Love Starts with Elle (26 page)

Kelly being pregnant surprised him, but he knew it happened to a lot of women. Had Chet married her before they consummated their love or was it a night of passion before he shipped out? He’d have to decide, but he liked the complication the pregnancy created. Especially since he’d left Chet flying over the artic North Pacific with his engine freezing up.

Last bowl in the dishwasher. Heath loaded the detergent and pressed Start. The machine’s low hum was the only noise in the quiet house. He’d enrolled Tracey-Love in a day school this week, and he missed her little-girl sounds—singing softly, playing with her dolls—and the way she set her hand on his knee before asking, “C-can you put on a movie?”

But the interaction with other children seemed to be boosting her little confidence.

Meanwhile, he used the alone time—ten to three—to write and research. He’d spent today researching the Aleutian Islands, the Warhawk P-40, North Pacific war history, and war babies. The further he dug into history, the more he wrote, the more the story gripped him.

Leaning against the sink, he gazed at the heat waves rolling across the yard and found it hard to imagine Chet suffering in icy Alaska. He’d have to dig around his boyhood memories of New York winters, playing outside with Mark until they couldn’t feel the tips of their toes, to write a true experience for the southern flyer.

Suddenly Elle emerged from the heat waves, dressed casually and free-looking in baggy brown shorts and a white tank top. She carried a metal box by its handle, striding for her car, her arms and legs moving in graceful synchronization.

Art in motion. More and more, his fictional heroine Kelly mirrored the real-life woman of Elle Garvey.

Watching her drive away, Heath thought of their little encounters the past two weeks—Elle wandering over as he sat out on the screened porch, or grabbing a quick dinner out with Tracey-Love.

A couple of times as he walked out to the van to go pick up Tracey-Love, Elle threw open her window and yelled down at him, “Afternoon, McCord.”

“Afternoon, Garvey.”

The other night she told him a story about her friend Caroline, a K-Mart blue light she’d wired to her old Mustang, a dark night, and a Beaufort County deputy. Had him doubled over.

He wondered where she was off to this afternoon?

The tip of Ava’s waiting letter caught his eye. Making sure his hands were dry, Heath reached for the envelope. If he ever thought he’d want more than friendship with Elle, or anyone like her, he’d have to read this letter.

Turning it over, he flicked at the small tear, then returned the letter to its perch on the windowsill behind the lock. Not today. Leaving the kitchen, Heath flipped off the light.

Sitting on the tarp-covered floor of Julianne’s salon, her wood palette next to her, Elle painted a marsh scene over fresh drywall. Despite initial doubts, she conceded Julianne’s success. The shop remodel had gone quickly, though the subject of her boyfriend-investor remained taboo.

Concentrating on painting the last blade of grass in the shade, Elle jerked around when her cell beckoned with an out-of-area tone.

Oh, let it ring.
Then an odd, pinging thought.
What if it’s Jeremiah?
She reached back for the phone lying on the edge of the tarp. “Hell
oooo
.”

Oops, she’d swiped the side of Julianne’s new beige cabinets with paint. She
psssted
at Jules to wipe it off. Not surprisingly, Julianne muttered a few blue words before and after Elle’s name.

“Is this Elle?” Crisp, pristine, foreign.

“Yes, it is.”

“This is Mitzy Canon of 821 Gallery in Manhattan.”

Elle held the phone away from he ear, reviewing the number, but the screen read PRIVATE. “Excuse me, I thought you said Mitzy Canon.”

“Listen, I’m pressed for time, but a friend suggested I review your work.”

Her heart pumped blood so fast her arms went limp. “Did Darcy Campbell call you?”

“I’m speaking of Heath McCord, married to the reporter who died, Ava. What a tragedy. She was beautiful. Can you send me a résumé and samples of your work? There’s a possibility of featuring you as a debut artist in our spring show.”

“T-this spring?”

Mitzy rattled off her personal e-mail so quickly Elle’s only writing implement was her paint brush, her only writing surface Julianne’s wall.

[email protected].

“How soon would you like—”

“Yesterday.” End of conversation.

Elle closed her phone, trying to comprehend what had happened. Mitzy Canon? Heath knew the artist maker?

“Who was that?” Julianne gathered up the paint-stained paper towels, the cabinet wiped clean. “Elle, you look green. Is everything okay?”

“I just agreed to send Mitzy Canon—
the
Mitzy Canon—samples of my work. Oh my gosh.” She rose off the floor. “And I harassed Darcy Campbell for inviting Ruby Barnett to write reviews during the Summer Art Walk.”

Julianne mashed the dirty towels on top of the over-stuffed trash can. “Mitzy Canon?
The
artist maker woman?”

“Yes,
the
Mitzy Canon.” Elle’s voice echoed down the salon and back. “Somehow Heath knows her, and because of him or something, she called for samples of my work.”

Julianne’s eyes popped wide. “Go Heath.”

“I don’t know, Jules, why would I—”

“Uh-uh, no you don’t, Elle. You’re not backing out.” Julianne gripped her shoulders. “You are strong and brave about everything, it seems, but this. Forget college and the cranky professor. Go for it.”

Elle made a face. “She said with no risk to herself.”

Julianne went back to unloading boxes. “It can’t hurt to send them, right? You already think you stink. What’s one more opinion?”

“What a comforting notion, Jules.” Elle smacked back down to the floor, facing her mural. “It’s enough to believe I stink, why not have the top voice in American art agree with me?”

Elle dipped her brush in the marsh grass paint.
Heath, what’d you
do to me?
Leaning back for her phone, she autodialed him.

“Did you talk to Mitzy Canon? Why? Um-hmm . . . thank me?

Heath, I was just being a good neighbor . . . like I’m not going to go with you to the ER . . . You took me to dinner.” She chewed the tip of her thumbnail. “I’m not sure I want Mitzy . . . right . . . I know . . . got to start somewhere, sometime. But this is Mitzy Canon, top of the food chain . . . I do know my own work and talent, Heath. I live in my skin . . . um-hum . . . Okay, okay, don’t get testy. I’ll send her something. Dinner?” Elle checked the salon’s new wall clock. “About an hour? Want to go to Luther’s? Okay . . . bye.”

TWENTY

At five o’clock, Heath came out of the bedroom slipping his wallet into his jean’s back pocket. Elle knocked on the kitchen door. “Heath, you ready?”

“I was just about to get you.” He opened the door to let her in, raking back his damp hair from his eyes. She carried a large canvas board. “Another Elle Garvey masterpiece?”

“No, the first Tracey-Love McCord.” Elle turned the canvas board for him to see. “Your daughter’s handiwork.”

Heath picked his watch off the coffee table, snapping it on. “Incredible. How’d you do this?” He took the board from her, studying the swirls of paint.

“Filled pans with tempura paints and told the girls to have fun. Julianne hung Rio’s in the salon.”

Heath ran his fingers lightly over the dried surface of red, blue, and green, and all the shades in between. “This is a true gift. Thank you. I’ll hang it in my office.” He set Tracey-Love’s masterpiece against the wall, motioning to a check on the coffee table.

Elle read the number, then peered at him. He liked the surprise in her eyes. “Five hundred dollars. For what?”

“My first Elle Garvey.
Coffin Creek Fog
.”

“Heath, you said a hundred. I can’t take this. You’re raising TL alone and not working.”

“You can and you will.” He whispered, “Sadly, death comes with high dividends.”

“Now I know I can’t take it.” Elle thrust the check at him.

“You will. I bought your work and this is the price I’m paying.

Besides, Ava loved art and would be thrilled to discover a new artist and pay for an original piece.” Heath angled to see down the hall. “Tracey-Love, did you get lost in there?”

Elle slipped the folded check into her bag. “Then I’m glad my first sale is to you, Heath McCord.” She sat in front of his open laptop. “When do I get to read your first chapters?”

“It’ll cost you.” He pushed the laptop closed, afraid she’d see her reflection in the voice and movement of Kelly Carrington.

“Five hundred dollars?” Elle retrieved the check, waving it under his nose.

Heath laughed. “Keep your money, Garvey. You can read it when it’s ready.”

She captured his arm with her hand. “I owe you more than money, Heath. How can I replay you for speaking to Mitzy Canon? It’d take years, if not a lifetime, for me to get her attention.”

“Elle, it was my pleasure. Besides, I didn’t do much. Just asked my boss for an introduction.” When he peered at her, his heart stirred. Pulling away, he called for TL again. “Let’s go, Daddy and Miss Elle are hungry.” He turned to Elle. “She’s going to be a woman who is always late.”

Elle sat back in the club chair, legs crossed, foot swinging. “My sister Mary Jo drove Daddy nuts. We actually left her behind several times. Daddy thought everyone was loaded up and off we’d go.”

Tracey-Love bounced into the room. “It’s about time, girly. girl.” Heath swung her up in his arms.

In the van, Heath snapped TL in to her car seat while Elle combed and tied back her hair.

“There, ready to go. Daddy strapped you in and Miss Elle fixed your hair.”

Tracey-Love grinned, hugging her doll, crossing her ankles as if she’d been ready to go for hours and the grown-ups had kept her waiting.

Opening Elle’s door, Heath said, “To Luther’s for a burger.”

A car turned onto Coffin Point. Heath leaned toward the sound. A blue Ford rental stopped next to the van.

“Who’s that?” Elle stooped to see the man behind the wheel.

“You know him?” Heath stooped too.

“Oh my gosh.” Elle snapped back her head. Heath glanced between her and the man stepping out of the car. Her cheeks paled under wide, unbelieving eyes.

“You know him?” But as she uttered, “Jeremiah,” he’d recognized the former star athlete.

The man was large, commanding, absorbing pheromones. Heath puffed out his chest, lifted his chin.

“Hey, Elle,” said the pheromone hog, surprisingly low and uncertain.

“What are you doing here?” Elle moved into the space between them.

Yep, drawing all the female molecules for himself.
Heath knew the type. Hated them.

“Hey, babe.” Jeremiah’s smile was white, magnetic, a beacon.

Heath took a step into the space too. Couldn’t send Elle to the sharks alone.

“Jeremiah, what are you doing here?”

“Came to see you, Elle. I’ve missed you.” He peered at Heath. “Jeremiah Franklin.”

“Heath McCord.”

Their hands clasped with a
pop
.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” Jeremiah motioned to Elle, then Heath, his confidence surging beyond his tentativeness.

“We’re on our way to dinner,” Heath said with another step toward Elle.

“I was wondering if we could talk.” Jeremiah tipped his head to one side, eyes squinting, his tone solid but beckoning.

“We’re on our way to dinner,” Heath repeated.

Elle pressed her hand against his chest. “Give us a minute, Heath, please?”

Was no an option? He’d rather stand sentry to make sure this guy didn’t hoodwink her. His vibe was snaky. If Heath walked into his church, he’d have left before the announcements.

“Heath, please.”

“I’ll wait inside with Tracey-Love.”

Back in the cottage, Heath tucked behind the sheers and peeked out the window slats. Jeremiah chatted with Elle, all cool and breezy, as if he were asking her out on a first date.

With her back to him, he had no idea what was going on with her. She nodded her head. Jeremiah stroked his hand down her arm, then angled to kiss her forehead.

Ooh, she was coming to the house. Heath jerked away from the window.

“Heath?”

“In here.” He met her at the door, struggling to tone down his attitude. “What does he want?”

“Heath, easy. He didn’t break
your
heart.”

“No, but this is a perfect play from the guys-with-big-egos book. Drop a girl, realize there’s nothing better out there, and come running back.”

“Heath, I need to hear him out. He came all this way.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. Heath, what is your problem? I need to go with him, see what he wants.”

“Of course, because it’s the perfect play from the book—the dumped girl goes running back to the guy-with-big-ego because she’s stupid and he gets what he wants.”

“Stupid? Because I want to hear why he flew fifteen hundred miles to talk to me? And stop calling him guy-with-big-ego. It’s like the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Me? No, don’t put me in his brand of he-men. This is what’s wrong with women.” Heath gestured wildly, hands in the air, as if the entire female population was running amuck. “You forget yourselves, turn off your brains the moment a handsome man says pretty please. But we like the chase, Elle. Don’t let him manipulate you.”