Love Starts with Elle

by Rachel Hauck

  “We’re only friends.” Great friends, if she thought about it.

  “I suppose it’s wise not to jump into another emotional dance just yet.”

  Elle grinned at Miss Anna’s choice of words, suddenly warm with the memory of dancing with Heath.

  “Tell me about this art woman.”

  “Mitzy Canon. She’s a voice in the art world and called me to say clearly I was an amateur and to assure me of her opinion. She sent my work to other gallery owners and critics who agreed with her.”

  Miss Anna laughed. “I see. God is making it hard on Himself. Upping the ante so He can prove Himself to you.”

  “Doesn’t feel like He’s on my side at all right now.”

  “Oh, oh, my dear friend, how will you ever learn of His goodness and faithfulness if you never slay a Goliath? Nothing is impossible with Him.”

  Miss Anna grabbed the back of the pew, pulling herself to her feet, and gathered her Bible, pocketbook, and old sweater. “See you in the morning.”

  Elle decided to pray awhile longer. “I’ll be here.”

  Miss Anna paused in the open doorway, her face sweet and cherubic, her eyes almost glowing. “Yes, I know, you will.”

  “Wally. Hey, it’s Elle Garvey . . . I’m good. Listen, I was wondering . . .” She paced the studio, feeling silly now that she’d called him, but she wanted something to do with her days. Add a little cash to her flow, avoid draining all her savings until she earned a living in art again. “Do you have any openings on your lawn crews?”

  He guffawed. Loud, in her ear, slapping his palm against the steering wheel, repeating her story to whoever sat next to him. “It’s Elle Garvey, wanting a job . . .”

  “Wally, I’m serious. I’m sort of in a setback here and thought I could use a job to get me out of the studio . . . I can’t understand why you’re . . . Wally, stop laughing . . .”

  Elle pressed End. Okay, maybe it was a crazy idea, but, aurgh, couldn’t she have control over some element of her life? She kicked a leg of her easel. It teetered and swayed. Her reaction was emotional, even after a night’s sleep and a morning of prayer, but she’d decided to slay her Goliath by giving up on painting and men for a while.

  The idea of sweating in the hot sun, challenging her muscles, letting the lowcountry sun brown her skin appealed to her. For now.

  The studio stairs rattled and Elle looked toward the door. She recognized the distinct sound of someone taking two steps at a time. When he landed on the top step, she called, “Come in, Heath. The door’s open.”

  He breezed in. “How’d you know it was me?”

  “The rhythm of your step, running up, two at a time.”

  “So, you’re on to me.” He smiled, white against brownish red.

  “Yeah, McCord, I’m on to you.” Elle gathered the papers on her work table—bills, printed e-mails, notes she’d jotted during prayer, mostly painting ideas—and stacked them in a neat pile.

  “Are you okay?”

  Elle dusted the table with her hand. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

  “I heard you coming home the other night with Jeremiah.”

  Hmm, right. “I gave him his ring back. It’s over.”

  “I’m sorry, Elle.” He bent to see her face.

  She swatted in the air in front of him. “No, you’re not. Say it: you were right. He’s a self-focused egomaniac. Should’ve known when he stumbled over how to spell renaissance.”

  Heath wrinkled his expression. “Renaissance?”

  “Long story, but I used to say the man I married had to spell renaissance. Sort of my litmus test, after finding out if he loved Jesus, naturally.”

  Staring across the studio, Heath moved his lips, the letters tumbling off his breath. “R-e-n-a-i-s-s-a-n-c-e. Renaissance.”

  Elle rang an imaginary bell. “Ding-ding. We have a winner, Johnny. Tell the man what he’s won. Okay, I’ll tell you, Bob. A grand, fun-filled life married to Elle Garvey. Just say . . .”—she slowed— “. . . I do and . . .” She stopped. He was looking at her. Warm, she felt really warm. “Shew, what is up with this old AC?”

  Heath billowed his T-shirt. “Is it on the fritz? It’s roasting in here.”

  Elle clicked the knob up one, then glanced back at Heath. “Better?”

  “Much.” He picked at a thick drop of paint on the table. “It’s good you tried with Jeremiah, Elle. Really. Now you know.”

  Elle paced the studio, starting to feel the clutter.

  “I didn’t see Jer was wrong for me because I didn’t want to see. Me, a college-educated woman, head in the sand.”

  “Don’t put yourself down, Elle. It took a lot of courage to walk away from a successful, good-looking man offering you love, commitment, and marriage.”

  “Like you were his biggest fan.”

  “But I’m yours. And I didn’t want to see you with a phony like him.”

  She snatched the broom from the corner. “I used to think women who stayed with cheating or abusive men were crazy and stupid. Now I understand a little bit why they do it.” Her eyes watered. “What if I didn’t have a good family, friends, a mentor like Miss Anna? What if I didn’t know Jesus? How can they walk away from the one bit of security being offered, even if it meant enduring some pain?”

  “You’re right, Elle. Makes me grateful.”

  “Look at me whining. You lost your wife. I can’t imagine, Heath.” Elle pointed to him with the tip of the broom handle.

  “Elle, I’m going back to New York in September.”

  She stopped with the broom. “I see.”

  “Rock needs me and Nate’s not having much success with my book. Another publisher turned me down.”

  “Mitzy Canon turned me down.”

  His torso collapsed with disappointment. “What’d she say?”

  “Blah, blah, immature, blah, blah, no good, blah, blah, second opinion of critics and gallery owners, blah, blah, you should do something else with your life, blah, blah.”

  “Forget her. She’s a New York art scene snob.”

  “Then why’d you drag my name past her? She told me to go back to my hole in the wall.”

  “But you won’t.” Heath hopped off the stool and walked over to the wall of paintings. “Elle, every time I see your work, I feel something.”

  “Like you’re going to be sick?”

  “Stop, no. I feel hope, inspiration.” He shrugged. “Makes me want to go write something, create with words what you create with colors.”

  “Then be my guest, take the paintings. Give them to friends and family for Christmas.”

  He exhaled. Elle almost felt his wind on her side of the studio. “You’re showing these in the Summer Art Walk.”

  “I called Darcy today and canceled. She’s ticked, but she’ll get over it. Jeremiah was dead on about one thing: if your work isn’t excellent, don’t go trying out for the A-team.”

  “He’s your number one fan, is he?” Heath set the feather painting down, picking up another one. Downtown Beaufort.

  “I threw his phone in the river and—” Elle snorted, leaning on the broom.

  Heath snapped his gaze to her. “You didn’t.”

  “Called him a phone whore.”

  “Bold.” He smirked.

  “I thought so.” Three days later, it was still funny.

  “Why’d you throw his phone in the river?”

  “Because I was trying to talk to him and he kept taking calls about football players and, yo, how cool was his team. It was stupid and I shouldn’t have done it, but it brought our relationship to center stage.”

  Elle leaned the broom against the table and straightened the paintbrush carousal. Huckleberry was coming by for a lesson. “So, New York. Are you taking Tracey-Love?”

  “I thought I might.”

  “Rio will bawl her eyes out.”

  “TL too. She loves Rio. And you.”

  “She’s very special, Heath. Ava would be proud.” Elle opened the turpentine jar, dipp
ed in a paper towel, and wiped down her already cleaned palette. “Did you read the letter yet?”

  “I’ve tried, keep getting interrupted. Visitors, phone calls. But I’ll make my summer-end deadline. It’s time, I know it.”

  “You’ll get your book published, Heath.”

  “You’ll show your paintings around the world.”

  “Ha, not if I don’t paint them.”

  “If I promise to keep writing, will you promise to keep painting?”

  She tossed the paper towels in the garbage, then knotted the white bag. “Maybe. Maybe.”

  When she walked around the table, the trash bag dangling from her fist, Heath reached out and molded her into his embrace, his cheek firm against her hair.

  Dropping the trash, Elle gripped him, burying her face into the soapy fragrance of his shirt.

  To: Elle Garvey

  From: CSweeney

  Subject: Coming home

  Elle,

  Mitch and I decided today to be in Beaufort for Christmas. I cannot wait. Let’s take out my old boat and drift on the Coosaw.

  I’d write more, but Carlos and I are off to Thailand for a meeting.

  Love you, Caroline

  Lights turned low. A quiet calm in the cottage. Heath roamed down to Tracey-Love’s room, the bare floor cold against his bare Fred Flintstones.

  It’d been several nights since he woke up with her curled against his back. He prayed the returned to New York wouldn’t set her back but add to the strength of her lowcountry victory.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake her, Heath pondered his decision. Not that he could change his mind, but once a child was involved, the ramifications were greater.

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you, we’re going back to New York,TL,” he whispered into the dark. “No, not right away, but in a few weeks, after Labor Day. I talked to Granddad. We’ll spend Thanksgiving with him and Uncle Mark, Aunt Linda, and the cousins.”

  He shoved aside the emotion of missing Elle.

  Straightening her covers, Heath wandered into the living room, then the kitchen. Without pausing to think about it, he reached for the letter, flipped it over, and tore open the envelope. Two pages fell out and he carried them to the living room.

  Heath,

  Babe, I’m in a hurry, but I have to write my thoughts before we move out. I hated getting cut off in the middle of our discussion. You were angry with me, and it’s unsettling to be at odds. Especially when I’m thousands of miles away. Lately it seems we are trying to fight for control. control. And, Heath, I don’t want that. Neither do you, I imagine.

  Don’t be angry with me for being on this assignment. It’s just something I have to do, and I believe God is with me. Pray to Him for your peace and mine.

  I wanted to tell you this news in person, but I can’t wait. Besides, a man has a right to know he’s going to become a father, doesn’t he? How and when he hears the news isn’t as important as the news itself, right?

  I’m pregnant, Heath. I wasn’t feeling well and just thought it was fatigue from the hectic summer schedule, but then I got to thinking . . .

  A test confirmed it. I should’ve told you first thing when I called tonight. Maybe we wouldn’t have argued. Maybe we would’ve argued more. I’m sorry, babe.

  I’m about eight weeks now, give or take. The last few months have been so busy I’ve hardly noticed anything about myself.

  Surprise, right? First we didn’t want any and now we have two.

  Maybe this one will have my feet since our dear girl has your boxy ones.

  I’ll be home before the end of the first trimester. I know it’s hard to believe, but this pregnancy only fuels my passion to raise awareness for the medical conditions for women here in Iraq. Their hospitals and clinics are raided. The villages are subject to attacks, abductions, and intimidations. We are so free, Heath, and they are still wanting and waiting.

  I was thinking of a little brother for Tracey-Love? We could name him Ben-Love. Ha-ha, get it? Been love . . . okay, I know, too corny for a woman of my education and sophistication.

  In three weeks, I’ll be home and celebrating our new child with you. I hope he has your eyes, nose, and mouth—because they are so perfect—and your athletic ability. But my brains.

  Kiss TL for me. Tell her I love her and miss her terribly. I’ll call you the first moment I can.

  I love you, as you know I do, so very much.

  Your girl, Ava

  The pages fluttered from his fingers to the floor.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Billowing clouds with rain-filled bottoms mounted in an azure sky as Elle drove to morning prayer, a slight yearning to sit in His presence swirled inside her.

  The chapel came into view, and Elle tapped the brake, turning into the parking lot. The maintenance crew had finally fixed the front window and removed the plywood cover so the old building no longer looked like a set extra from Pirates of the Caribbean.

  The chapel floor moaned under her footsteps as Elle walked down the aisle. Miss Anna’s spot by the altar was vacant.

  Elle set her Bible and notebook down, sitting where the woman normally knelt, drawing her knees to her chest.

  Hey, God, it’s me, Elle. For the first time in her life, she was beginning to understand why He was the Prince of Peace.

  “Elle?”

  She opened one eye. Jesus?

  “Elle?”

  Jesus sounded a lot like Julianne. Elle opened her eyes and looked over her shoulder. “Hey, what are you doing here?”

  She stood at the end of the aisle, stiff yet trembling with a haunting stare. Her chestnut hair was scooped back in a loose, uneven ponytail, like she’d fix it on the run. A brown stain dotted her orange top.

  “Jules?” Elle got up from the floor.

  “I can’t sleep, I can’t eat.” Her sister twisted her hands together, then raked them through her hair, pulling more strands from the blue scrunchy. “My heart pounds so hard I can’t breathe. I’m nervous. I snap at Rio. Last night she tipped over her milk and I almost slapped her in the face.”

  Julianne raised her hand in demonstration, then broke into a deep moan, sobs melting her frozen posture.

  “Shh, it’s going to be okay.” Elle held her shoulders with her arms and led her to the front row pew. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  For a long while Julianne wept against Elle. Tears fell to her lap, leaving large, dark spots.

  When she lifted her head, Elle’s top was wet with sorrow. “Can you tell me what started all of this?” She snatched the box of tissues from the altar.

  “You, that’s who.” Julianne ripped a couple of tissues from the box and wiped her naked cheeks.

  “Me?” Elle thought back over the last few weeks. She’d barely seen Julianne.

  “You just had to talk to me about Danny, about coming out with the truth.” The pink ring around her eyes deepened to crimson. “Couldn’t you tell him to mind his own business?”

  “Julianne, did you want me to ignore him? ‘Oh, hey, Danny, thanks for stopping by and telling me about you, Rio, and Jules. How ’bout them Clemson Tigers?’ Sweetie, he wants to right a wrong. Give you and Rio his name.”

  Jules blew her nose. “I’ve told him a hundred times, I can’t do it to Daddy and Mama.”

  “Is this really about Daddy and Mama? They love you, want the best for you and Rio.”

  Julianne lowered her head. “I’m such a disappointment to them.”

  “Where are you getting your information?”

  “Come on, Elle. Mama didn’t want another child after you.” Julianne tore at the wadded tissue in her hand. “I’ve heard her say it. Daddy wanted a son—”

  “Jules, that’s not fair. To you or them. Mama didn’t want another child after Sara Beth came screaming into the world. And Daddy’s never even so much as hinted at being disappointed in having girls.”

  “I know, I know, but it got stuck in my mind somewhere along the line,
maybe when Mama ranted about not having a life of her own, or when Daddy ranted about too much estrogen in his house and where could a guy find a full roll of toilet paper?” Jules did a great imitation of Daddy searching for toilet paper.

  “He’s just a grumpy ole bear. You know he never meant it to sound like he’d rather have sons.”

  “He loves sports and none of us could care less. You, maybe, the only one remotely interested in listening to him talk about golf handicaps.”

  “Jules, Daddy loves you. I’ve always suspected you were his favorite since you look the most like Mama. And any one of us could’ve been a son. Don’t throw yourself on that sword.”

  “I was the only one who didn’t go to college. The only girl who didn’t pledge Phi Mu.”

  “Okay, now you’re playing the martyr.”

  The sobs cycled around again, and Julianne fell against Elle’s shoulder, pressing a fresh tissue over her nose and mouth. Elle brushed her hair from her eyes and whispered under her breath, God, I cannot, butYou must deliver her. Please. Reveal Your love.

  Beautiful, elegant, commanding Julianne could no longer protect her Achilles’ heel. Shame.

  “I’ll go with you,” Elle finally said.

  Julianne lifted her head and blew her nose again with a fresh tissue. “I know.” Her voice was soft with tears. “But it won’t change how I feel.”

  “Can I pray for you this time?”

  Julianne tears pooled in the shallow crevasses of her face, around her nose and lips. “Do you think God will ever forgive me? I’ve done such a horrid thing.” She cut a fast glance at Elle. “When we met, his wife was on the verge of coming back to him.”

  “Sin is sin, Jules. When and how much doesn’t change God’s ability or level of forgiveness. Only thing we deal with is the consequences. Your sin is not unforgivable. All you have to do is ask.”

  Julianne dropped to her knees with a thud, her weeping gentle at first, then nearly violent, her repentance vibrating through every word. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, please, please, I’m so sorry, so sorry. F-f-forgive me, please. I can’t, I can’t take this shame any longer.”