Love Starts with Elle Read online

  “Can’t box all the cases you won. The people you’ve helped, your pro bono work.”

  “Nor can I get back all the hours I spent working instead of being with Ava and Tracey-Love.”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself. Ava invested in her career as much as you, Heath. If not more.”

  Heath reached for a lone yellow pencil lying on his desk blotter. “Yeah, well, I can’t confront her about it now, can I?”

  “No, you can’t.” Rock exhaled through his nose and slapped his hands against his thighs as he stood. “If I mentored you right, you have more than enough to live on.”

  “Yes, there’s money.” Heath coughed, pressing his fist to his lips.

  “Of course.” Rock paused with his hand on the door knob. “Six months, Heath. Remember.”

  Heath tapped his forehead. “Got it right here.”

  Rock left, shutting the door as he went. Heath stared out his twentieth-floor window. Manhattan had been his promised land thirteen years ago when he and Ava arrived after three years of Yale Law. But today his promised land felt like a barren desert.

  A light snow began to fall between the Manhattan skyscrapers. Heath watched the miniscule flakes swirl past his window, knowing they’d melt in the city’s warmth before hitting the ground.

  Catherine Perry, even Rock Calloway, had no concept of Heath’s expanding wasteland. If he didn’t leave this job, this city, and this place of memories behind, it would always be winter in his heart.

  THREE

  GG GALLERY

  CLOSED

  SOLD

  BEAUFORT

  March

  The empty gallery felt cold and foreign, the bare walls echoing every word, bump, and scrape.

  Elle purposefully ignored the big-hole in her chest as she boxed up Geoffrey Morley’s February show, the last she’d ever have in Beaufort, in GG Gallery.

  She’d seen the gallery empty once before. The day she bought it. Then her gallery days were beginning instead of ending.

  Change was hard. Even chosen change.

  Julianne descended the loft stairs with a box in her hands. “Your paints.” She set them on the desk. She picked up a tube and twisted off the cap. “Are they still good?”

  “Should be,” Elle said, dragging the last box across the floor to line up with the rest of the packages for FedEx. “Oils last awhile.”

  Julianne replaced the cap and dropped the paint back into the box. “You should paint again, Elle. You do have a degree in fine arts, I believe. Studied in Florence.”

  “Running a gallery took all my time.” Elle shrugged and walked around to the printer for a piece of paper.

  “Are you going to open another gallery in Dallas?”

  “Of course.” With a big black marker, Elle wrote on the blank paper, “Desk for Sale. Best Offer. See Inside,” then taped it to the front window.

  “Are you sad?” Julianne leaned against the desk, crossing her arms. “About selling?”

  “A little, but”—Elle smiled—“the things we do for love.”

  “Seems like you just opened this place, Elle.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Julianne walked the box of paints over to the front door and set it with the pile of stuff to be carted over to Elle’s over-the-garage studio. “I can’t see you in big ole Texas, living in the middle of a place with no trees or rivers or creek beds. You’re the quintessential low-country girl. Parties at Bodean Good’s place, spending summers on the sand bar, hosting oyster roasts and lowcountry boils in the fall.”

  “Guess I’ll have to learn to barbeque and wear a cowboy hat.” Elle picked up an empty box, not sure what she needed it for, then set it back on the floor. “Love isn’t always easy, Jules. But if Jeremiah is going to be in Dallas, so am I.”

  “You don’t think turning thirty isn’t motivating you to jump into a serious commitment too fast?” Julianne kicked at the boxes, avoiding Elle’s eye.

  “You sound like Caroline when I e-mailed her the news. She asked the same question. No, I don’t. I’d given up on engagement or marriage before thirty. Burned my Operation Wedding Day plan in the chimenea, remember?” The slight edge in Elle’s voice came from irritation that both her best friend and her baby sister doubted her.

  Julianne held up her hands. “Don’t get snippy.”

  Elle started for the loft, trying to dig up some excitement about the days ahead, but only finding weariness. “Come on, help me finish clearing out upstairs.”

  She hadn’t seen Jeremiah in over a month except on video chat. While they talked and e-mailed daily, he was harried and plagued with senior pastoritis while she was burdened with wedding planning, gallery selling, cottage renting, and all the pangs associated with uprooting a life.

  Julianne ran up behind her. “You do love him, right?”

  Elle kicked aside a pile of empty boxes sitting at the top of the stairs. “Good grief, Jules. No, I loath him and on our wedding night, he’ll die mysteriously and I’ll inherit all of his preacher’s wealth. Of course I love him. And would you please remember all of this questioning the next time I drill you about something and you flash me your palm.”

  Jules tugged a thick black trash bag from the box. “I ask one, maybe two questions. You ask a hundred. So what do you want to do with all the papers in the filing cabinet.”

  “Toss them.”

  The sisters fell into a working silence, clearing away the last of Elle’s gallery days. It was the culmination of a long list of duties.

  Jeremiah’s proposal had led to a manic Monday-before-Christmas with Mama, trying to nail down as many wedding details as possible before he left for Dallas. Guest list. Tuxes. Groomsmen’s gifts. Rehearsal dinner information. Limo to drive Elle to the church. Time, date, and location of the wedding. Reception ideas. Food choices.

  On Christmas evening, after the family dinner, while everyone dozed on couches and lounge chairs, Jeremiah drew Elle away for a long walk.

  The night was clear, unusually cold, and Jeremiah cuddled her close as they walked, his hand low on the curve of her hip.

  They talked about the upcoming months, the stress of being apart, planning a wedding, finding a home to buy in Dallas, the demand of being a senior pastor at 3:16 Metro Church.

  It all seemed dreamy and unreal to Elle now, standing in the center of the loft.

  “Elle, do you want to keep these?” Jules held up two canisters of brushes.

  “Take them to the studio.” She’d bought them the summer she lived in New York and attended classes at the Student Art League, the summer she came to a realization about her talent.

  She came home and opened the gallery.

  Dumping a pile of art magazines into the trash, Elle’s thoughts drifted back to Jeremiah and Christmas.

  She could still hear the rhythm of their heels scraping against the pavement until they arrived in front of the Baxters’. Jer stopped, eyes roaming their Christmas-light extravaganza.

  “I understand.”

  “I’ve been thinking about your cottage and the gallery, Elle. You’re going to have to sell the gallery. You can’t run it from Dallas.”

  The directness of his summation startled her. But she knew he was right. “I thought I’d pretend I could.”

  He’d hugged her close and kissed her forehead. “On the other hand, why not keep the cottage? Rent it out. It’d be a nice investment.”

  On Christmas night, Elle realized how much everything was about to change. As much as she wanted to be with Jeremiah, leaving would be hard.

  “I’m going to miss you,” Julianne said now, without provocation.

  Elle glanced around to see her sitting on a pile of art books. “I’m going to miss you too. And Rio. Daddy and Mama, and our three motley sisters.”

  “You’ve been my sanity at times.” Julianne’s eyes glistened when she looked at Elle. “I’ll always be so grateful for the night you went with me to tell Mama and Daddy about Rio.”

&nbs
p; “It was a hard night, but a good one.”

  Twenty-two-year-old Julianne, sobbing, confessing she was pregnant, father unknown.

  “Elle?” a male voice called from the ground floor, his voice echoing and bouncing. “Baby, you here?”

  Elle stepped to the loft’s low wall. “Jeremiah?”

  His spread arms beckoned a “ta-da.” “Surprise.”

  “What are you doing here?” Why hadn’t he called? She was a mess, dirty and stinking from spending the past week packing up her life. Besides, she was to meet him in Dallas next week.

  He ascended the loft one slow step at a time. “I thought you might need some support for the gallery closing tomorrow. Hey, Julianne, how are you?”

  “Late to pick up Rio.” Julianne thumped down the stairs, hugged Jeremiah, and waved at Elle. “The last time I was late the little booger chewed me out. Elle, I’ll drop these boxes off at your house.”

  “Thanks, Julianne.” Elle stepped down toward Jeremiah, her heart warming, her blood flowing. While she felt like a parking-lot penny, he looked like a million dollars. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “And it’s ticked you off?”

  She laughed softly at his gentle sarcasm. “Two months of phone conversations and e-mails with only one brief visit, wishing we could be together, and, poof, here you are . . . It feels strange.”

  Jeremiah kept his eyes steady on her face. “Keep coming toward me, I’ll show you strange.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

  “Jeremiah.” His implication tightened her belly.

  “Can I kiss my wife-to-be?” he asked, taking her in his arms, his hot question flowing through her hair.

  “Please.” His kiss, the perfect reminder of why she’d said yes, why she’d agreed to sell the gallery and start life all over. “I’m glad you’re here. Thank you for coming.”

  “Two months and five days, Elle, and we’ll be together forever. For. Ever.”

  Elle liked the sound of that number.

  Little doubts crept in at the oddest times.

  Candace Harper, Elle’s lawyer and the third of the five Garvey sisters, offered Elle the final sale document as she came from behind her polished oak desk.

  “You sign where I’ve placed the sticky flags.” She lowered her voice. “You did well, Elle. Nice profit.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  On the other side of the room, the gallery’s new owner chatted with her lawyer. Angela Dooley was a black-haired beauty with bling on every finger, while her lawyer, Palmer Roth, epitomized the quiet southern gentleman, with gray temples and a sharp wit.

  Elle sort of resented the affluent Angela, who not only was beautiful but had all the resources to open a newer and better gallery.

  What did it matter? She’d be restarting in a new city with a vibrant art scene by the end of summer. Elle had spent a few hours on Google last night checking out the summer events and what part of the city she might select to set up shop.

  “Where do I sign?” Elle’s bracelets clattered against the desk as she flipped the pages.

  “Here and here.” Jeremiah pointed to the red sticky flags.

  Yes, of course, the flags. A cold dew coated Elle’s palms and the sliver of March sun spilling through Candace’s windows didn’t warm her. Nor did it emit enough light to overpower the doubt shadowing her heart.

  “Elle?” Jeremiah nudged her pen hand, but she set it down instead of signing. “Candace, can we have a minute?”

  Candace regarded her, eye to eye, as if trying to discern Elle’s concern without asking. “Only a minute.” She escorted Angela and Palmer to the conference room, asking if they’d like a cup of coffee.

  “Talk to me, babe.”

  Elle stared out the window toward the Intracoastal Waterway. “Aren’t you scared, Jeremiah?”

  “To marry you?”

  She glanced back at him. “Two people, in their thirties, trying to become one, bringing together their wants and desires, doesn’t scare you a little?”

  “No, it doesn’t. We can do it.”

  She considered his posture, the confidence of his voice. He wasn’t just saying what she wanted to hear, he voiced what he believed.

  “Jeremiah, I’ll be honest. I can’t believe a man like you loves me and asked me to marry him. You’re an amazing man, but moving is weirding me out. I wanted to raise my family here, playing with cousins, hanging off their uncles like monkeys, hearing all my growing-up stories from my parents and my sisters.”

  He ran his finger along the edge of her hair, grazing her face with his fingertip. “Babe, we’ll visit. They’ll visit. My parents are right there in Austin. Next week you’ll come to Dallas and your fears will be abated. We’ll find our house, get set to move in, and hey, I even know a great little coffee shop we can label ‘our place.’”

  “You make me want to be there with you.” She kissed the back of his hand.

  “Our relationship has moved fast, Elle.” Kindness cushioned Jer’s words. “But I know this is right. Don’t you?”

  Little doubts crept in at the oddest times.

  “You’re right.” She smiled as a distant memory surfaced. “The first night I owned the gallery, Julianne and I dug out our old sleeping bags, left Rio with Mama, and slept on the cold, cement gallery floor. I never felt so right about anything.”

  “We can’t compare owning a gallery to marriage, Elle.” Jeremiah squeezed her hand. “But I’m going to hold on to you so you don’t fall.” He brought her hand to his lips.

  “Besides, there will be other galleries, right? And the art scene in Dallas is excellent and exciting, a great place of opportunity.”

  “Do you trust me? Trust God?”

  The posture of his questions denied her any chance to say no.

  Could she not trust God? Could she not trust the man she’d said yes to in marriage? Even if she truly didn’t, she wanted to trust.

  “Yes, but promise me a Dallas gallery is in my future.”

  He laughed. “I promise.”

  “Elle?” Candace entered the room. “Angela has another appointment. We need to get going.”

  Jeremiah kissed her. You can do this.

  Elle stretched across the desk to pick up the pen. “Come in, Candace. I’m ready.”

  To: CSweeney

  From: Elle Garvey

  Subject: I sold the gallery

  Hey Caroline,

  It’s done. Yesterday I signed the papers, selling GG Gallery to Angela Dooley. When Candace handed me the papers, I panicked. Thought my right arm was being cut off. But Jeremiah tenderly reminded me of our future and the life we’d have in Dallas.

  He surprised me by flying in just to support me during the sale. Do I have a great man or what? When I asked him to promise me I could have a Dallas gallery, he did.

  I don’t know, Caroline. Were you nervous moving to Barcelona? Listen to me, all weak and scared. Wasn’t I the one who said if you didn’t go to Barcelona, I would go in your place? Now I’m chicken to leave my mama. Sad about selling my gallery. What a difference a year makes.

  Hard to believe I was the one running around town luring Beaufort’s single men into my Operation Wedding Day scheme. LOL. I kissed a lot of toads.

  I liked my gallery life in little ole Beaufort. Do you know, C, we have fourteen galleries now? Fourteen. The Art Counsel is booming with ideas.

  But I also love Jeremiah. He’s the one. I’m sure I can’t imagine all the great things God has for Jeremiah and me. I know you doubted my motives at first, but, Caroline, this is right. I know it.

  Oh . . . did you get the picture of the bridesmaids’ dresses? I love the full skirt. Yours will be the same style, but instead of the latte/champagne color, I ordered it in mocha. My sisters tried on the dresses with Sara Beth wearing your color. It looked stunning.

  Well, it’s late and I’m exhausted. I just arrived home from taking Jeremiah to the Savannah airport. He could only get away overnight. But I’m off to Dallas next
week to house hunt. Jeremiah’s leaving all the wedding details to me, but he’s handling the honeymoon and insists we find a house before the wedding.

  What’s new with you? How’s work with the European Donald Trump? Tell Carlos I said to treat you right. How are things with Mitch? Are y’all enduring the long-distance thing?

  Okay, I’ve got to go to bed.

  Love, Elle

  In the few days between selling the gallery and flying to Dallas, Elle packed up her cottage, storing boxes in the garage and the over-the-garage studio.

  Mama’s Realtor friend, Marsha Downey, had rented the cottage starting mid-April and Elle wanted to be ready for the new tenant to move in.

  Once she came home from Dallas, she had a feeling moving and wedding plans would consumer her.

  “When we get back from the honeymoon, babe,” Jeremiah said to her on the phone last night before hanging up, “be ready to hit the ground running. The more settled we are in our new house before the wedding, the better.”

  In fact, during their last few phone calls, his mantra of “Buy a house and get set up” had bordered on annoying. Elle teased him about it, calling him ‘The Repeater.’ “Hear you loud and clear, Jeremiah.”

  Elle paused now, glancing around the cottage living room. Stirred up dust tangoed with southern sunbeams. The bookshelves running under the dining room windows were vacant, as were her desk and the linen closets. The furniture remained as part of the lease . . . what else?

  Elle fanned herself with an old church bulletin she’d found among the books. The cottage air was hot and stale. She’d opened the windows in the morning to let in the cool, fresh air blowing off the creek, but the breeze had settled and the sun streaming through the windows was hot.