Love Starts with Elle

by Rachel Hauck

  Tears rolled down Elle’s cheeks as she stood in witness of her sister’s redemption.

  “Is this breaking and entering?”

  “Maybe, but I do have a key.” Elle had told Heath the first day that it unlocked her studio as well as the cottage. He stepped aside for Darcy Campbell to enter, reaching around for the light switch on the inside wall.

  After Elle refused to give her paintings to Darcy, Heath had looked her up and asked if she was willing to do a little stealth work. Darcy cackled. “You’ve come to the right woman.”

  The plan? Wait for the right moment and steal the paintings. Okay, borrow them. This afternoon Heath stopped by the studio to say hi, see if he could figure out her coming and going.

  Pay dirt. Dinner at her folks with Julianne. Tonight.

  Darcy paused, taking in the studio, hands on her hips. “She lives here?”

  “Temporarily.” Heath tucked his key in his pocket. “Her paintings are over there.”

  For a long five minutes, Darcy studied each painting, shaking her head with an um-um-um. “You did right to call me, Heath.” She picked up the Feathers painting. “This is fabulous.”

  “If you want them, let’s go.”

  Darcy grabbed two of the six paintings she wanted and hurried to the door. “She’s going to be mad, isn’t she?”

  “As a hornet.” Heath carried the two largest paintings down the stairs to Darcy’s waiting SUV. “But this is for her own good.”

  “Let’s hope she sees it that way.”

  Heath slipped the paintings into the back, careful not to bump them. “I’ll take the heat for this, Darcy. If she gets mad, blame me.”

  “What? And let you get all the glory?” Darcy’s sandpaper laugh told him she liked a good fight.

  “Have it your way.”

  “I like to think positive. Let’s just call it delayed gratitude.”

  In Mama’s burgundy and oak dining room, the only sound was the clink of flatware against Pfaltzgraff dinner plates and the slurp of tea followed by, “This is good chicken, Mama” and “Can you pass the corn bread, please?”

  Elle tried to think of a funny, distracting story to replace the suspecting silence, but her mind could conjure nothing. Blank.

  On the drive over, she’d talked strategy with Julianne, who seemed oblivious to anything but her demise as a Garvey Girl.

  “They are not going to disown you.”

  “I can hear Daddy now: ‘You are dead to me.’”

  “How many times have you actually seen Fiddler on the Roof ?”

  “Hundreds. Rio loves Tevye.”

  Elle took the opportunity to remind Jules that they lived in South Carolina and were in no way connected by faith or culture to nineteenth-century Russia and she should trust in the love of God if she couldn’t trust in the love of her parents.

  Halfway through his plate of dumplings, Daddy tossed his napkin to the table. “All right, what’s going on? Elle, Julianne? I lived in a house full of women for forty years and it’s never been this quiet. Only thing talking is the plates. Elle, is it Jeremiah? Is he still calling you?”

  “No, Daddy. He’s respecting my decision. We’re over for good.” Elle flipped her gaze to where Julianne shoveled a buttered wedge of corn bread into her mouth. The crumbling edges scattered in the corners of her mouth.

  “You two haven’t been this quiet since the womb. Lady, what do you think?”

  “Tru, I’m just as curious as you.” Mama reached back to the sideboard for the tea, refreshing everyone’s drink though they didn’t need it. When she set the pitcher down with a hard thunk, a burst of fear blipped in her blue eyes. “It’s not Rio, is it?”

  “No, Mama, no. It’s not Rio,” Julianne said with a dry, corn bread accent.

  Gulping tea, Julianne tried again. “Daddy, Mama . . .” She stopped cold, like hitting a tree going a hundred miles an hour.

  Daddy prodded. “Julianne?”

  “I declare, you’re scaring the good sense out of me.” Mama resituated her chair, thumping the legs against the dining room carpet.

  Julianne glance at Elle, who gave her a nod of courage. “I didn’t bring Rio with me tonight because she’s with her daddy.”

  Daddy stared. Mama’s mouth dropped open, then clapped shut.

  Elle wanted to reach over and tip up Julianne’s chin, knock off her veil of shame, but the confession was part of removing it forever.

  “Who might that be?” Daddy asked, calm, gentle, not at all like a grumpy old bear.

  “Julianne, that’s wonderful.” Mama added her special lilt to wonderful—an exaggerated tone meaning “What’s going on?”

  “I’ve always known who Rio’s daddy was. I didn’t tell because I didn’t want anyone to know.” Julianne stared at her hands in her lap.

  “I see.” Mama sounded exactly like a mama discovering one of her babies could not run to her in a time of trouble.

  “Why are you bringing this to us now?” Daddy’s voice balanced on the narrow line between compassion and command.

  Julianne lifted her head, trying to smile. “Can you give me a minute?” She scooted away from the table and disappeared into the hall bathroom.

  “What do you know about this, Elle?” Daddy asked, picking up his knife and fork, then putting them down again with a sigh.

  “I just found out myself. Can you please be patient and understanding?”

  “Is she afraid?” Daddy asked.

  “A little. Mostly ashamed.”

  Mama cupped her forehead with her hand. “Land sakes, my heart is playing ‘Seventy-six Trombones.’ I never imagined she’d confess something like this. It’s been over four years.” Mama’s face contorted as if she’d just figured something out. “Elle, is he a criminal, a murderer, married?”

  “Mama, please, wait for Julianne.”

  Her little sister returned with her phone in her hand. “I called him. He’s coming.”

  “Mind telling us who he is?” Daddy asked.

  Julianne stood, hands resting on the back of her chair. “It’s-it’s Danny Simmons. He’s Rio’s daddy.”

  A silent and unseen whoosh dropped into the room. All right, Julianne.

  The kitchen door slammed without a Knock, knock, anybody home? Heath glanced up. “Who’s there?”

  Elle’s flip-flops slapped against the hardwood and she stood right over him, fists on her hips. “Where are they?”

  Where are they? Heath took a moment to shift from nineteen forty-two to the present and think why Elle might be glaring at him with narrowed green eyes.

  Ah, the paintings. “Where’s what?”

  “No, you stole them. My paintings.” Her bracelets clattered as she flung her arm toward the studio.

  No use trying to cover it up. “I called Darcy. She took them to her studio.”

  “How did she get in? Did you let her in?”

  Heath stood to get gain leverage in this argument. “You told me my key worked on the studio door, so—”

  “Unbelievable.” She swatted the air with her fists. Heath ducked, just in case. “You had no right, Heath. Who do you think you are?”

  “A friend.”

  “No, a friend doesn’t go sneaking around behind people’s backs.”

  “But we do force each other to confront our fears.”

  She tapped her chest with her finger. “You take liberties with our friendship that aren’t there. It’s my work, my career, my decision. May I remind you that the last time you tried to push my work into a public forum, I was told to go sit at the kids’ table and leave the real art to the adults?”

  “I’m not letting you quit because of a snooty gallery owner.”

  “You beat all, you know it?”

  “Elle, I see you driving to the chapel for prayer every morning. I see the peace riding on your countenance. And yet you have no faith that God is bigger than Mitzy Canon?”

  She paused on the edge of the kitchen. “I would’ve never sent your book
to an agent or editor, or even a friend to read, without your permission. Especially if you warned me about how insecure you felt. But that’s exactly what you did to me.”

  Man, she was right. She was out the door before he could apologize. He chased her across the yard. “Elle, wait, stop.” But she continued to her car in long, lean strides.

  “Heath, you leave in a few weeks, right? A month? Let’s just call a truce until then. You stay out of my way and I’ll sure as shooting stay out of yours. I don’t think I can afford your kind of friendship.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The first night of the Summer Art Walk opened on a starless night the last weekend of August. The Gazette gave Elle’s work a nice write up, but tonight Ruby Barnett would act as judge.

  The morning after Heath and Darcy stole her paintings, Elle met the gallery owner on the historic homesite’s front porch with a cup of coffee from Common Ground.

  “I’m not giving you back your paintings. Keep the coffee.”

  “Then you leave me no choice. I’ll call the law.”

  “Then you leave me no choice. I’ll sue for breech of contract.”

  Check and mate.

  So, for the better part of an hour, Elle loitered outside the gallery opening night just beyond the reach of the streetlights, watching Wild Heart gallery visitors come and go.

  So far, she hadn’t heard anyone guffawing or grumbling.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  Startled, Elle jerked into the tree and scraped her arm on the bark. “Heath, what’s the big idea sneaking up on people in the middle of the night?”

  “Middle of the night? It’s eight o’clock.” He stood too close.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “What’s it look like? Not going in.”

  “Are you seriously going to hide out here all night?”

  “Yes.”

  He moved closer, violating her personal zone. “Still mad at me?”

  Not really. “Of course.”

  His eyes lingered on her face before he walked off, down the street, disappearing in the brown shadows of evening fading to night.

  Folding her arms, Elle propped against the tree, considering for a second Heath might, just might, have a point. Go inside, get it over with. Yesterday after prayer, she’d peered through Darcy’s side window to glimpse her display.

  The paintings didn’t even look like hers—new frames, hanging on a burnt-yellow wall, the images vibrant and beautiful.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Elle turned to see Heath with a single white rose. “Nice touch, McCord.”

  “Friends?”

  She touched the slick pedals to her nose. “Yeah. Sorry I got so peeved.”

  “Sorry I borrowed your paintings.” Heath grabbed her hand, gently tugging her up the main walk to the gallery’s verandah. “I wouldn’t miss your debut. Can I escort you inside?”

  “Please.”

  Wild Heart Gallery shone, from the highly polished floor to the perfectly aimed lighting. The gallery fragrance was cinnamon with a subtle hint of drying oils.

  Darcy preserved the home’s original layout, using the formal dining room as her main showroom. And there she hung Elle’s six paintings.

  Candace’s heels thunked and echoed in the dining room as she crossed over to meet Elle when she entered with Heath. Feathers is a fantastic painting.”

  “It turned out.”

  Gallery guests moved in, then out. Mozart drifted over them from the mounted speakers.

  Heath squeezed Elle’s hand and she decided to stay in the comfort of his shadow. Sara Beth arrived a few minutes later with Parker, and after them Julianne and Danny.

  The most beautiful thing in Darcy’s gallery? A radiating, shameless Julianne. “Danny, didn’t I tell you?” she said to her fiancé. “Elle’s paintings are beautiful.”

  “Yes, you did. I might have to commission a few pieces for some of my buildings.”

  “Do it while you can, sweetie,” Julianne said, “before she’s famous and we can’t afford her.”

  After Julianne’s tense confession during dinner at Mama and Daddy’s, Danny had arrived with Rio, bringing every raw emotion and question to the surface.

  Daddy invited Danny into his study where they talked in loud, stoney tones. Mama entertained Rio with a book. Julianne stared out the French doors. Elle prayed in the kitchen.

  But by the time she hugged the family good night, Julianne was in Danny’s arms, Mama wiped tears from her cheeks, and Daddy agreed to his baby girl’s November wedding.

  “Julianne, there’s Carl Yawn. Let’s go say hi.” Danny escorted his fiancée across the room.

  Heath bent down to Elle’s ear. “Is that Rio’s father?”

  “Yeah, she finally told Daddy and Mama. There I was doing a good deed for my sister while my friend robbed me blind.”

  Grinning, Heath rubbed his palms together. “What? We were also doing a good deed.”

  “Whatever.” She bumped him with her hip.

  Darcy entered with an elegant, poised black woman. “This is Elle Garvey’s work, Ruby. Isn’t it fascinating?”

  Elle stepped from behind Heath. Might as well face the music.

  “Only six? It’s a good thing you’re showing Sir Lloyd Parcel, Darcy, or I’d consider this a waste of time.” Ruby dug in her low-slung black leather bag.

  Only six? She hates them already. Floor beneath me, open up.

  Darcy glanced toward Elle. “Ruby, this is the artist, Elle Garvey.”

  Elle approached, her hand extended. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

  Ruby reluctantly gripped Elle’s fingers. “So you say now, until you read my review.”

  Ruby Barnett walked slowly along Elle’s display, observing each of the six paintings, taking notes. When she stopped in front of Feathers, she lowered her arms to her side, paper and pen gripped in her hand.

  Candace and Sara Beth watched on the other side of Heath and Elle. Julianne returned, whispering, “Is that the reviewer? What’s she doing?”

  “Yes and I don’t know.”

  Something about Feathers had her attention. Or disdain. For those who knew of the feathers apparition, the painting ministered. But if they didn’t know, Elle wondered if her simple rendition of white feathers positioned against a midnight blue silk would evoke any emotion or interest at all.

  After a moment, Ruby scribbled in her pad, then moved to the next painting. Elle watched the slow sag of her shoulders. She tried to write again, but stopped, putting her notepad in her bag.

  “Darcy, where are the Sir Lloyd Parcels? I met him in London last year. A fascinating man.”

  Darcy didn’t catch Elle’s gaze. “His paintings are in the front room, Ruby. Are you sure you don’t want to spend more—”

  “The Parcels please.”

  “Through this door.” Darcy motioned to her assistant, Christine. “Please bring Ms. Barnett some water.”

  Heath’s broad hand slid along Elle’s shoulder, a comforting gesture. “I’m sorry.”

  “How rude.” Candace circled the small family gathering, “I’m going to go ask her what she—”

  “Candace, don’t you dare.” Elle blocked her older sister. “You want to make it worse by insulting her? ‘Elle Garvey’s amateurish work was highlighted by her immature sister.’”

  Candace conceded, frustration sharpening her expression. “Fine. For you, Elle. But she barely looked at them.”

  “She reviews hundreds of paintings a year, Candace. She doesn’t have to look long to know what’s good.”

  “Then I’m done here.” Candy reached around Julianne to her husband, Alex. “Want to take your wife to dinner? Might as well take advantage of a night without the children. Jules, Danny, want to come? How about you two?” Candace regarded Elle and Heath.

  “I think I’ll stick around,” Heath said.

  “Me too.” Elle recognized a familiar Presence in the ancient dining room and she want
ed to stick around.

  “Hey, Elle. Great stuff.” Deputy J. D. Rand’s booming voice broke the silence of the show room. A stunning, willowy brunette clung to his brawny arm. Nothing about J. D. was understated.

  “Evening, J. D. You remember Heath McCord from Bodean’s party.”

  “Yeah, bubba, good to see you.” The men grasped hands. “This is Eloise Bell, new in town.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Love your work.”

  Heath nudged Elle. Ruby had returned and stood in front of Feathers. J. D. moved on with Eloise.

  “Ruby.” Darcy joined her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” Her answer faded between the y and the s.

  Elle and Heath waited by the stairwell, watching. When Ruby lowered her chin to her chest and her shoulders collapsed, Darcy whispered to her.

  Ruby sobbed, shaking her head, mumbling, slowly sinking to the floor.

  Darcy disappeared in the powder room off the front left, returning with a tissue box, and knelt next to Ruby.

  More gallery visitors entered, spotted Ruby on the floor, then exited.

  “This is why you paint, Elle,” Heath whispered. “You touch people in the hidden places.”

  Maybe it’d been five minutes, perhaps fifteen, but when Ruby lifted her head, she gazed back at Elle with glossy eyes.

  “My father was a musician,” she said, propping herself up with her hand flat on the floor. “Traveled all over the south with a blues band, sending home what money he didn’t spend on food and women for my brother James and me. I was twelve years old, hiding five-and one-dollar bills from my mama in a cigar box under my bedroom floor board so she wouldn’t spend it on bourbon.”

  “You never told me this story, Ruby,” Darcy said.

  Heath shoved Elle closer.

  “I’ve pushed so much out of my mind, Darcy. We lived on the outskirts of Charleston, nothing much more than a shack. But James and I kept it clean, studied hard in school, looked after Mama.”

  “What is it about the feathers, Ruby?” Darcy asked.

  “So many things,” she muttered. “One hot summer afternoon, right after the war, Daddy was heading off to one of his gigs. Mama fought him like there was no tomorrow. I hid under my bed, the mattress springs snatching my plaits, tucking my head in my arms, crying, praying for Mama to leave him alone. Doors slammed. Mama cracked Daddy’s cheek with her hand, begging and screaming for him to stay home, get a job shrimping or working construction. But music was Daddy’s true love.” Darcy ran her hands over Ruby’s shoulders. “My mama warned me against a tuba player.