Love Starts with Elle(22)

“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.

The move to Beaufort resurrected its presence.

Ava’s letter.

Courage, man. Flipping it over, he gripped the small tear started on the back flap—enough to know he’d been there before, but not enough to expose the pages inside.

“Can’t do it.” Heath collapsed against the back of the chair, releasing the letter to the wrought-iron table. Ava, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Evening.”

Heath jerked around to see a robust man with a broad chest and a Panther’s ball cap stepping onto the porch through the screen door. “Truman Garvey, Elle’s daddy.”

“Heath McCord.”

Their hands clapped together.

“She tells me you’re from New York?”

“Yes, sir.” He glanced around for his shoes and shirt. Right, he’d left them inside.

“Nice to meet you.” Truman shoved his hat back.

“Please, have a seat.” Heath reached for the letter, slipping it in his hip pocket. “Let me get a shirt.”

“Have you seen Elle?” Truman asked, easing into an old Adirondack chair opposite Heath with an oomph.

“Not since this afternoon.” Heath slipped into the kitchen, grabbed his shirt from the back of the chair, still wet from bath time. Before heading out, he leaned to listen for Tracey-Love. All was quiet.

Heath sat in the rocker. “What can do I for you?”