Love Starts with Elle(26)

“Me?” Julianne’s shoulder stiffened under Elle’s cheek. “You’re asking the wrong sister. Sara Beth or Mary Jo, even Candace, but me? No, no, no. I’m sure God doesn’t want to hear from me.”

Elle sighed and lifted off the futon. “I’ll go shower.”

“Wait, Elle.” Julianne grabbed Elle’s arm. “I’ll do it. For you. Elle sat, closing her eyes, molding her hand with Jules’s.

“God, um,” Julianne breathed in, then out. “Wait, Elle, come on, I can’t . . .”

“You can.” Elle squeezed her hand.

“I feel so . . . silly.”

“Maybe this isn’t about you. Please, Jules, a short prayer, for me.”

God, a-hem, Julianne here on behalf of my sister. Could You please be with her, fill the hole in her heart, remind her that You love—”

As Elle listened to her sister’s halting but heartfelt words, peace began to swirl in and around her. She felt light and free, as if she were melting. She pressed her toes against the studio floor to keep from sliding right off the futon. Julianne might not believe in the power of her prayers, but Elle certainly did.

When Julianne said, “Amen,” Elle lifted her head but kept her eyes closed.

A Presence hovered in the room. Elle felt a cool breeze whisper past her feet. Next to her, Julianne breathed deep and steady.

“Elle?”

“Yeah?” The studio atmosphere was like dipping in a cool blue pool of water on a hot summer day. Elle wanted to soak as long as she could.

“Do you feel something?” Julianne shivered.

“Peace.”

“More than peace?”

“Maybe.” A hot gust of wind hit the window’s screen. Elle peeked from under her lowered eyelids. Papers rustled across the work table. A cone of sunlight formed a circle on the dull hardwood.

Elle saw it first, then Julianne. A small white feather appeared out of nowhere, riding the studio’s breeze, drifting through the golden light.

“Elle.”

“I see it.” Elle let go and slipped off the futon, picking the soft white plume off the floor.

“Where’d it come from?”

Elle glanced up Julianne, who leaned away from the mysterious feather, looking this side of freaked. “I have no idea.”

“I’m out of here.” Jules went for the door. “I’ll be in the car. Hurry up.”

The breeze settled and the studio air returned to normal. Elle set the curious feather on the worktable, knowing in a weird, unique way, God had stopped by.





To: CSweeney

From: Elle Garvey

Subject: I’m doing well



Caroline,

I’m alive, hurting, but healing. Takes more than being dumped by my fiancé to kill me. Ha. In all your born days did you ever imagine this happening to any of us? To me?

I didn’t.

My heart is heavy, wondering where it all went wrong. But I’m pulling myself together, slowly. Right now, sleeping and watching movies at Mama and Daddy’s is my prescription.

I haven’t had this much time on my hands since the summer before seventh grade.

There’s a Yankee comeya with a four-year-old daughter renting the cottage. His grandpap was a benya so he’s returning to his roots. He’s a widower, not sure how or why or when.

Enough about me. Tell me about you and Mitch, and Barcelona. And hey, tell buddy-o-pal Hazel I said hey and she owes me an e-mail.





Much love, Elle





Under the low glow of the living room lamp, Heath settled down in the club chair with his laptop and propped his legs on the ottoman.

Nights were best for writing, away from the distractions of the day. Already he wondered if he could ever go back to his hectic schedule at Calloway & Gardner.

Four-year-olds made for great company. Today he and Tracey-Love had taken a long walk, colored, talked about learning to fish, and picnicked by the creek. Her stutter had not yet softened and he could tell it frustrated her. But as she healed from Ava’s death, Heath believed the stutter would too.

He glanced at the sofa. At seven o’clock, the little girl slept in an S shape on the cushions, the tip of her wrinkled thumb touching her lips.

Shifting his gaze from TL to the laptop screen, Heath tried to focus on his story. As much as he liked to pretend, books didn’t write themselves. Nate had texted him twice during the day: “How’s it going?” followed by “I could use a few chapters.”

It’s been, what, a few weeks? Absently, Heath drummed his fingers against the keys, mulling over an opening line. Hemmingway said all he had to do was write one true sentence, then go from there. Easier said than done.

His arms were sore from wielding the chainsaw, carving out his angel. He hadn’t carved since his last visit to the lowcountry the year before Granddad died. He wasn’t sure where the unction had come from to take it up again, but Heath loved the release of physical work. Somehow, carving skimmed away another layer of the dull pain around his heart and found the fresh surface of hope. Day by day, he was starting to believe he could be happy again.

Tracey-Love shivered and moaned. Heath arched forward and snatched the afghan from the back of the couch and draped it over her. The early spring evenings were damp and cool.