Love Starts with Elle
LOVE STARTS
WITH ELLE
OTHER NOVELS BY RACHEL HAUCK INCLUDE
Lost in NashVegas
Diva NashVegas
Sweet Caroline
LOVE STARTS
WITH ELLE
RACHEL HAUCK
© 2008 by Rachel Hayes Hauck
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville,Tennessee by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc. books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hauck, Rachel, 1960–
Love starts with Elle / Rachel Hauck.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-59554-338-7 (softcover)
1. Women art dealers—Fiction. 2. Clergy—Fiction. 3. Art galleries—South Carolina—Beaufort—Fiction. 4. Beaufort (S.C.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.A866L68 2008
813’.6—dc22 2008020868
Printed in the United States of America
08 09 10 11 12 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my grandma, Grace Fausnaugh.
“I found I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn’t say any other way—things I had no words for.”
—Georgia O’Keefe (1887–1986)
CONTENTS
BEAUFORT, SC
December 21
From the loft of her Bay Street art gallery, Elle Garvey leaned against the waist-high wall, admiring GG Galley’s “Art in Christmas” show. Visitors and patrons—some Beaufort residence, others curious tourists—milled among the displays, speaking in low tones, sipping hot cider.
The mellow voice of Andy Williams serenaded them. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year . . .”
“Elle, are you the queen, surveying her kingdom?” Arlene Coulter gazed up from the bottom of the loft stairs, her bright red Christmas suit its own fashion work of art.
“Yes, and are you my loyal servant?”
Arlene curtsied, her bottle-blonde hair falling forward like silky angel hair, the hem of her skirt sliding up her knee. “Yours and yours alone, O you of whom
Art News
wrote, ‘One of the lowcountry’s finest galleries.’”
“Best hundred-dollar bribe I ever spent.” Elle descended the stairs, catching sight of her baby sister, Julianne, selling a bronze sculpture to a young woman wearing pearls.
“Darling”—Arlene linked arms with Elle and led her to the back wall—“your artist eye is truly God gifted. Tell me now . . . is this the work of the great Alyssa Porter?”
“It is.” Elle surveyed the paintings. They spoke to her each time she viewed them. She envied Alyssa and artists like her—the ones who had the courage to chase
the
dream.
Elle had lost hers a long time ago.
“And what do you like about this artist?” Arlene squeezed Elle’s arm tighter.
“Her paintings move me.” Elle freed herself from Arlene and moved to Alyssa’s
Rose Garden
, convinced it’d be a masterpiece one day.
“Move you?” Arlene studied one of the abstracts through a one-eyed slit, her short, red-tipped fingers squeezing the point of her chin. “I suppose they move me too. I’m just not sure where.”
“You’re looking for a definite image, Arlene. Don’t be so concrete. Let your imagination run . . .” Elle hooked her arm around the woman’s shoulders. “Follow my hand. See how you just moved out of the sunlight into the shade?”
“No, but, girl, I really love your bracelets. Where’d you get those?” Arlene grabbed Elle’s wrist to study the tricolor bangles.
“You beat all, Arlene.” Elle twisted her hand free.
“Well, a good set of bracelets is hard to find.” Arlene gazed again at the painting
.
“So, what should I do about Miss Porter?”
“Buy her. The New York art scene has discovered Alyssa and if you don’t purchase something before her first auction, you’ll never be able to afford it. Here . . .” Elle walked to the other side of the display. “This one on the bottom right is only two thousand dollars.”
Arlene stood an inch way from the bottom painting, tipping her head to one side. The track lighting haloed the back of her head.
“I’m afraid if I buy one of these I’ll wake up one night with the dang thing hanging over my head whispering, ‘I see dead people.’”
“If it does, call Pastor O’Neal, not me.”
Arlene bent in half as if she hung upside down, then snapped upright. “What about this artist over here. Coco Nelson. Now this I get. Look—a woman’s face, with eyes and hair.”
“Coco’s a wonderful artist,” Elle said. “Very realistic work. This series is called ‘Love and Romance.’”
“Very fitting for you, sugar.” Arlene arched a brow at Elle. “This piece,
Proposal
, is stunning.” Her voice rose and fell into a sing-song.
Elle ignore her subtle teasing. “Yes, there’s something about it. An ordinary gentleman down on one knee proposing to an ordinary woman.”
But the emotion Coco evoked in the scene was anything but ordinary. When she’d sent in the piece, Elle couldn’t hang it at first. Too embarrassed after last year’s Operation Wedding Day fiasco when she tried to date every available bachelor in Beaufort. She wanted no reminders of love and romance.
Until Jeremiah Franklin.
“Okay.” Arlene spun around. “I’ll take the Alyssa Porter and this Coco Nelson.”
“You won’t regret it.”
“Says who?” Arlene passed Alyssa’s abstract piece again, sidestepping the image as if it might spring to life and spar with her.
Elle laughed, leading the way to her desk across the old, former hardware store. She treasured the talented, sometimes whacky, interior designer who landed lowcountry clients like doctors, lawyers, and hotel developers. In the early days of GG Gallery, business from Coulter Designs had helped keep the gallery lights burning and Elle’s hopes alive.
“What’s the damage?” Arlene flashed her checkbook.
“Hold on, now, let me add a few more zeroes. zeros.” Elle jammed her finger on the adding machine’s Zero button.
“Add all you want. I’m only writing three.” Arlene fanned her face with her opened checkbook. “So, how’s it going with the good pastor?”
The mere hint of Dr. Jeremiah Franklin made Elle feel bubbly. “Good.”
“If the glow on your cheeks is any indication, I’d say it’s more than good. How long y’all been together now? Few months?”
“Two.” Elle wrote up Arlene’s order with a ten-percent discount.
“And it’s love?” Arlene leaned to see Elle’s eyes. “Don’t tell me it ain’t ’cause I can see it written all over your face.”
“Here.” Elle laughed low, passing over the order ticket with the total circled. “I appreciate your business—and nosiness—Arlene.”
“Any time, sugar. Any time.” Arlene peeked at the total, then started to write.
“Hey, babe.”
Jeremiah.
He still took her breath away after two months. When he’d told her he loved her in the setting sunlight during a beach walk, Elle had handed him her heart on a silver—no, gold—platter. Key included.
“Jer, what are you doing here?” She met him on the other side of her desk and stepped into his arms. His fragrance awakened her yearnings.
“I’m on my way to rehearse tomorrow’s sermon. Couldn’t pass the gallery without stopping in for a minute.” His kiss was soft and sweet, a pastorly display of public affection. But enough to make Elle glad to be a woman. His woman. “We’re still on for dinner?”
“Absolutely. You still haven’t said where you wanted to go.”
Jeremiah’s hazel wink teased her. “Patience, girl. Do you have to know everything?”
“Do you not know me after these few months?”
“Exactly . . .” He stooped for another soft kiss and backed away.
“Good to see you, Arlene.”
“You too, Dr. Franklin.” Arlene watched Jeremiah exit the building with a wave. “Hmm-um, Elle, it must be breaking your heart.”
Rippp
. She handed over her check.
“What? What are you talking about?” Elle brushed the check absently between her fingers.
Arlene gaped at Elle with an “Um, what now?” expression, then punched the air with a darn-it fist, chewing her bottom lip. “Me and my mouth. Shoot fire, my Dirk will kill me.” She clutched her butter-colored Dooney & Burke to her chest. “Just forget I said anything, Elle. I am so sorry.” She whirled around and hurried away with a swirling, swing-swing of her hips. “See you in church.”
“Oh no you don’t.” Arlene’s diverse network of informants was infamous—a mixture of truth and town lore, and eerily accurate. Elle scurried after her, blocking her before she reached the door. “You can’t drop a bomb like that then wiggle out of here with a ‘see you in church.’ What were you talking about?”
“First of all, I have a very natural swing to my hips. It’s what caught Dirk’s eye in the first place, mind you. As for the other, well, Elle, Jeremiah can tell you himself. Don’t worry. It’s good, I think.” She squared her red-jacketed shoulders. “Like I said, see you in church.”
Elle watched her go, thoughts racing. Jeremiah had just been here. He’d acted perfect, like always. What was Arlene talking about? This time her information network must have supplied the wrong details.
What did you hear, Arlene Coulter?
“Elle, Mrs. Beisner is curious about a discount for buying three pieces.” Julianne held out an order pad, tapping the total. During art show openings and art fairs, Elle’s baby sister worked part time for GG Gallery. “What do you think, fifteen percent?”
“Sure.” Elle raked her hair with her fingers. “Whatever she wants.”
Julianne observed her sister through narrowed eyes. “Whatever she wants? Elle, are you okay?”
“I don’t know.” Elle walked around Jules to her desk and opened the bottom drawer where her handbag lived. “Can you watch the gallery for me?”
“Where are you going?”
“To uncover a rumor.” She didn’t feel like waiting until dinner to hear his news—if there was any news.
“Now?” Julianne called after her.
“I won’t be long.” But the front door was blocked by Huckleberry Johns and his fish tank of eco art.
Oh, please, not tonight
. “Huck, what are you doing? You’re dripping muddy water all over my clean floor.”
With a lopsided grin, he scanned the gallery, vying for attention. “I call it
Death at Coffin Creek
.” He raised his composition of reeking pluff mud and marsh grass. “Developers are ruining our ecosystem.”
Elle dropped her shoulders in fake defeat. “Huckleberry, you are too good-looking and too young to be so weird.” She grabbed his shoulders and turned him around. “Out. You’re stinking up the place.
Julianne, we need a mop up here.”
Huck was an art school dropout—or, rather, they’d dropped him—and he hit the sidewalk, protesting, “I deserve to be heard.”
“Not in my gallery.” Elle stepped out after him. “Right message, wrong venue, Huck.”
“Snob.”
