Love Starts with Elle(19)
Heath upped the TV volume a little. The contestant up now was his favorite, if he could claim a favorite. Looking back down at TL, the blue reflection of the TV screen covering her hair, he couldn’t imagine one day she’d be grown, leaving him for her own adventures. Another man, even.
A month ago, he’d carefully Googled “girl stuff ” like puberty, periods, and the potential number of hours he could expect a preteen to spend on the phone. One of the women’s health sites listed stats that almost gave him a coronary. Menstruation may start as young as ten. Heath had clicked out of the Internet, stumbled to the kitchen, and wolfed down a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.
Ten? That was less than six years from now. Ten?
And she may show signs of breasts as early as eight.
He’d dumped another glob of Hershey’s chocolate into the carton. Ava, I can’t do this alone.
Heath and his brother had a completely testosterone upbringing. Raised by their father after their mother abandoned the family for a string of deadbeat husbands she thought would take her on an adventure, he knew next to nothing about women until he fell in love with Ava their sophomore year at Yale.
His education had consisted of Dad’s advice—“Never trust a dame”—and locker-room fables.
Many of his best friends were women, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask any of them, “So, when did you get your period?” Or “How old were you when you started getting breasts?” Or “Do I worry about the little breasts or wait until Tracey-Love is, you know, endowed?”
Recalling his train of thought made him queasy all over again. He tipped his head against the sofa and raised his hands over his head. “Jesus, I know You and I are working out things between us since You took Ava, so I’m expecting You to help me out here on raising our daughter.”
His cell phone rang and Heath stretch toward the coffee table, trying to answer before the ringing woke Tracey-Love.
“Yeah?” he answered with a rough whisper. “McCord.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Tracey-Love is sleeping.”
“Still not in her own bed?”
Heath frowned. Like Nate Collins was a model father. He’s not even a father. “This isn’t why you called, is it? To check up on my parenting skills?” As his agent and friend, Heath valued his counsel, except on how to raise his girl.
“Okay, just thought I’d chitchat before launching into business. How’s your house?”
“Great, by a creek, nice side-screen porch, back deck, deep water dock. The owner is still here . . . some kind of moving mix-up. But she decided to live in her studio over the garage.”
“And how’s the book coming?”
“I just got here, Nate. Just started writing.” Heath checked the laptop’s screen. Yeah, just as he thought, no words had magically appeared. “But I’m mulling over some good ideas.”
“Any chance those ideas are forming a bestseller? Heath, buddy, I’ve been talking you up all over New York, reminding editors of your legal work as well as your last novel they almost bought. Got a few salivating for the next John Grisham. You’ve got to give me something.”
“Only John Grisham can produce the next John Grisham. However, you might have the next Heath McCord.”
“My keen literary sense tells me the iron is hot, let’s strike. A few chapters will whet the proper appetites. The publishing industry is hungry for something new and fresh. Do you have a rough draft?”
“What constitutes a rough draft?” Half a page of ideas? If NewYork wanted something fresh and new, count him out. He felt old and definitely dull.
Nate moaned. “You’re giving me heart palpitations.”
“You started this by talking me up too soon. I thought you were a good agent.”
“I’m a great agent. Heath, if you’re stuck—and please don’t tell me you are—go with stories from your career. You’ve tried some pretty hefty cases. Or go with something political—intrigue in Washington. Shoot, you were married to one of the most—”
“I know who I was married to, Nate.”
“Can I have something soon? Don’t want the editors to think I was just leading them on.”
“A few weeks.” Months. He meant to say months.
“You’re killing me,” Nate said, but the tension in his voice ebbed. “So, are you and Tracey-Love settling into the slow southern life?”
Heath gazed down at the tiny person curled next to him. She kept his heart beating. “We’re getting by, getting by.”
Elle struggled. Since returning home, her communication with Jeremiah had been on the run—on his way to a meeting, returning from a meeting, too exhausted to talk long. However, the plans to buy the house were progressing.
She spent several mornings Googling the Dallas art scene, calling gallery owners, making connections, cheered by the robust community. Once she and Jeremiah were married and settled, she’d prove to him she had time to work at a gallery. Then open one of her own.
This morning he’d texted her. “Look for something in the mail from me. Call you later.”
Elle replied with a smiley face, encouraged that in the midst of transition, love would prevail. Mama was right, nothing to worry over.