Love Starts with Elle (11 page)

Julianne burst into the studio without a knock or “Woo-hoo, are you decent?” Elle was dozing on the futon, her pajama bottoms twisted and a sock on one foot. So far, her decision to venture out had ended at the computer.

“You look like crap.”

Elle opened one eye. Julianne hovered over her, hands on her narrow waist. “Don’t let the door slam on your way out.”

“Get up.” She tugged on Elle’s arm. “We’re going out to eat, get something greasy and fattening.” Julianne picked a pair of jeans and a top off the floor, sniffing them. “Are these clean?”

“Being as I’ve only worn what I have on for the last week, I’d say yes.”

“Good. Get in the shower.” Julianne tossed the clothes to the futon. “Don’t you have a closet in here? A chest of drawers?”

“No, I wasn’t planning on being here that long. Jules, I don’t want to go out”—Elle managed to sit up—“where people
know.
Did you see Dad ran an ad? In the paper? People will frown and bend their heads together, whispering, ‘Poor Elle, couldn’t hold on to her man.’”

“Who cares? You need to get out of this place, Elle. It smells and I’m concerned for you health. Besides, Rio wants to see you.”

Elle arched her brow. “Really? Where is she?”

“Down in the yard with Tracey-Love. She’s a sweet girl.” Julianne peered out the window. “I saw him without a shirt.” She glanced at Elle with an arched brow. “Somebody visits the gym.”

“Don’t arch your brows at me. If you like him, go for it. I think he’s divorced or something.”

“Are you going to let him stay in the cottage now that you’re not moving?” Julianne waved Elle’s jeans in her face. “Into the shower. Go.”

Her feet hit the floor in a slow start. The earlier rumble in her stomach had morphed into hunger pangs. “He paid his rent in advance. And I don’t know why I should mess up his life because of mine. If he was alone, maybe, but I can’t do it to Tracey-Love.” Elle stood without moving, clutching her jeans to her chest. “Besides, I have no visible means of support. Might as well have my mortgage covered until I figure where to open a new gallery. Oh, Jules, Angela Dooley is in my prime spot.”

“You shouldn’t have sold.”

“She said after the fact. Not helping, Jules.”

Julianne placed her hands on Elle’s shoulder and turned her toward the small bathroom. “You can always stay at Mama and Daddy’s, have the upstairs all to yourself.”

Elle peeked over her shoulder. “And you don’t live there because . . .”

“All right, it was just an idea. If I lived there, you know Mama would take over Rio. What about living with Sara Beth? She and Parker have that large spare room.”

“It’s for Parker’s mother when she comes. Besides, it smells like menthol and moth balls.”

Instead of walking for the shower, Elle sat on the futon, her legs feeling weak.

Julianne sat next to her. “Does it hurt real bad?”

“Only when I’m awake. Thankfully, that hasn’t been much lately.” She collapsed against Julianne. “The pain comes and goes. The night Jer called things off, this giant peace came over me. I’ve been searching for that same security ever since, asking God to help me.” But on days like today, when she was tired and weak, it was hard. “C-can you pray for me, Julianne?”

“Me?” Julianne’s shoulder stiffened under Elle’s cheek. “You’re asking the wrong sister. Sara Beth or Mary Jo, even Candace, but me? No, no, no. I’m sure God doesn’t want to hear from me.”

Elle sighed and lifted off the futon. “I’ll go shower.”

“Wait, Elle.” Julianne grabbed Elle’s arm. “I’ll do it. For you. Elle sat, closing her eyes, molding her hand with Jules’s.

“God, um,” Julianne breathed in, then out. “Wait, Elle, come on, I can’t . . .”

“You can.” Elle squeezed her hand.

“I feel so . . . silly.”

“Maybe this isn’t about you. Please, Jules, a short prayer, for me.”

God,
a-hem,
Julianne here on behalf of my sister. Could You please be with her, fill the hole in her heart, remind her that You love—”

As Elle listened to her sister’s halting but heartfelt words, peace began to swirl in and around her. She felt light and free, as if she were melting. She pressed her toes against the studio floor to keep from sliding right off the futon. Julianne might not believe in the power of her prayers, but Elle certainly did.

When Julianne said, “Amen,” Elle lifted her head but kept her eyes closed.

A Presence hovered in the room. Elle felt a cool breeze whisper past her feet. Next to her, Julianne breathed deep and steady.

“Elle?”

“Yeah?” The studio atmosphere was like dipping in a cool blue pool of water on a hot summer day. Elle wanted to soak as long as she could.

“Do you feel something?” Julianne shivered.

“Peace.”

“More than peace?”

“Maybe.” A hot gust of wind hit the window’s screen. Elle peeked from under her lowered eyelids. Papers rustled across the work table. A cone of sunlight formed a circle on the dull hardwood.

Elle saw it first, then Julianne. A small white feather appeared out of nowhere, riding the studio’s breeze, drifting through the golden light.

“Elle.”

“I see it.” Elle let go and slipped off the futon, picking the soft white plume off the floor.

“Where’d it come from?”

Elle glanced up Julianne, who leaned away from the mysterious feather, looking this side of freaked. “I have no idea.”

“I’m out of here.” Jules went for the door. “I’ll be in the car. Hurry up.”

The breeze settled and the studio air returned to normal. Elle set the curious feather on the worktable, knowing in a weird, unique way, God had stopped by.

To: CSweeney

From: Elle Garvey

Subject: I’m doing well

Caroline,

I’m alive, hurting, but healing. Takes more than being dumped by my fiancé to kill me. Ha. In all your born days did you ever imagine this happening to any of us? To me?

I didn’t.

My heart is heavy, wondering where it all went wrong. But I’m pulling myself together, slowly. Right now, sleeping and watching movies at Mama and Daddy’s is my prescription.

I haven’t had this much time on my hands since the summer before seventh grade.

There’s a Yankee comeya with a four-year-old daughter renting the cottage. His grandpap was a benya so he’s returning to his roots. He’s a widower, not sure how or why or when.

Enough about me. Tell me about you and Mitch, and Barcelona. And hey, tell buddy-o-pal Hazel I said hey and she owes me an e-mail.

Much love, Elle

Under the low glow of the living room lamp, Heath settled down in the club chair with his laptop and propped his legs on the ottoman.

Nights were best for writing, away from the distractions of the day. Already he wondered if he could ever go back to his hectic schedule at Calloway & Gardner.

Four-year-olds made for great company. Today he and Tracey-Love had taken a long walk, colored, talked about learning to fish, and picnicked by the creek. Her stutter had not yet softened and he could tell it frustrated her. But as she healed from Ava’s death, Heath believed the stutter would too.

He glanced at the sofa. At seven o’clock, the little girl slept in an S shape on the cushions, the tip of her wrinkled thumb touching her lips.

Shifting his gaze from TL to the laptop screen, Heath tried to focus on his story. As much as he liked to pretend, books didn’t write themselves. Nate had texted him twice during the day: “How’s it going?” followed by “I could use a few chapters.”

It’s been, what, a few weeks? Absently, Heath drummed his fingers against the keys, mulling over an opening line. Hemmingway said all he had to do was write one true sentence, then go from there. Easier said than done.

His arms were sore from wielding the chainsaw, carving out his angel. He hadn’t carved since his last visit to the lowcountry the year before Granddad died. He wasn’t sure where the unction had come from to take it up again, but Heath loved the release of physical work. Somehow, carving skimmed away another layer of the dull pain around his heart and found the fresh surface of hope. Day by day, he was starting to believe he could be happy again.

Tracey-Love shivered and moaned. Heath arched forward and snatched the afghan from the back of the couch and draped it over her. The early spring evenings were damp and cool.

Back to his blank page, Heath searched for the story brewing beneath. Closing his eyes, he let his thoughts wander. A picture of Granddad, a man of many adventures and stories, floated past his mind’s eye. Stationed in the Aleutian Islands during the war, he’d flown P-36s and P-40s for the Army’s 11th Air Force.

He’d been a tall, athletic, good-looking flyer with lots of charisma. When Heath was about fifteen, Granddad came to New York for an 11th Air Force reunion and invited Heath to tag along. That evening, Heath learned his granddad’s exploits extended beyond taming the wild brush of Edisto Island.

Into his college years, Heath made a hobby of collecting and reading World War II books.

The first hint of a story settled in Heath’s mind based on two of his loves, Granddad and history.

The Alaskan day was cloaked in its usual darkness and the few
hours of light that dawned midday barely disturbed the hovering
canvas of night. Captain Chet McCord of the 18th Pursuit Squadron
entered the mess hall on Elmendorf Air Base, grabbed a dark
mug of joe, and straddled a chair at one of the card tables.

“Tired, Captain?” asked First Sgt. Lipton in charge of the ground
crew. He winced at his cards and tossed them to the table. “I got
nothing.”

Yes, Chet was tired.

“They keep you boys flying, don’t they?” Lipton again.

“Can’t let the Japs catch us on the ground.” Chet sipped the
coffee, then made a face. It had to be three days old. He’d give a
month’s pay for his mama’s coffee.

Since the Japanese had bombed Pearl, “Yellow Peril” rocked the
northwest, including Alaska and the Aleutians Islands. Bogus wave
radio reports about a U.S. invasion kept citizens on edge and the
Army Air Corps flying.

(Note to self: do more research on the army’s position tactics in the Northwest.)

Across the mess hut, a boyish, carefree flyer from Oklahoma
stood on a chair, pounding his palm.“All right, who has news from
home? Come on, somebody, something, anything.”

“Sit down,Wilkins. Stop tormenting the boys with your ugly
mug. You know nobody has a recent letter from home.”

Lieutenant Wilkins wasn’t easily deterred. “Then who has old
news from home? Stone, didn’t you have a girl writing you regular?
Alice whatshername, right? Long legs, Betty Grable figure.”

Sgt. Stone shuffled cards. “Found herself an officer at the USO.”

A few of the boys patted his shoulder.“Sorry, Stone.”

“What about you, Captain McCord?” Stone shifted the attention
away from himself. “Someone’s always writing you.”

“Yeah.” Wilkins jumped off the chair. “Aunt Bess. Did she send
you any cake lately?”

The men erupted with laughter. Aunt Bess was a camp legend.
But not for her cake—for her face.

Wilkins circled the table, bringing the new recruits up to speed.
“Boys, Aunt Bess ain’t like my Aunt Bess.” He formed an hourglass
in the air with his hands. “Not a sweet little old lady, stooped over
with a few teeth missing. No sir, McCord’s Aunt Bess is a smart,
good-looking doll with perfect teeth and hair like the rays of sun
over the wheat fields. But she’s the worst cook this side of the Mississippi.
Sent us a cake once and we all ended up calling for the
medic. Chet, I heard CINPAC is thinking of commissioning her
cookies to fire at the enemy.”

“What do you say, McCord? Any news from Aunt Bess?” called
a private across the room.“I’d kill for one of her cookies.”

More laughter. Chet surveyed the boys, leaning back in his
chair.“Not a word, not even a crumb of rotten cake.”