Love Starts with Elle (9 page)

Heath didn’t seem to have many toys for Tracey-Love—had they left New York in a hurry?—so Elle dug through the boxes in the garage until she produced Rio’s doll and baby stroller.

The grateful gaze in Heath’s eyes lingered with her. Curious about his story, Elle didn’t figure she’d earned the right to pry into his business and ask why Tracey-Love didn’t have a mama.

“I left a lot of her toys in New York,” he’d confessed as he stood with her in the yard.

Elle held up her fingers. “Two words, Heath: Wal-Mart. Cheap.

Buy your daughter some toys.”

“That’s three words.”

“Wal-Mart is hyphenated.”

“And I call myself the writer.”

“Writer? Didn’t Marsha tell me you’re a lawyer? Hey, Rio, baby, don’t be so bossy.”

“Yes, I’m a writer dressed as a lawyer. I work for a boutique Manhattan law firm, focus on criminal law, but I took a break, thought I’d write a little.”

“What’s your book about?”

“I have no idea. Got any good ideas?”

Smiling, Elle stepped away from the window.
Back to work. What
is the gunk in this drawer?
She pulled out the work table drawer and dumped its contents down the mouth of a trash bag.

At the sound of a big growl, Elle looked out the window again. A bearlike Heath popped out from behind a tree and sent the girls scrambling and screaming to the deck, Rio’s dark head bobbing up while Tracey-Love’s blonde one bobbed down.

TL’s grin could brighten the darkest sea. And Heath would be Rio’s hero by the end of the day if he wasn’t already.

“Do it again,” Rio shouted to him.

“Okay, close your eyes.” Heath rose up from his hands and knees. Something caught his attention. Elle pressed her face into the screen to see.

The FedEx man. “Hey, Chuck,” Elle hollered.

The man squinted toward her voice. “What are you doing up there, Elle? Playing Rapunzel?”

“Except for the long hair and Prince Charming, yes.”

“Got something for you. From Texas.”

Elle rocketed toward the door, barely avoiding a face plant as her toe caught the edge of a wooden crate. She flew down the studio stairs, meeting Chuck where he stood.

“It’s from Jeremiah.”

“Trying to get a few brownie points, huh?” Chuck flipped Elle his box cutter. “Want to open it?”

She hesitated. What if it was personal? “Okay, but no peeking over my shoulder until I say it’s safe.” Elle took the box cutter. Kneeling in Heath and Chuck’s shade, with a sliver of sun falling across the box, she sliced the tape and peered inside.

“Well, what’d he send?” Chuck’s barrel frame blocked her light, but he kept his promise not to peek.

Heath waited on the other side of Chuck.

A bundle of CDs tied with the same ribbon she’d used when she gave him the recordings as a gift. The neckties she’d give him for Christmas. The pictures she’d had framed for his apartment in Dallas. The shells they’d gathered during their first walk on the beach. Movie stubs. The napkin she’d given him after blotting her lipstick because he said, “It smells like you.”

Among the items, she found no note of explanation. Her skin prickled with heat.
Why would Jeremiah do this?

Chuck cleared his throat. “Well, best get going. See you, Elle.”

“See you.” She couldn’t look around at him. Had he seen the contents of the box? If so, did he understand?

Chuck and Heath’s voices faded as they walked toward the FedEx truck. In the next minute, the engine fired up, reverse whining as Chuck backed out the drive.

Elle stood, cradling the box in her arms, trembling.
Is he breaking
up with me?
The thought made her queasy.

Heath called the girls. “How about ice cream?”

Yelling their agreement, they darted across the yard. Elle heard the doors open, then close.

I don’t get it? Why . . .
Her thoughts raced over the last few days. They’d agreed on a house, putting in for the loan. Jeremiah asked for her financials, which Daddy, her accountant, was gathering.

Heath’s shadow fell over hers. “I have the feeling Chuck didn’t bring something pleasant.”

She shook her head.

“I’m sorry. Can I help in any way?”

“No, but thank you.”

“I’m taking Rio with me.” Heath waited, then backed away. “Be back soon.”

It was hard to speak. Elle felt like any breath, any word or movement would be the thread that unraveled her. She felt numb and on fire at the same time.

Hearing Heath pull away, she started for the studio steps, her emotions beginning to boil. She burst inside, threw the box to the table, and yanked her cell phone from the top of her bag.

Jeremiah Franklin better answer this call.

SEVEN

On the loft floor of what used to be GG Gallery, Elle sat with her knees to her chest, her arms wrapped around her calves. The men working on Angela Dooley’s remodel had stood aside when Elle barged in like a wounded animal and bounded up to the second level.

“Don’t mind me,” she’d told them, her voice hollow to her own ears.

“Hey, you can’t come in here. This is a construction site.”

“Leave her alone, Frank. Elle, you okay?”

“Fine, Gilly. Just peachy.” Why she wanted to be at the gallery— or what used to be her gallery—Elle didn’t know, but she climbed to the loft and huddled on the floor, the darkness comforting her.

Jeremiah didn’t answer her initial call, nor the two dozen after.
God, what is going on?
Hopelessness locked on and Elle let her tears slip free. “What did I ever do to him?”

Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, feeling the grit of the construction mess grinding her skin, she’d dialed Jeremiah again and was rewarded for the twentieth time with his stupid, tired, recorded message. “You’ve reached Jeremiah Franklin, senior pastor at 3:16 Metro Church. I’m not available . . .”

Elle pressed End, her jaw tight. “You’re never available.”

Waiting for him to call in between all of her autodialing, Elle tried to fathom her relationship with Jeremiah coming to this. The enticing, electric sensations he’d created in her belly when he kissed her and slipped his fingers along the edge of temptation were distant and cold.

Drawing in a big gulp of warm, dusty loft air, Elle tried to make sense of it all. Was it Dallas and the big church? Was it her? Him? Did they not know each other as well as they pretended?

Why won’t you call me back?
She resisted the urge to smash her phone against the wall.

The last glow of daylight had slipped away from the store’s pane window, leaving Elle completely in the dark when her phone finally rang.

“I’m in a meeting and my phone won’t stop vibrating,” he said without hello, without saying her name.

A string of blue words, many of which Elle had never uttered before in her life, flowed from her soul. “Then get out of the meeting.”

“I told you I’d call later.”

“The box came.” Flat, honest confession.

Silence, followed by a heavy blast of air. “It wasn’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow or later.”

“Darn the efficiency of those FedEx boys.” Her wounds dripped sarcasm.

Silence again. “It’s not going to work, Elle.”

Her tense muscles kept her from shattering into a million pieces. “What is not going to work, Jeremiah?” She’d given him way too much lead in their relationship. If he wanted to say something, he’d best speak plainly.

“You. Me. Marriage.” She heard a door click closed and the echo of Jeremiah’s footsteps in a hollow hall.

“Only because you’re sabotaging it. You’re physically and emotionally unavailable. I can’t win.”

“I can’t win with you either. I told you, Elle, the ministry would consume me at first.”

“When have I ever interrupted your ministry?” Now that it was going down, she couldn’t stop shaking.

“Face it, Elle. You don’t want to be married to a pastor.”

“Jeremiah, I love you. I want to be married to you, not your job. I feel like you want me to simply fit into your life without bringing any part of myself. It’s like I’m the right size, so give me the suit.”

“I don’t know how you can say that, but yes, I need a woman who can stand strong in ministry. Elle, if you want to do your own thing, chase your own God dreams, then go for it, but I can’t let it get in the way of what He’s called me to do.” His confession sliced through her heart, painfully cutting. “I’m sorry. Those are hard words, but I felt you needed to hear them.”

“You are so unfair and selfish, Jeremiah. How could you say that to me? I’ve never let my dreams get in the way of yours. I agreed to the house, agreed to move to Dallas
after
you proposed, agreed to wait on the gallery.”

“Look, let’s not cloud the issue.”

“Cloud the issue? I think it’s fairly clear, Jer—you don’t want to marry me.”

“Elle, I’m just not ready.”

“You’re thirty-five. When will you be ready?” His lame excuse angered her.

“It’s not age, it’s the work. I’m not in a place to take on marriage. I’m sorry. If I’d have known this when I took the job, I would’ve never proposed.”

“Then quit.” A sharp but logical resolution.

“Quit? The church?”

“Yes, the church. Quit for us.”

“I can’t quit the church, Elle,” Jeremiah said. “I’ve made a commitment to these people. They’ve invested time and money in me and my vision.”

“You made a commitment to me. Are you going stand before God and hear, ‘Kudos, son, for dumping the artist gal to pastor a church’? God, family, job, remember? You’re not their savior, bubba. Last I looked Jesus earned that job.”

“Can I deny God’s calling on my life? Did Paul? Did Peter? We have to leave everything to follow Him. Even fiancées, if necessary.”

If necessary?
Sitting cross-legged, Elle buckled over until her forehead met the sawdust-covered floor. “You’re asking me to give up everything to watch you soar, but won’t budge one inch toward me.”

“That’s not my intention, Elle. I’m trying to be focused here. I don’t know, maybe the timing is all off. I do love you.” Elle felt his hesitation:
I think . . .

“What happened to ‘Love bears all things, endures and hopes’?”

“I can love you, Elle, even if I’m not married to you.”

She resented his soft explanation. “But I want to marry you. I love you here, now.”

“Are you saying you want to marry a man who’s not ready?”

“Mama mailed the invitations, Jeremiah.”

“I’m sorry. I know this is awkward and untimely.”

The shaking faded as the sad tears began. “Daddy spent a lot of money; friends and family have made plans.”

“We can’t get married because people spent money and made plans.” His patience sounded thin. “I’ve spent hours thinking and considering the consequences to our actions. Either way, it’s difficult. But I want to do the right thing.”

“Which is?” She wanted to hear him say, “It’s over.”

“Call off the wedding.”

“All right.”

Unbidden, peace began to slip over her. The pain shooting over her scalp ceased, and the tension in her jaw vanished. She was done. With the conversation. With Jeremiah. With the idea of Happily Ever After. Staring into the darkness, Elle clicked her phone shut.

In her room, Tracey-Love slept. At least Heath hoped she did. The day of running with Rio had exhausted her. If he had any remaining doubts about uprooting her from New York, today wiped them out.

She seemed like a new kid to him. During the simple dinner of grilled chicken and salad, she’d chatted almost nonstop, her stutter more pronounced with her excitement, but barely slowing her down.

After dinner, he’d plopped her in the tub with a bag of toys he’d snatched up at the Wal-Mart checkout line. (Elle’s admonition stuck with him.
Wal-Mart. Cheap.
) The dirt from her feet and hands instantly browned the water, and under her sweat-stained face Heath discovered a pink sunburn on her cheeks.

“Daddy’s going to have to buy a shotgun,” he’d told her as he stuck the rinse cup under the faucet and poured it over her thick hair.

TL covered her eyes with taut little hands. “H-h-how’s come, D-daddy? B-bur-r-rglars?”

“Yes, sort of.” Heath wiped the rest of the water from her face with a washcloth. Burglars dressed as teen boys wanting to steal his daughter’s affections.

Tracey-Love’s wide eyes glistened. “Bad burglars?”

“TL, Daddy’s just kidding. There are no burglars. We’re all safe and snug. You’re my girl, aren’t you? Me and you, all the way, right?” He held out his palm.

“R-r-right.” Tracey-Love slapped her hand over his, sending a splat of water across his shirt.

After the bath, two bedtime stories, and a song Ava used to sing (Tracey-Love made him stop.
“Y-you sound funny.”
), Heath tucked her into bed. So far, she hadn’t come searching for him.

With the house quiet and the porch beckoning him, Heath slipped out of his wet shirt, kicked off his shoes, and sat outside, lighting Elle’s porch lamps, angling the wrought-iron rocker to face the creek.

In his hand, he gripped an unopened letter.

The edges of the handwritten, blue-ink address fanned across the crumpled white envelope. Months of being carried in his laptop case and jacket pocket had smeared the letters. Finally, he’d buried it in his top dresser drawer to pretend it didn’t exist until he was ready to read it.