Love Starts with Elle Page 14

  “These are gorgeous. Where did you find them?” Candace held the white plume up in the light. “It’s perfect.”

  Elle ran her hands over her eyes. “They just appeared. One when Julianne prayed for me after the Jeremiah ordeal and the other before I went to church one Sunday.”

  “You’re serious? Out of nowhere? What do you think it means?”

  “God watching over me? Angels hanging around? People suing me?” Elle shook her sister’s shoulder. “Talk to me, Goose.”

  Candace ran her finger along the tip of the thick plume. “Gives me chills.” She looked at Elle. “Can I have this?”

  Elle hesitated. Could she give away a God feather? “I don’t know. I mean . . .” She reached for the second feather. God was generous, Jesus being His prime example. What was a feather among sisters? “Take it.”

  “Thank you.” Candace tucked the feather in her attaché like a kid who’d just found candy. “Okay, to the business at hand. Elle, when you sold the gallery, Angela asked you to sign a noncompete.”

  “I vaguely remember.” Those first months of being engaged were frantic and, in retrospect, a blur.

  “And in doing so, you promised not to open another gallery for three years.” Candace held up a document for Elle to read.

  . . . agrees will not directly or indirectly engage in any business that competes with Angela Dooley in regard to art, the acquiring of, selling, or distribution for a period of three years.

  The sun drifted behind a cloud and the studio faded to gray. “I can’t open another gallery for three years?”

  “You told me you read the addendum.”

  “I did, I did.” Sort of. “But I was so busy . . . why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I asked you. I said, ‘Elle, did you read the addendum?’ You said, ‘Yes, Candy, I’m not stupid.’ And I said, ‘Okay, just checking.’”

  Moaning, Elle draped herself over the table. “I meant to read it thoroughly, but I was so distracted with wedding plans, closing the gallery . . .”

  “The best you can do in this county is create and sell your own work.”

  “But I’m not supposed to be in this county. I’m supposed to be married, living in Dallas.” She hammered the table with her fist.

  “I’d never say this to anyone else, but, Elle, if you wanted to be married to Jeremiah, wouldn’t you be?”

  “Um, he dumped me.” For a lawyer, Candace could be dense at times.

  “Really? You didn’t do a little sabotage work? Who draws a line in the sand over a haute couture home and a vintage?”

  “Me, that’s who,” she said, face still pressed to the table. “Besides, it was more about opposing purposes. The day we sold the gallery, he sat in your office and promised me I could open one in Dallas. A week later, he reneged.”

  “And that was it? ‘I can’t open a gallery so I quit.’ ”

  “I never quit, he did.” Elle shoved her hair out of her face and leaned against the table. Heat prickled over her skin, more from the conversation than the temperature of the studio.

  “Whether it was on some subconscious level or not, Elle, you sent him the message you weren’t ready for marriage.”

  “Candy, you’re crazy. Why would I sabotage my own life? I run around Beaufort for a year executing Operation Wedding Day against everyone’s sound advice, humiliating myself, kissing a few toads, blech. Then, when someone finally invites me to the dance, I back out? He’s the one who said he didn’t have time for marriage. Not me.”

  Candace slipped the sale addendum into her case. “You said it first without words. You’re an amazing woman, Elle, but I don’t see you married to a pastor. Growing up, you hated the label “Deacon Garvey’s daughter.” You always defended Mitch O’Neal, the rogue preacher’s kid, because you felt the congregation placed unrealistic expectations on him. Now apply that to yourself as an independent, grown woman being married to a minister. Some women make great pastor’s wives, but it’d drive you crazy.”

  “I loved Jeremiah, Candace. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Apparently not, because here you sit.” She looked around the studio. “To be honest, I think you like this bohemian existence.”

  Elle’s stared at her feet. After a night in the hospital and a day on her futon, she didn’t know what she believed or wanted. “Maybe you’re right.”

  Candace zipped her attaché. “Elle, if anyone can make lemonade out of lemons, it’s you.”

  “Do you think Wild Wally has room for me on his lawn crew?”

  Candace walked to the door. “Be serious.”

  “I am. If I can’t open a gallery, what am I going to do?” Elle brushed the rebel tears from her cheek. She was tired of crying about herself, her past.

  “You’re not joining Wally’s crew, Elle. I’ll hire you at the firm first. Your job? Paint. And I don’t mean with Sherman Williams. Get your courage back. Forget what your hardnosed, bitter professor said. Elle, trust me, somewhere in this rubble is a lovely silver lining.”

  “When you find it, give me a call.”

  “Will do. Listen, I’ve got to go. You okay?”

  “If not, I will be.”

  It’d been years since she’d run, but this evening the stretch of her legs, the ache of her weak lungs straining for air, felt good.

  Breath in. Breath out. Elle stretched further and faster, running in the sandy soil and grass along Hwy 21, the pine-perfumed wind in her face. Her ponytail swished from side to side with each stride.

  When she returned to the studio, she showered, ate a bowl of dry cereal, and checked e-mail for the first time in days. Out-of-touch artists and clients still e-mailed about GG Gallery business.

  The inbox also contained more “so sorry” messages. And a new one from Caroline.

  To: Elle Garvey

  From: CSweeney

  Subject: You have to be sitting down for this one

  Elle,

  Unplanned and not what we intended, but so romantic and perfect, Mitch and I were married last Saturday on the beach.

  Elle jerked back with a shock of tears. Her best friend? Married?

  When he came to visit, it just felt right. He called Daddy and Posey to make sure they wouldn’t be hurt if we decided to get married without all the family and trimmings.

  They blessed us over and over and promised a big reception when we came home.

  Mitch’s daddy had always wanted to officiate our ceremony, if and when, but he said, “Son, if you know it’s right, marry her. We’ve been waiting a long time.”

  Isn’t he the best?

  Oh, Elle, it feels so good and right to be his wife. The timing was perfect. God knew. I can’t believe I wasted so many years and countless hours sitting in the old live oak tree talking to No One when I could’ve been talking to the True One.

  My boss, good ole Carlos, gave us a nice wedding gift—money and two weeks off. Mitch has to go back to Nashville, but we can manage our marriage long distance for the next few months.

  Hazel and a few friends from SRG International were witnesses. I’m sorry you were not one of them. We always promised we’d be each other’s maid-of-honor, didn’t we?

  But if marriage is about the relationship, not the ceremony, then Mitch and I did exactly the right thing. We’ll celebrate together when I come home.

  I love you, Elle, and hope this news isn’t sad for you in light of everything. But I wanted you to know. Praying for you.

  Caroline Sweeney O’Neal

  (O’Neal, did you see? My name is O’Neal!)

  Elle read the e-mail twice more. Way to go, Caroline.

  To: CSweeney

  From: Elle Garvey

  Subject: Congratulations!

  Caroline,

  Married? Ahhhhh . . . can you hear me screaming all the way from St. Helena? I’m so happy for you and Mitch. We’ve all waited a long time for this day. Remember when we were seventeen and Mitch started the pluff mud fight during the Water Festival? Then that night
he kissed you in the back booth at the Frogmore Café. You’ve waited twelve years for that kiss to come to fruition. (smile)

  I am doing well other than being sad I missed your wedding. I feel thickheaded and dazed sometimes, but with each hurdle, my inner strength grows. Recent news: can’t open a new gallery. Sale addendum to GG Gallery prohibits.

  Your comment, “God knew,” challenged me. I’ve known Him my whole life, Caroline. Grew up in church. But I’m no more confident or aware of Him than when I was a girl. Only now, in the midst of pain and failure, do I find myself running to Him. I can speak to Him, but my ear is not tuned to hearing. That realization frightens me.

  Is my life in shambles because He wanted me to stop and face Him, not dialog with my back to Him as I went about my day with half-hearted faith? Maybe. Either way, He gets to see my mug every weekday morning, seven a.m., Beaufort Community Church’s prayer chapel. We have a standing date.

  Candace actually thinks I sabotaged my relationship with Jer because at some deep level I didn’t want to be married to him and living in Dallas. She claims I’d hate being a pastor’s wife. Sheez, does that make me sound shallow or what?

  Can’t wait to see you. Send pics if you have any.

  Love you most dearly, Elle

  Without rereading, Elle sent her e-mail into cyber space, suspicious she’d written to herself as much as Caroline.

  By now, late evening approached and Elle wondered when Heath would call. She fished her phone from her bag. Shoot, dead battery.

  Plugging it in, she powered it up to find five messages from Heath. The last one thirty minutes ago. She dialed his phone.

  “Heath, it’s Elle.”

  “Where have you been?” Sharp, curt, a tad testy.

  “My battery died and I just noticed. I’m sorry.” She gazed around for her flip-flops. What was with this studio eating her shoes?

  “Did you think to check? They were ready to release TL two hours ago. Can you please come and get us? If it’s not too much of a bother.”

  Heath certainly wore lack of sleep like an ugly sweater. In a calm, low tone, she answered, “I’ll be right there.”

  Rain drummed against the windows as Heath stretched out on the floor in front of the fire. He locked his hand behind his head, settling back against the pile of pillows, smiling when her footsteps resounded down the hall.

  “Is she sleeping?” he asked.

  “Like a baby.” Ava smiled and lowered herself to the floor, pillowing her head on his chest. Absently Heath wrapped his arm around her.

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. And perfect. You do nice work, Mr. McCord.”

  “So do you, Mrs. McCord.”

  She raised up, propping on her elbow. “You’re glad, aren’t you? We made the decision so fast.”

  He brushed her hair away from her oval face. “If I were any happier, my heart would burst.”

  Ava nestled against his chest again. “Sometimes I hold her and cry. I can’t believe she’s ours.”

  “Want to try for another one?” He pressed her close.

  Ava laughed gently, swatting his belly. “She’s only two months old. I’m not ready for another one.”

  “Then you don’t get my drift.”

  She responded to him with a lingering kiss.“I believe I do.”

  Heath rolled her onto her back, eyes to eyes, nose to nose, lips to lips. The fire wood crackled and popped. Ava’s expression grew serious.

  “If something happens to me, Heath, will you fall in love again?”

  “What? Why are you talking about dying? Besides, there’s only you for me, Ava.”

  “Because having Tracey-Love makes me think of things I never considered before.” She brushed her hands down the side of his face, caressing his lips with her thumb.

  He sat back on his knees. This talk was nonsense.“If something happened to me, would you marry again?”

  “If I fell in love, yes. She’d need a father.”

  “I’m her father.”

  “I know, but baby, if one of us dies,Tracey-Love would need another man or woman in her life.”

  Heath got up and walked over to the fire and stirred the coal. “Can we stop all this talk about dying? No one is dying.”

  “We need to be ready for whatever life hands us. Of course, we aren’t dying before our time, but, Heath, we have to prepare for every scenario. If not for ourselves, for our daughter. I want you to promise me.” She met him by the fireplace and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her face into his back. “Promise me you’ll fall in love again. Marry a woman who loves you and Tracey-Love.”

  He hated this discussion. “No, I’m not promising anything related to your death, or mine.”

  “Heath, you must. Promise me. Promise me. Promise me.”

  Heath woke, gasping. Sweat gathered on his forehead, and in the dark room he couldn’t get his bearings. What time was it? By the manmade light slipping through the drawn window slats, he guessed it to be the middle of the night.

  The intensity of the dream clung to him as he clicked on the bedside lamp. So very real. When did he and Ava ever have such a conversation?

  Invincible Ava never considered death, even when she danced with danger. Heath was the cautious one, making out the will, setting up disaster funds, trust funds, buying insurance.

  Tracey-Love stirred on her side of the bed. Heath leaned over to check on her, sweeping her hair from her face. Home two days from the hospital, she was doing well, but he still worried, still carried the effects of his sleepless ER night.

  The cottage was hot, and as Heath made his way to the thermostat, the old floor creaked under his feet.

  It’d been a little while since he’d dreamt of Ava, and he didn’t like it now anymore than he did then. In the weeks after her funeral, Heath dreamed of her screams and cries for help, exhausting himself in fruitless rescue efforts. He’d wake up drenched, legs kicking, the bed linens toppled onto the floor.

  In the living room, Heath bumped the thermostat down a degree, and in a few seconds, fresh air circulated.

  He walked to the kitchen and flipped on the light. Two a.m. Opening the fridge for a bottle of water, he caught the white and blue of Ava’s letter waiting for him on the windowsill.

  “We were lucky, Ava. The doc said it was a mild case of viral meningitis.” He twisted open the water, taking a long swig. “She’ll be weak for a few weeks, but should be running and playing like any healthy girl by the end of June.”

  Another deep swig.

  “I was scared, babe. I can’t lose her. And for the first time, I let myself be really mad at you.”

  Without consideration, Heath fired the half-full water bottle against the far wall. It hit the tile and puddled.

  He banged out the kitchen door onto the porch. The gentle humid night rebuked his anger. He dropped to the edge of the iron rocker, whispering his emotions to God. First about Ava, then Tracey-Love being sick, and finally his behavior toward Elle.

  Man, he’d been a bear to her when she’d arrived at the hospital. He groused and grumbled because she wasn’t ready at his beck and call. But who’d gotten up at 1:00 a.m. to drive him to the ER, without one word of complaint? Not one hint of “You owe me.”

  She never defended herself when he suggested, rather rudely, she should remember to charge her phone battery. Instead she apologized again and drove them home in comforting silence, stopping by the pharmacy to fill a prescription and waited as he ran into Publix for Gatorade and juice. And when Tracey-Love asked for her new dolly, Elle hunted high and low. Discovering Heath had left it at the hospital, she drove back to get it.

  Living in her house, imposing on her hospitality, he’d acted like a world-class jerk. He’d make it up to her. Figure out a way and make it up to her.

  FIFTEEN

  Between Caroline’s e-mail, Candace’s ridiculous accusation of sabotage, and Pastor O’Neal’s Sunday morning reminder that Jesus said, “My s
heep hear my voice,” Elle needed to do some come-to-Jesus soul searching.

  At thirty-one, raised in church, she could not confess she confidently knew the voice of her Lord.

  Sitting in the chapel, second pew, right side, Elle felt like a blank slate. She had nothing going on in her life but Him, and for the first time, she felt completely surrendered.

  And she liked it.

  At the altar, Miss Anna remained vigilant, pacing back and forth this morning instead of kneeling.

  How many years had the older woman been coming here, keeping watch? Forty? Elle’s respect for her deepened. Don’t mistake prayer for inactivity.

  Closing her eyes, she offered her thoughts as a sacrifice to the Lord, gave Him her affection. But when a foreign thought flipped across her mind—“What do you want?”—her eyes popped open to a quickened pulse.

  Me? What do I want?

  “What do you want?”

  Elle sat forward, peeking around. Are you talking to me?

  “What do you want?”

  Open a gallery and— “What do you want?”

  I just said, open a gallery— Arguing with herself, fine existential moment.

  “No, tell Me what you want.”

  Her heart raced. The challenge was not from her mind but from Him.

  Miss Anna stopped pacing and stood quietly with her head bowed.

  Okay, what do I want? Elle settled down, shoved aside expectations and preconceived ideas, and lowered an empty bucket of desire through her soul.

  I want to paint. I want to get over my fears, forget what my professor said to me and paint. There, she admitted it.

  She waited, listening, sensing the life on her confession. Yeah, she wanted to paint. After six years of denying her heart, she wanted to paint. God knew, just like Caroline said. Elle wondered how long His question had hovered in the heavens, waiting for her to be still.