by Rachel Hauck
“Smells like me? Elle, clean the place, break out the Lysol.”
“Then I’ll lose the last of you. If you can’t be here in person, at least let me keep your fragrance as long as it lingers.”
Julianne shoved Elle out of the chair. She had another customer. Elle sat under a dryer. “How’s the book?”
“Slow but sure. I got brave and e-mailed you the first half this morning. No pressure, Elle. Read it if you want.”
“Finally. I’ll love it, Heath, I know I will.”
“Elle, something else. I know we wanted to see each other at Christmas, but I took on a tough case. It’s consuming my days and creeping into my nights. I’m going to need the holiday downtime to write.”
Elle flipped the pages of the magazine with her fingers. “Oh, okay. I understand. Maybe I can fly up . . . sometime. I mean, if you want—”
“Want? If you only knew, Elle. But I have no free time to spend with you. I’m barely getting home to read to Tracey-Love and tuck her in.”
“How are we supposed to move forward if we are never together? If you’re changing your mind, Heath, just say so.”
“My mind has not changed. This is a calendar issue, Elle. Be patient. Let me work this out.”
“Then I have to tell you, this feels all too familiar, Heath. Jeremiah did the same thing to me.”
“I am not Jeremiah.”
“I won’t let it be done to me again.” Elle caught her reflection in the salon mirror.
“Can we talk about this later? I’m due in court.”
“Just think about it, Heath. Maybe we’re not meant to be. We just got caught up in the leaving. Perhaps neither one of us wants to be the first to say good-bye.”
Nothing for a long moment. Then a weighty sigh. Elle pictured him standing at his desk, pressing his fingers to his brow. “How’d we go from ‘I’m sure I love you’ to a seventies R&B song?”
“We’ve had a month to think, pray, get into our own routines.”
“Are you telling me you want out?
“No, but I’m trying to figure out where this relationship is going.”
“Fine, then can we do this tonight?”
She sat up, shoulders back. “Yes. Have a good day in court.”
“Yeah, okay. ’Bye.”
Elle pressed End, staring at the review, the melody and lyrics of Gladys Knight streaming across her heart.
THIRTY
Elle prayed alone in the chapel this morning, keeping vigil in Miss Anna’s spot by the altar. Her mentor had missed prayer yesterday, but when Elle called to check on her, she insisted she was fine.
“My bones wanted to sleep in, is all. I’ll be along tomorrow. I feel the Lord stirring in me.”
Elle peered at the door. She might come late. There was time.
Meanwhile, focusing was hard for Elle this morning. Her thoughts wandered from the painting she was working on for Danny to the resonance of Heath’s voice as they talked last night.
Maybe we do need to step back, reevaluate our relationship.
She’d cried herself to sleep. While they set nothing definite, Elle suspected Heath caved to her doubts. God, I’m a saboteur. Why do I keep doing this?
Because he was in New York and she was here? If the ache in her heart was any indication, she loved him more today than yesterday.
Lord, keep me from myself. I give my heart, Heath, our relationship, all my fears to You. Increase in me so I can decrease.
The chapel doors creaked. Elle rose up on her knees. “Miss Anna?”
“Morning, Elle.”
“Good morning, Pastor O’Neal.”
He sat on the front row pew and patted the bench next to him. “Join me.”
“Is everything okay?”
“We got our first fall chill this morning.” Pastor O’Neal puffed on his cupped hands.
“It was hard to get up. I slapped the snooze one too many times. Had to leave the cottage without a shower.”
He chuckled. “The chapel used to have a fireplace, over there by the communion table. But when the place almost caught fire, the board closed it off.”
“I have a feeling you didn’t come here to reminisce about fireplaces. Is Mitch all right? Caroline?”
“They’re fine. Still planning to be here for Christmas.” He shifted, clearing his voice. “Guess there’s no easy way to say this . . . Miss Anna died in her sleep, Elle.”
No. Impossible. Tiny blips of electricity prickled over her skin. “Pastor O’Neal, no. I just spoke with her.”
“Her sister found her peacefully lying in bed, smiling.” His eyes shone as he stared ahead.
“Jesus Himself probably came for her,” Elle whispered.
“Would she have it any other way?”
“Would He?” Tears slipped along the crevices of her cheek. Slipping her fingers in her hip pockets, she stood at the altar. “What will I do without her?”
Pastor O’Neal joined her, handing her a white note. “Anna gave me this for you about two months ago, instructing me not to give it to you until the right time. Said I’d know when.”
Elle brushed her wet cheeks with the back of her hand and took the note.
“I’d like you to speak at her memorial.”
“I’d be honored.” A tear dripped from her chin.
Pastor O’Neal wrapped his arm around Elle’s shoulder in a fatherly fashion, then lifted his hand to the Lord. His sweet baritone offered a sacrifice to God. “It is well . . . with my soul.”
Elle’s knees betrayed her. She slipped to the floor, weeping. Yes, it is well. But, oh, Miss Anna. I have so much I want to talk to you about.
Eli O’Neal’s song ended, but it drifted over them, echoing between the dark beams.
Elle cried, face first in the carpet, piling tissues beside her head. When her grief eased, she sat up and examined the note in her hand.
In her shaky handwriting, Miss Anna had written “For Elle.” The blue ink from her pen smudged on the beginning of each letter. She unfolded the page.
“Carry on.”
Elle smiled though fresh tears fell, and a small white feather landed on the note, slid to the edge, and dropped into Elle’s lap.
To: Heath McCord
From: Elle Garvey
Subject: Miss Anna
Hey,
Pastor O’Neal visited me at the chapel this morning. Miss Anna died. How will I walk in her large, humble shoes, Heath? She spent forty years before the Lord. Forty. Doesn’t it make life seem so simple? Like the Westminster catechism. “Glorify God and enjoy Him forever.”
She left me a simple note that tapped deep emotions. “Carry on.” I saw another feather. I cried most of the day but am getting under control. Am going to Daddy and Mama’s tonight. Julianne’s wedding is two weeks away.
Heath, all this has made me realize I’m worried too much about my life, about being in control. Yeah, I pretend to be surrendered, but I’m not. I’m sorry for my attitude the other day. Sorry for pushing, sorry for comparing you to Jeremiah. It’s not fair and I know it. Please forgive me.
I gave my heart and fears, you, and our relationship to the Lord for the thousandth time. And I’ll do it again until I get it right.
I love you. I do. No strings, no conditions, just you and me.
Kiss Tracey-Love for me. Maybe she can call me on Skype this weekend.
Hope you’re not letting the law overshadow writing. Please, don’t. I’ve been reading the book. I love it. I see a bit of myself in Kelly. Hmmm. I’m crushing on Chet, and am fascinated by the history.
You’re a beautiful writer, Heath. I’ve never even seen the Aleutians, but I felt Chet’s journey.
Talk soon.
Yours, Elle
To: Elle Garvey
From: Heath McCord
Subject: Re: Miss Anna
Elle, I’m so sorry to hear about Miss Anna. My heart is grieving. I wish I were there with you. I’ll call you later tonight. Book is coming along. Finished
chapter twenty. Your input helped a lot— especially with Kelly’s character. You have an artist’s eye, Elle, beyond painting . . .
There is a lot of you in Kelly. You were my muse.
I’m sorry too, Elle. We’re both learning to be in a relationship all over again. Well, I am. Ava was more devoted to her career than me at times, so staying late, giving up personal time was okay with her. I understand it’s not with you. Frankly, it’s not with me either.
I miss you. More than you know. I’ve played the Gladys Knights and the Pips CD so much TL is singing, “Neither one of us wants to be the first to say . . . Ooo” (She adds the “ooo. ooo.” Gets me laughing.)
Ah, I hear Rock coming down the hall.
I love you, Heath
DECEMBER
Staring out his twentieth-floor window, Heath watched snow fall from gray-bottomed clouds toward Lexington Avenue where miniscule people, all dressed in black, scurried from corner to corner, shop to shop.
Four more months of this gray and black Manhattan landscape, and he might be certifiable. The weather icon on his desktop told him Beaufort was fifty-two under a hazy blue sky.
“Bored? With your caseload?”
Rock’s voice turned him from the window. “Thinking.” Heath half smiled at his half truth. He was thinking, but not of his caseload.
He missed the lowcountry; he missed the scent of the marsh and spending his afternoons with Tracey-Love. He missed his mornings with Chet and Kelly. He missed stepping out to the screened porch with a cup of coffee and gazing toward Elle’s yellow studio window. In those moments, just the knowledge of her straightened his crooked, broken lines.
Rock sat in the club chair that had once reminded Heath of Ava but now reminded him of a life to which he no longer felt connected.
“When I was a young associate at Bernstein and Barrows,” Rock spoke with intent, measuring each word, “old man Bernstein would walk through the associates’ office, listening, stopping to address a case, asking us details about our assignments. He asked us what we knew about the senior partners, what we knew about each other.”
Heath listened. Rock had never told him this story before.
“I kept my eye out for him because I didn’t like being surprised. If I looked up from my files and he stood there, I wanted to at least be ready.”
“What was his purpose?”
“Find out which associates had the chops to make it. Who could remember details. Who paid attention to people.”
“Are you trying to tell me something? Am I slipping?”
“Yes. Your spark is gone, Heath. It’s not just Ava’s death anymore. You don’t want to be here.”
Heath exhaled, rocking his chair from side to side, hating the sensation of letting Rock down. “It’s only been a few months.”
Rock leaned forward, pressing his palms together. “You’re no good to me, Heath, if your heart’s not in it.”
He picked up the pen Ava had given him when he’d passed the bar. “The transition hasn’t been easy.”
The older man laughed. “Yeah, and the artist isn’t helping. Nor the book deal.”
“By the new year, I’ll be settled into my old routine.” He had to be if he wanted Elle to be in his life. Finding time for her had become a priority.
Rock walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “The talking heads are predicting a foot of snow. If you hurry, you might make a flight to Charleston before the airports shut down. I hear the South is lovely at Christmastime.”
Heath eyed him. “What are you saying?”
“Heath, do you love her?”
He clicked his pen on, then off, on, then off. “Yes. I do.”
“Then be with her. If there’s any good in Ava’s death it’s that you understand life is fleeting. You have a second chance at love. What are you doing here?”
“Taking it slow.”
“Slow? Heath, I know you’re trying to be wise, keep your word and loyalty to me, but I really can’t stand to see your long face around here anymore. I’ll figure out a way to deal with Doc and Tom.
Selling out and playing tennis all day looks better all the time. Now, get on the plane or you’re fired.” Rock pulled the door behind him as he left.
“Nice try, Rock,” Heath called after him, looking again at the gray day, pieces of Elle’s e-mail floating across his mind. I love you. I do. No strings, no conditions, just you and me.
Heath reached for his office phone. “Pam, get me two tickets to Charleston, nonstop. I don’t care about the cost.”
Then he dialed Junie. “Pack Tracey-Love for a week in South Carolina. Pick her up from school and meet me at JFK. I’ll call you with more details.
Snatching his coat from the rack, he thought he’d have enough time to swing by Tiffany’s.
Elle sat between Caroline and Jess under the lights of the Frogmore Café, listening to Wild Wally reminisce about Mitch O’Neal’s first touchdown pass at Beaufort High’s star quarterback. Wild Wally, of course, was his lead blocker.
“I looked around and the defensive end was in my face. Plowed me right into the turf, but not before Mitch threw a perfect spiral to Olinski.”
They’d heard the story a gazillion times. And they listened for the gazillionth time. Tradition.
“Mitch.” Andy Castleton, the Frogmore’s Emmitt Smith-sized owner, leaned over the country singer’s shoulder. “Some of the customers wonder if you could sing a song or two. It’s not our normal music night, but what do you say?”
His wide smile offered Mitch no option to say no.
“Come on, Mitch,” Elle urged. “I’d like to hear some of your new stuff.”
He checked with Caroline. “What do you say, babe?”
“Go for it. Your music saved this café over a year ago.”
Mitch stepped onto the stage and tapped the mike. “Well, Andy said some of you wanted a song, and since you’re the hometown crowd, I’m more than happy to oblige.” He strummed and tuned. “Like always, it’s good to be back in Beaufort.”
Elle sat back, at peace, at home. She’d kept her vigil of prayer and painting, missing Miss Anna. Missing Heath. But content.
“In case some of you didn’t know,” Mitch said as he perched on the stool, “Caroline did the honor of marrying me over the summer.”
A light applause peppered the room. Elle ran her hand over Caroline’s shoulders.
“This is a song I wrote for her.”
Elle eased down in her chair as Mitch’s elegant serenade billowed over the Frogmore, cushioning her soul. But when her backside vibrated, she jerked her bag to her lap and retrieved her phone from the clutter of things she called “what I need to carry around every day.”
She had one text message. Tipping the phone toward the stage lights, Elle read the tiny screen. From Heath. She smiled and opened the text.
“Where r u?”
Elle hit Reply. “Fgmr with gang. C and M r here.”
What a weird message. Why would he text her on a Friday night? Holding her phone in her lap, Elle propped her chin in her hand and listened to the last of Mitch’s song. She was definitely going to get his new album.
Somewhere in the middle of his fourth song, chairs scooched around behind her, people were shifting, and Julianne was whispering too loudly to Jess, who reached around to tap Caroline’s shoulder.
Elle slapped the table with her palm. “What are y’all fussing—”
Heath stood at the end of the table, looking like the last minute of a long day with his fading blond hair going every direction, his tie drooping, and his tan herringbone coat skewed across his shoulders.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Elle rose slowly, her pulse thickening. “What are you doing here?”
“Is there room at this party for one more?”
Julianne jumped up so fast she tripped over Danny. “Yes, please, take my seat. Hey, Heath, welcome.”
“Hey, Julianne. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“I dropped Tracey-Love off at your folks. Rio was still squealing when I left.”
“She’s been missing her.”
“Julianne,” Elle said, “did you know about this? Jess?”
“Not at all.”
“How would I know anything?”
From the stage, Mitch continued to sing. Heath walked over to her. “Rock fired me. Said I belonged down here with you.”
“He didn’t.”
Heath nodded. “Yeah, he did. And he’s right.”
She shimmied as a swoosh splashed her emotions. All her composure began to leak. “What are you saying?”
He stepped closer. “I love you. I want to be with you. If it’s possible, you’re the second first-love of my life and I’d be stupid to spend another moment away from you.”
Okay. Yeah, that’s a good reason to be here. Elle flew into his arms with a burst of tears. “I’ll move to New York with you, Heath. Whatever, but I want to be with you.”
He kissed her, firm and unyielding. “Marry me.” His lips brushed her ears. “Marry us.”
Mitch’s song ended and his last strum rang out over the café.
Heath went to bended knee. “I spoke to Truman. He says I can have you if I want you.”
“Way to sweep a girl off her feet.”
The woman at the booth next the party table leaned into Heath and Elle’s private circle. “This is way better than that boy’s singing.”
Elle cut her a glance. Mrs. Paladino. Figures. Local gossip columnist. “Hush.”
With his eyes fixed on Elle, Heath retrieved a blue box from his pocket. “Will you marry me?”
“My stars. Tiffany’s,” Mrs. Paladino burst out, apparently unclear about the meaning of hush. “If you don’t marry him, I will.”
“Marie,” the man at her table protested, “you’re married to me.”
Mrs. Paladino beat the air in front of him. “Pipe down. Well, girl, are you going to say yes?”
Elle bent down to her knees, wanting to confess her love face to face, eye to eye, heart to heart. “For a summer, you were my friend, my sanity, the one who challenged me to believe when it felt impossible. I am so honored to know you and call you friend. I can’t believe I can one day call you husband. Yes, Heath McCord, I’ll marry you.”
