Love Starts with Elle (10 page)

The move to Beaufort resurrected its presence.

Ava’s letter.

Courage, man.
Flipping it over, he gripped the small tear started on the back flap—enough to know he’d been there before, but not enough to expose the pages inside.

“Can’t do it.” Heath collapsed against the back of the chair, releasing the letter to the wrought-iron table.
Ava, it wasn’t supposed
to be like this.

“Evening.”

Heath jerked around to see a robust man with a broad chest and a Panther’s ball cap stepping onto the porch through the screen door. “Truman Garvey, Elle’s daddy.”

“Heath McCord.”

Their hands clapped together.

“She tells me you’re from New York?”

“Yes, sir.” He glanced around for his shoes and shirt. Right, he’d left them inside.

“Nice to meet you.” Truman shoved his hat back.

“Please, have a seat.” Heath reached for the letter, slipping it in his hip pocket. “Let me get a shirt.”

“Have you seen Elle?” Truman asked, easing into an old Adirondack chair opposite Heath with an
oomph
.

“Not since this afternoon.” Heath slipped into the kitchen, grabbed his shirt from the back of the chair, still wet from bath time. Before heading out, he leaned to listen for Tracey-Love. All was quiet.

Heath sat in the rocker. “What can do I for you?”

“That boy broke it off with Elle tonight.”

“Her fiancé?” He couldn’t think of any other boy who might break things off.

“Got a cola or something cold in the house? I’m a bit parched. Yeah, her fiancé called of the wedding. Just mailed off three hundred invitations too.”

“Man . . . rough.” Heath pushed out of his seat. “Got a few sodas inside.”

“As long as it fizzes, it’s good with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Heath liked this man. Reminded him of his granddaddy. Simple, straightforward, told it like it was, no messing around. He pulled two cans from the fridge. One Sprite, one root beer. “Here you go, sir. Sprite or root beer.”

“Most of my friends call me Truman.” He took the Sprite and popped it open, motioning through the screen. “I saw the baby buggy outside on my way in. You got a girl?”

“Yes, Tracey-Love. Same age as your granddaughter, Rio.”

“Tracey-Love?” Truman chuckled. “Now how’d you muster that name? Wife swindle you into it?”

Heath grinned with a swig of his root beer. “No, it happened by accident.”

“Most of the unusual ones do.”

“Her mom wanted to name her Tracey with Love as her middle name, after her great-grandma. Once we agreed, somehow we started calling her Tracey-Love and in the hoopla of her birth, Tracey-hyphen-Love was written on her birth certificate. We liked it and kept it.”

Truman nodded, seemingly satisfied. “You raising her alone?”

“Apparently.”

“Not your choice?”

“No, and no again.”

“I raised five girls. Not alone, of course. Their mama did most of the work. I just handed over my paycheck and hoped to get a turn with the remote.”

Heath whistled. “Five? And I was worried about raising one.”

“Girls come with all sorts of accessories. Fits of Emotion, Bathroom Clutter, Boy-Called-Me Voice, Boy-Dumped-Me Wail, I’m-On-A-Diet Grump, I’m-Going-Shopping Scream, Sleepy Christmas Morning Stare . . .”

“I’m a dead man.”

“Finest thing I ever produced was those girls. Wouldn’t trade them for five sons, and I mean it. Had a good buddy with three boys. One caught the curtains on fire when he was twelve and should’ve had sense to know better. The older boy wrecked the family car in one of those illegal street-racing deals and spent a year in juvenile detention. And if that weren’t bad enough, the youngest got two girls pregnant at the same time. Two. Neither one would speak to him, and my friend has two grandbabies he’s never held.”

Heath shook his head. “You make me feel lucky.”

“You are. Even when you don’t fee like it. But listen”—Truman tapped his chest—“you call me any time. I’ll see you through.”

Heath smiled, moved by the surety of the man’s pledge. “I suppose you have some daughter worries tonight, though.”

“Elle . . .” Truman tipped up his can. “She’ll land on her feet after being mad, crying it out, fuming for a few days. She gave up a lot for that boy.”

“How’d you hear about this if Elle is AWOL?”

“He called me. Go figure that, but I got to respect him for it.

Figured he’d asked permission to marry her, he’d best do the manly thing and tell me he’d called it off. He felt like his new job took too much of his time and affection. Didn’t figure it fair to Elle.”

“He sent her a box of stuff today,” Heath said. “She didn’t look happy.”

“I reckon not.”

Heath tried to imagine what was going on in the man’s life to give up a woman like the one he’d observed the past few days, church or no church. He’d witnessed the mistress of ministry destroy a man once so he made sure he kept his gaze steady on the only One who died for him.

However, when God required such a big sacrifice—Ava, his heart, his love—Heath struggled with God’s perfect will.

“You like the cottage?” Truman asked, motioning to the pale-yellow board sides. “Elle bought it for like fifty cents on the dollar. We helped her fix it up.”

“Yeah, I do—”

Truman’s phone went off. He retrieved it from his shorts pocket. “Yep?” He finished his drink,
hmming
a lot. After a minute, he snapped the phone shut and clipped it to his holster. “She’s at the house, weak and broken, but she’ll live. Lady, my wife, actually said Elle seemed quite peaceful, considering. Full of questions, as you can imagine, asking why and how, though none of us know the answer.”

“Certainly.” Heath wondered how this man felt so free to share his family’s intimate details with . . . well, a stranger.

Truman handed Heath his empty can. “Better go see what I can do. Thanks for the drink. See you in the funny pages.”

Heath grinned. His granddad used to say that to him and his brother Mark, adding nicknames like “squirt” or “sport.”
“See you in
the funny pages, squirt.”

“See you in the funny pages,Truman.”

Heath watched until the headlights disappeared into the darkness, wondering if he’d prefer to be in Elle’s shoes rather than his own.

But brokenhearted is brokenhearted. Never embraced. Never treasured. Never easy. Heath figured every human being had a certain amount of God-ordained grace to endure their own unique brand of loss and pain.

He’d had seven months to get used to his. Elle? Maybe seven hours?

“Don’t let your love grow cold, Elle Garvey.”

He’d let his love chill. And now, as he began to emerge from his season of pain, he regretted it. At the end of all truth was Jesus. He’d never let Heath down, no matter what song his circumstances sang. Funny how when he needed God’s love and peace the most, he’d given Him the stiff arm.

With the crickets harmonizing in a Coffin Creek chorus, Heath figured the place and timing was right for his own good-bye dirge to sadness and doubt.

God, Heath had learned, had a profound sense of irony. Imagine moving a man recovering from grief into a charming cottage next to a place called Coffin Creek. Sometimes it was only in dying one found life.

So, yeah, he got the irony, God. Bury the past, discover the future.

Maybe Elle had the same journey, for whatever reason.

Heath pulled Ava’s letter from his pocket. He wasn’t ready to read it, but he was ready to heal and move on. He dipped his head and confessed, “Jesus, I’m sorry for my cold heart. When I said I’d love You and follow You, I understood it didn’t guarantee me a perfect life. You took Ava—or allowed her to be taken, I don’t know which—but I just want to say to You it is well with my soul.”

Tears flushed his eyes. Heat swelled in his torso. It was well with his soul. And where it wasn’t, he longed for it to be.

Heath lingered until he felt his business with God had concluded. Rising to go inside, he turned off the porch lamps and retrieved Ava’s letter. Back in the kitchen, he anchored it on the windowsill behind the lock.

By the end of summer, he’d read it. Surely the courage resided in him somewhere. If not, he’d burn it and forget it ever existed.

EIGHT

In the lowcountry, the sun didn’t ask permission to burn through the glass and wake a girl up even at two in the afternoon—and remind her to swap up the scattered pieces of her heart.

Lying belly down on the futon, cheek against her pillow, Elle saw the blue-and-white day march past her window. Mr. Miller’s hounds bayed. A mower hummed over someone’s yard of spring grass.

Six days ago, her future had been set—marry Jeremiah, move to Dallas. But a simple “I can’t marry you now, Elle” had wrecked her plans, her hopes, a little of her identity.

Tossing off the sheet and thin summer quilt, Elle walked the sun-drenched floor to shove open the windows and flipped on the fans. The window air conditioner had frozen up in the night, leaving the loft hot and stuffy.

A scented breeze slipped through the screen. One thing Elle counted on: each new day bringing its own brand of anesthesia— hope. Elle leaned against the windowsill and inhaled, the day sweet and warm.

Mama and Daddy had been great, taking care of all the cancellation details, bringing her food, pretending she might be hungry.

What she hated the most? Feeling trapped by Jeremiah’s actions and her own emotions. She had to stir herself up.

The sound of a chainsaw nabbed her attention. Across the yard, down the slope to the creek, a shirtless Heath stood before an oak stump, protective gear on his head, chainsaw gripped in his hand.

The lawyer was a wood carver? She’d watched wood-carving artists at shows, enthralled.

His taunt, broad back was reddish brown from recent days in the sun, and his winter blond was gradually becoming a summer gold. The ends of his hair stood on end from where he must have jumbled it with his hands.

Finally, he revved the motor again and bit into the wood. Sawdust flew around him like a gazillion blond gnats. The fragrance of warm wood filtered through the studio screen.

Elle’s stomach rumbled. And she needed a shower. Leaving the window, half thinking she should do something with the rest of her day, take a step into the rest of her life, she booted up her laptop.

When she launched the Internet, her home page routed to a default. Just another reminder. She’s taken down GG Gallery’s Web page.

Surfing over to e-mail, she saw her Inbox contained over a hundred messages with subject lines like, “Sorry to hear” and “Praying for you.” She read a few, but found them too depressing, so she skimmed the names until she found one that made her smile.

Caroline Sweeney. Today she needed her friend, even if she lived thousands of miles across the Atlantic.

To: Elle Garvey

From: CSweeney

Subject: I’m with you in spirit

Your dad e-mailed me about you and Jeremiah. Elle, I am so sorry! If I was there, I’d beat him up for you. What is he thinking? He’ll never find anyone as beautiful, talented, and kind as you. He just won’t.

This morning I read a notice in the online
Gazette
about the wedding being canceled. Canceled? Isn’t that a strange thing to say of two people’s lives and relationship? Baseball games are canceled. Cable television is canceled. Not a marriage.

Elle, I’m grieving with you, wishing I had ten-thousand-mile-long arms to reach you for a hug.

Daddy ran a notice in the
Gazette
? What was he–
Oh, forget it,
Elle
.

It must seem like the world is ending, but wait and see what God will do. He must have something wonderful in mind.

Listen to me talk, the baby in God. Yet I’ve learned so much about trust and faith living in Barcelona. God has enabled me to do a job for which I had no training or qualifications. When I see my reflection in the mirror, it is the only part of me that looks and feels the same. If you’d have told me a well of confidence dwelt under the soil of my soul, I’d have never believed you.

The leap of faith I took to come here showed me who He created me to be.

I’m so convinced, even on the hardest days, He loves me, He’s for me, and is intimately acquainted with every detail of my life.

I look forward to what God has for you, Elle. I know, I sound like I’m speaking Christianese. But can I help it all the good truths of God got labeled? He does love you. He does have good for you. I believe it.

In your dad’s e-mail, he indicated it was Jeremiah’s doing, but I believe it was God’s. Don’t be mad at me for saying it. If we were sitting with you in Luther’s or the Frogmore Café, I’d say this to your face, I’m that sure.

I’m praying for you. If Jeremiah is yours, he’ll return. And you’ll welcome him. If he’s not, you wouldn’t want to be married to him. Trust God, Elle. After all, He IS love.

Since this new development, I changed my trip home to be later in the summer. There’s so much going on here. Please consider coming to Barcelona for a visit. I’d love it and you can go to the beach every day, relax, read, pray, whatever. Paint. Elle, there’s so many wonderful scenes and places to inspire you.

Mitch is coming next week. I really miss him. I don’t know how much longer we can wait to be together. We’re praying about what’s next for us.

I love you, my dear friend. You’re a jewel in my heart.

Always, Caroline

Elle wiped the tears from the edge of her jaw.
I love you too,
Caroline.