Love Starts with Elle (23 page)

“True. Some days I wonder if maybe . . . I don’t know, if things will settle out there in Dallas and things could work out.”

“Perhaps.” The news disappointed him, but it wasn’t a total surprise coming from her heart. All the more reason for him to cool his own infatuation.

“My sister Candace thinks I sabotaged the relationship, but I didn’t know . . .”

The band slowed down the music and the plywood-floor dancers moved together. Heath slipped off the picnic table. “Enough talk. Would you like to dance?”

“I’m beginning to see a pattern here.” She put her hand in his without hesitation.

“Shh, don’t spoil the moment.”

When they reached the floor, Heath spun her into his arms, holding her to his chest.

“Elle, I have to go to New York in a few weeks to accept an award for Ava.” She listened, her hips swaying with his. “Can you watch Tracey-Love for me? I’ll pay you.”

She lifted her face. “Pay me? Heath, you’re in the South, dear heart. We take care of our friends, no debt incurred.”

“This is the first time I’ve left her overnight since Ava died.”

“I’ll get Rio to sleep over and she won’t have time to miss you. Funny, isn’t it?” She rested her face against his chest. “Just because someone dies it doesn’t always mean their life is over.”

Heath pressed his hand against the silk of her hair. Forget the walls and borders, the No Detour signs. Maybe he’d start falling in love with her when he got back from New York, or after he read Ava’s letter, perhaps even tomorrow. Or maybe he’d start falling a little bit right now.

Monday afternoon Julianne barged into the studio. “Come with me.”

She ran back out the door calling, “Hurry.”

“To where?” Elle hollered out the window, the two o’clock sun reflecting off Julianne’s windshield. “I have a brush full of paint.”

“Well, clean it up, but hurry.”

Ripping paper towels, Elle wiped her brushes, good enough for the moment since she’d be back to finish.
Dang Julianne.
Elle was just getting into this painting from a lowcountry photo.

She scurried around for her shoes as Julianne hollered, “Come on.”
Beep, beep
.

Finally, wearing two different flip-flops, Elle ran down the stairs and jumped into Julianne’s car. As she barreled down Lady’s Island Road with the top down on her ’85 Rabbit, Elle hung white-knuckled on to the passenger-door handle. Keith Urban sang from the stereo about needing a faster car.

“Do you have a hair tie?” Elle popped open Julianne’s glove box. About a hundred McDonald’s ketchup packets fell to her feet. But no hair tie.

So Elle held her hair with her hands, the ends tangling about her face, as Julianne jerked the Rabbit into the east-bound lane to pass the car ahead of her.

“Jules—” Elle pressed her foot against the floorboard.

The Rabbit’s engine wound down. “Sorry, I’m just excited.”

At the Meridian Road intersection, Julianne mashed the break and swung into a short, gravel parking lot attached to what used to be a beauty salon—its heyday in the era of the frosted beehives.

Lady’s Island Beauty.

“Jules,” Elle said, climbing out of the car, raking the wind from her hair. “I hate to be the one to tell you, but this place is closed.”

“Remember how we used to make up stories about this place when we passed it?” Julianne hurried to the porch, which was broken down on one side.

“When did we love this place and make up stories?” Elle hitched up her baggy, paint-stained shorts.

“I thought it was you. Maybe it was Candace and me.” Julianne jumped to the center of the porch and flung her arms wide. “Elle, ta-da! Welcome to Julianne’s, Beaufort’s newest and hippest salon.” The clouds moved away from the sun and light fell over Julianne’s feet.

“You bought this place?” Elle joined her on the porch, scarred and beat up with the rugged wheel marks of skateboarders. “When? How?”

“Today.” Julianne held up a single key connected to a red twisty tie. “I finally have my own shop. No more working for
the man
.” She scrunched up her shoulders and wrinkled her nose. “Even though Charlie is a woman.”

“Is this why you’ve been so secretive?” Elle followed Julianne inside, breathing a dense, musty odor.

“Elle, open the window over there, will you?”

“Jules . . .” Elle tugged at the lower pane. “This place needs a
lot
of work.” The window was painted shut.

“Most great things do, Elle.” Julianne’s hips wiggled as she tried to raise her window, but it was also sealed shut. In fact, none of the windows opened and when Julianne flipped the switch for the ceiling fans, the paddles moved once, then stopped.

Julianne gazed up, hands on her hips. “Looks like I’ll have to get Buster out here first thing.” Elle noted her relaxed attitude. “Now I know how you felt when you bought the gallery. Elle, let’s spend the night here.”

“We’d have to sleep with the front door open, Julianne. What’d you pay for this place?”

“I got it at a fair price, Elle.” Julianne opened the cupboard doors, wincing as she pulled out a dead rat by the tail. “Ew.”

“What’s a fair price? You bought that piece-o-junk car for a thousand more than it was worth new in ’85. Did you at least talk to Daddy or Candy?”

“I had all the expert advice I needed.” Julianne dumped the rat in the solitary trash can. Her tone chilled the air between them. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a big girl, all grown up with a daughter of my own.”

“Whose advice? Money is not your strong suit, Jules.” Elle walked past the out-of-date stylist stations.

“Really, Elle, you ask too many questions.”

“You have too many secrets. Where are you going to get the money to remodel? Every one of the sinks needs to be replaced. The stations are old, the vinyl ripped.” Elle kicked loose plywood dangling from the bottom drawer of one of the cabinets. “Did you get a termite inspection?”

“You know, Elle, you’re a snob.”

She spun around. “Snob?”

“You heard me. You think you’re the only one who can run a business, do her own thing? Look at you, couldn’t even compromise on a house with Jeremiah. You had to have it your way.”

The accusation cut and Elle started to strike back, but when she saw the timidity behind her sister’s eyes, she knew Julianne needed her kindness, not justification.

“I’m sorry, Jules.”

“Elle, I know I can do this. I’ve loved doing hair as long as you’ve loved art. I’ve worked six years at Charlie’s.” Julianne slapped her hand to her heart. “It’s in here. I’m ready.”

“Jules, I don’t doubt your heart or ability. I’m just concerned about the money.” Elle glanced around the square room with a row of tall windows on each side. Beneath the dirt and grim, she imagined the salon’s former charm.

Yet cracks slithered along the plaster from the ceiling to the floor. The dry hardwood needed sanding and polishing. When Elle twisted the knob on one of the old hair dryers, it broke off in her hand. “It’s going to take money to fix all of this, get new equipment.”

Julianne jammed the knob back on the dryer. “If you must know, I used the last of my Aunt Rose inheritance, and I have a personal investor.”

“Personal investor?”

“Your enthusiasm is wearing me out, Elle. Let’s go. I need to pick up Rio.” She halted when the front door opened with a soprano squeak and Danny Simmons breezed in, tan and smiling, wearing golf shorts and an over-sized pullover.

“Is this Julianne’s Place—” His expression darkened the moment his gaze fell on Elle. “Hey, Elle.”

“Hey, Danny.” Did he expect her to believe he thought this place was open?

“I saw the cars . . . thought we had a new salon in town.” Danny roamed the room, arms akimbo, pretending to inspect the place. He stopped by the sinks and the three of them—Elle, Julianne, and Danny—stood in a triangle of silence.

“Guess this place is not quite ready for business.” His chuckle sounded hollow. “I’ll run by Charlie’s for my trim.”

Julianne gripped her hands together. “Yes, Mr. Simmons, set up an appointment at Charlie’s.” She attempted to walk him to the door, but her feet seemed glued to the floor.

“Tell your daddy we need to hit the links soon.” Danny hesitated as if he wanted to say more, then nodded at Elle and left.

“Jules, what’s going on?” Elle asked.

“Nothing. You heard him; he thought we were open for business.” Retrieving her handbag from where she’d dropped it by the painted-closed window, Julianne smacked the dust from its bottom.

“He’s married,” Elle said softly.

“Was married.” Julianne stopped pounding her purse. “She left him for another man two years ago and they were separated long before.”

“And you know that because . . .”

Roaming the length of the stylist stations, Julianne tried to tug open the top drawers, but the handle snapped off. She whimpered and threw it to the floor. “Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

“I am happy for you, honey. I am. I’m also curious and a little scared. More for your heart than anything else.”

“My heart is safe, Elle, trust me. I know all about walls and boundaries.” A crimson hue crept along the edge of her face and neck.

“I’m not so sure Danny Simmonsis—”

Julianne’s stiff posture broke. “I love him.” The confession hung between them.

“Jules, really? How? When?”

Julianne stared out the window, arms crossed. “I ran into him one night during last summer’s Water Festival. We were both on our way to the shuttles, but we started talking and walking, next thing I knew it was three in the morning and we’d circled the city a hundred times.”

“He’s twenty years older than you, Julianne. What do you have in common?”

“Lots of things, actually.” She smiled. “Sara Beth always said I had an old soul. Danny and I like the same movies and sitcoms, music and books, same political and religious views. We’re both single parents.”

“Is he your investor?”

She nodded.

“Is he cosigning a loan? Giving you money?” Elle kept her voice low and even, not wanting to be the combatant.

Julianne flicked a tear from her cheek with her finger. “He’s helping me, Elle. Isn’t that enough or do you have to know all the details?” She stuffed her purse under her arm. “I need to go.”

“I’m sorry I rained on your parade.” Elle stopped her with an embrace. “Sweetie, I’m happy for you. More for the salon than him, but if he makes you happy—”

“He does, Elle.” Julianne broke free from Elle’s arms. “But please, please, what happened here today is between me and you.”

Julianne held up her pinky finger. “Pinky swear. No one outside this room right now will ever hear of this.”

“What? You’re in love. Most people want to tell the whole world.”

“Elle, pinky swear.” Julianne’s voice left no room for debate. “If you don’t, I’ll make up a lie so horrible about you—”

“Your own sister?” Elle slowly raised her pinky, challenged by the hard glint in Julianne’s eyes.

“Not a word, Elle.”

She wrapped her pinky with Julianne’s. “Pinky swear. Not a word.”

EIGHTEEN

MANHATTAN

Mitzy Canon’s art gallery,
821
, was a converted Chelsea warehouse with high ceilings, exposed steel beams, a thousand carefully aimed lights, and a definite chill in the air. At least to Heath, though he liked the paint on the cement floor—fiery red. Nice touch. Made him feel like he walked on the cover of hell.

A stringed quartet played Brahms in the far corner while gallery guests and patrons viewed colorful images of headless bodies painted by new artist Geraldine V.

Heath considered himself to be opened-minded about artistic expression, but this Geraldine V. baffled him. If he looked too long at her images, a darkness weighted his soul. The opposite of how he felt holding Elle’s Coffin Creek painting—which he’d hung in the cottage living room (over her protests).

A black-tie server handed him a glass of white wine without asking if he wanted it. When the next tray passed by, Heath returned the favor.

Where was Rock? He’d gone off to find Mitzy fifteen minutes ago. Heath walked the perimeter of the gallery, recapping last night’s awards ceremony and tonight’s dinner with Rock.

The ceremony was lovely and honoring of Ava. But even as he accepted the gold and crystal award on her behalf, the gesture felt vain.

She’s not here,
he wanted to say.
The place where she now lives outshines
the sun.
Yet spending an evening reminiscing and laughing did his heart good, and put some distance between his growing feelings for Elle.

He wondered what she and Tracey-Love were doing. He’d called in the morning to check on TL, who cried the entire call. But Elle seemed to have things under command.

“She’s afraid you’re not coming back, Heath. But I’m assuring her you will, so nothing stupid, McCord.”

“Promise. Nothing stupid.”

So the tremors from Ava’s death still shook his little girl.

This evening he’d dined with Rock. Heath decided if the man ever left the law, he could go into acupuncture. He knew all of Heath’s pressure points and how to massage them. Until they arrived at the gallery, Heath had all but decided to fly back to St. Helena, pack up, and return to Calloway & Gardner next week.