, send you to college, walk you down an aisle, one day, way, way off in the future, and give my best girl to another man.”
Her grip eased as he opened the van door. “I-I wa-was scared.” She crawled into her car seat, her light slowly returning.
“I know you were. Sometimes daddies are late; it doesn’t mean we are never coming. Do you understand?”
She nodded, but he was dubious. He’d keep an eye and ear out for her fears of abandonment. “Hey, I finally put some songs on your iPod. Want to play it when we get home?”
“C-Can we get s-some ice cream?”
“Ice cream? Before dinner?”
“P-please?”
Ava, is that you rolling over in your grave? “All right, ice cream sounds good for brave little girls.” He buckled her seatbelt, then grabbed her chin. “Tracey-Love, look at me. I will never leave you. Do you understand?”
She rested her head against the car seat. “Not like Mama, huh?”
“Sweetie, people die. We can’t predict it or stop it, but to the best of my ability, I’ll be here for a long, long time.” He smoothed his hand over her knee, which bore a new scrape. “Mama loved you more than anything, TL. She’s in heaven because she tried to help other mamas and little girls. And in fact, her old job gave her a big trophy for being brave. How about we put in your room?”
“Did she get ice cream, too, for being brave, like me?”
“Yes.” He smiled, smoothing his hand over her flyaway hair. “Or maybe she picked a big green salad with light dressing. Yum.” Okay, so he’d ruined Ava’s plan to raise TL a heath-food nut. Some things had to give. “Anytime you get scared or have questions, you come talk to me, okay?” He tickled her ribs. “Okay?”
She frowned and shoved his hand away. “C-can we get ice cream now?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Heath loved the sound of TL’s singing and chattering as they drove to Publix, then home. With the drama over, she’d returned to her usual self.
These moments were the kind that made him miss Ava the most, when he wanted to turn to someone who knew exactly how he felt and brag about what a beautiful child they’d made.
A gritty, gray fog hung over the creek, unusual for a July day as Elle drove home from morning prayer where she spent recent days praying about Jeremiah.
Finally settled into his Tallahassee residence, he called daily, e-mailed nightly. Last night, moments before their good-bye, he’d told her he loved her. “Just say the word, Elle, marry me.”
His confession reminded her of her original feelings for him and Elle wondered if she’d ever stopped loving him.
Daddy had pointed out to her the other day as she lay on his couch—watching Lifetime movies, thinking of her next painting during the commercials, and calling it work—that she needed to make some kind of decision about Jeremiah or cut him loose.
The whole situation frustrated her. He’d dumped her. The decision to take him back should be simple—no, double dog no with a cherry on top.
But her heart refused to agree. For some wild reason, she wanted to give him a fair chance. Ignore how he’d treated her in the past. And with an odd understanding, she felt Jesus wanted her to give him this consideration too.
Parking beside the garage, Elle jogged up the studio stairs, intending to do some cleaning, then actually work on those paintings she envisioned during Lifetime commercials.
So far, she had three halfway decent pieces for Darcy’s show— ones she didn’t deem closet-worthy. But, since Mitzy’s invitation, Elle felt her confidence growing. Maybe Heath was right—big things were coming.
Darcy Campbell had gone bonkers with Summer ArtWalk advertising. Magazine and newspaper ads, flyers listing Elle’s name right in there with Sir Lloyd Parcel like she was a somebody.
The whole art community had to be scratching their head.
Darcy called yesterday confirming that her friend and noted art critic Ruby Barnett would just happen to be in town for the festivities.
Yeah, so much for her promises to keep it low key.
Dropping her keys and purse on the work table, Elle surveyed the studio, not sure what to do next or where to begin. Her Wal-Mart laundry bags lined the short wall by the bathroom. Clean clothes were gradually moving to a new dirty pile. Why she didn’t break down and find the laundry baskets in the garage remained a mystery.
Snapping on the AC, Elle popped open the fridge for a bottle of water. The futon looked inviting. Maybe a morning nap was in order. Clearly this was going to be one of those what-to-do, end-up-doing-nothing days.
Elle peered out the window into the yard wishing she had a pool. A quick dip later in the afternoon would be nice. Or she could drive over to Mama and Daddy’s, or Sara Beth’s. When she did, she ended up hanging out too long, staying for supper, watching TV, shooting the day all to pieces.
She’d become a full-blooded bohemian. Clearly you have too much time if you’re standing here dissecting an afternoon of swimming.
Deciding to work instead of surrendering to laziness, she set out her palette and the Memory Book painting she’d started a few days ago. She’d read a verse in the Old Testament about God listening to conversations and writing things down. Terrifying? Yes, but fascinating. One morning in prayer, she had a flash image of words one might find in God’s memory books so she decided to put it to canvas.
“Isn’t God good?”
“Jesus loves you, friend.”
“Here, have this cup of cold water.”
“Please, take this twenty. It’s not much, but I hope it helps.”
“I forgive you.”
With her palette knife, she began mixing colors, but when a car door sounded, she peered out the window. Heath?
Danny Simmons.
He caught her gazing and motioned for permission to come up.
Opening the door, Elle waited.
“Morning, Elle.” Danny’s tan was accented by a stiff, white Ralph Lauren polo.
“How’re you, Danny?” Elle motioned to the stool by the work table. A fight-or-flight decision flickered behind his eyes. Could he finish what he was about to start? “It’s okay, I don’t bite.”
He perched on the stool. “You haven’t heard why I’m here yet.”
Crossing her arms, Elle leaned against the table. “Why are you here?”
“I want to marry your sister.”
She gauged his sincerity. “Why are you telling me?”
“Because I want you to talk to her, convince her it’s the right thing. She turns me down every time I ask her.”
“Forget it, Danny. I’m not going to talk her into marrying you. If she’s turning you down, she must have a reason. You might consider moving on.”
The light in the room shifted as the sun moved behind a cloud. The AC hummed like a good AC unit.
“I’ve watched you, Elle. Julianne respects and listens to you.”
Elle squinted at him. “She never listens to me.”
“There’s more to this story than Julianne and me.” Danny held up a single finger.
Elle eased her arms down to her side. The resonance in his voice captured her attention. “And what would that one be?”
“Rio’s mine, Elle.” No hesitation, no door for questions.
“Rio is yours? As in—”
“I’m her father.”
“You’re Rio’s daddy?” It seemed insane, ludicrous. Of all the possible Danny Simmons confessions Elle could’ve conjured up, being Rio’s daddy was not one of them.
“I want to get this out in the open, marry Julianne, and be a family. Rio calls me Mr. Danny. My own daughter . . . Mr. Danny.”
She stared. “I-I can’t believe it. You?”
“Yes, me.”
Elle walked around her easel, hand pressed to the back of her neck. She looked back at him. “This is unbelievable. Rio
’s daddy? How?”
“We met, connected, one thing led to another . . . Do you need more, or do you get the picture?”
“I get it.”
“So, are you going to help me or not?” The desperation in his eyes leaked out in his voice.
“If she’s yours, where have you been the past four years?”
“On the outside looking in. Julianne stiff-armed me until this year. I finally wore her down.”
“Why don’t you man up and talk to Daddy?”
He arched his back a little with a sarcastic nose-laugh. “She’d kill me. You don’t think I’ve tried every possible angle. Sorry to tell you, but you’re my last resort.”
“Good to know.”
Danny slid off the stool and paced a little. “Elle, I’m forty-eight and divorced. My ex hates me and sees to it my kids do too, except when they need money. I have a chance to right some wrongs, do something good for two people I love more than my own breath.”
He regarded Elle for a moment. “Do whatever you think is best, but I’d be forever indebted if you could help me.”
“You overestimate my influence.”
“I hear you’re a praying woman. If you don’t have the influence, perhaps He does.”
He heard she was a praying woman? “Perhaps.”
“Thanks, Elle.” Danny exited the studio without looking back.
From her window, she watched him go, feeling for the first time the longing of his heart. “My own daughter calls me Mr. Danny.”
TWENTY-THREE
Julianne’s was busy when Elle entered the salon. The bell on the door announced her arrival. “What are you doing here?” Julianne clicked on the shears to shave the neck of the man sitting in her chair.
“Came to see you.” Maybe she should’ve waited until the salon closed, but hanging around the studio thinking of Danny’s confession had stoked a fire in Elle’s belly. She tried to settle down and paint, but when she rehearsed confronting Julianne for the hundredth time, she decided to talk to her in person.
“Afternoon, Elle,” Mrs. Pratt called over her shoulder from where Lacy polished her nails. “I hear Jeremiah’s back in your life.”
Julianne ducked her embarrassed cheeks behind her client’s head.
