Love Starts with Elle(36)
“Some days I miss the space, but the studio is home for now. It has no memories of him.”
“I understand. But if at any time you—”
“I know . . .” She flopped her arm over the side of her chair, letting her fingers graze his arm. “So, Heath McCord, do you have a wedding anniversary?”
He crushed his empty Pepsi can and tucked it into a plastic bag. “December seventh.”
“A Christmas wedding?”
“Yes, and I let her have her way until she asked me to wear a Santa suit at the reception.” Heath waved his hand toward Elle. “I put my foot down. And no red cummerbund either.”
She scoffed in feigned disgust. “Red? At a Christmas wedding. Gag, how tacky.”
Heath laughed. “Ava didn’t have much family growing up, so she really hyped up birthdays and holidays. Wanted all the traditions.
Funny how two lonely, family-starved people found each other. Must be a familiar aura or something. After my mom left, Dad couldn’t find the energy or heart to recreate any of the traditions.”
“Is the letter in the kitchen window from her? I . . . saw it . . . the other day.”
“Wait, how did we get back to talking about me?”
“Guess we both have things to put behind us.” Elle tucked her legs tighter to her body, rubbing her chilled legs with her hand. The damp wet air soaked clean through her skin to her bones.
As the song ended, the DJ came on telling Beaufort and Jasper County it was ten o’clock, sixty-two degrees, and next up was a classic from Gladys Knight and the Pips. In two hours, Elle’s life with Jeremiah would be completely behind her.
“My mom loved Gladys Knight,” Heath reminisced aloud. “She’d play her albums all the time when I was about seven or eight.”
“My uncle played the best of the sixties and seventies in the bays of his auto shop. Every time I hear Creedence Clearwater Revival, I get a hankering to play in a grease pit and tinker with old car parts.”
His laugh was becoming familiar. “Bet that’s exactly how Creedence envision their music inspiring people.”
The barrage of commercials ended and the first bars of a slow, melancholy tune drifted across the porch.
Heath stood, extending his broad palm. “I’m not Jeremiah and this day didn’t turn out like you’d hoped, but can I have this dance?”
The porch lamp captured the side of his face where a day’s-end beard shadowed his high cheek and angular jaw. His eyes never shifted from her face.
“Please?”
Elle uncurled her legs, and when she rose out of the chair, Heath lightly circled her in his arms. He began to move slowly, swaying with each gliding step. The gap between them eased closed until his cheek rested against the top of her head and her cheek found the cradle of his chest.
Was it her heart thundering or his?
“Neither one of us wants to be the first to say good-bye . . .”
“This is a weird song to be—”
“Shh, Elle, let it be.”
She closed her eyes, releasing the last of the day’s sorrows as she danced on her wedding night in another man’s arms.
TWELVE
Miss Anna scooted into the pew next to Elle, bringing the homey fragrance of liniment and Miss Clairol. Her white hair billowed above her piquant face like a summer cloud.
“Well, here you are again. Second week. How do you feel?”
“Sleepy.” The warm, low light of the chapel didn’t help.
Miss Anna chortled as she squeezed Elle’s hand. “What’s the Lord been saying to you?”
“Get more sleep.” A spontaneous yawn punctuated her point.
Miss Anna regarded Elle. “Well, you could always go to bed earlier. What are you doing with your time?”
“Squandering it.” There, she’d said it—a bold-faced confession. But two months after selling her gallery, one month after being dumped, Elle remained unmotivated. She felt beige. Uninspired.
Other than venturing out for prayer, Elle had been camped at her folks since last Monday watching Lifetime movies and eating barbecue chips and drinking Diet Coke until she had caffeine shakes.
Mama, bless her heart, finally kicked her out last Friday night. “Elle, sweetie, I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to pull yourself together. Figure out what you’re going to do with yourself. You know you’re always welcome here. Is that barbecue-chip crumbs on my new carpet?”
Elle had followed Mama’s gaze. Hmm, oops. She’d picked them up as best she could, then hopped off the couch. “See you, Mama. Thanks for everything.” Quick kiss on Mama’s cheek and she’d skedaddled.
On Sunday night, Elle flipped on the oldie station Heath had tuned into the other night and curled up on the futon to make a list.
One, find a gallery location. Two, notify her client and artist list of said change. Three, call Huckleberry for a come-into-your-sound-mind meeting. Four, stock up on barbecue chips. Five . . . find a purpose.
This morning Elle brought the list with her to prayer.
“I suppose it seems odd, doesn’t it?” Miss Anna folded her hands in her lap.
“What seems odd?” Elle doodled on an old bulletin she’d found tucked in her Bible. Out of nowhere, she’d had an idea for a painting during the prayer process.