Love Starts with Elle(42)

The banging studio door jolted her awake and sent her heart careening. She tried to stumble out of bed, but her foot was caught in the sheets.

“Elle, it’s me, Heath.” Panic.

“Just a minute.” Thump, thud. Let go of my foot . . . She felt disoriented and weak.

“Elle . . .” His voice commanded her to open the door.

“Coming, coming.” Free from the linens, she stumbled across the dark studio, reaching for the lamp by the work table. At the door, she dropped the security chain.

“What’s wrong?” Her heart banged in her chest as Heath entered. She tugged at her baggy pajamas bottoms hanging low on her hips.

“It’s my girl.” Heath wrung his hands. “She’s sick.” His sandy-blond hair went every which way. “Throwing up, diarrhea—”

“Does she have a fever?”

Heath’s skin appeared ghostly in the yellow light. “Yes. I think so. Yes.”

“How long has she been sick?” Elle went back for her jeans and T-shirt.

“After we got home. Almost four hours now.” Heath rocked back and forth with his fists tucked under his armpits. So unsure, this man.

“Let’s get her to the hospital, Heath. Go get her ready. I’ll be down in two seconds.” But he remained dazed and frozen. Elle turned him toward the door and gently shoved him forward. “Heath, go.”

The entire studio rattled as he bolted down the stairs.

“Jesus, he looks pretty upset . . . ,” Elle prayed as she slipped on her jeans and searched for her shoes. Dang studio ate her flip-flops. Living in the cramped quarters had its drawbacks. Mainly, lack of closet space. Her clothes were everywhere, piled on the dresser, hanging off her easels, from the bathroom door, over back of the futon.

Ah, there they were. How had her shoes gotten wedged behind the blank canvases Julianne brought over from the gallery? No time to ponder. Elle grabbed her purse and headed down to the yard, where she found Heath waiting by his van.

“You drive. I’m going to ride in the back holding her.” Heath tossed her his keys. “Elle, please hurry.”



Heath exited the exam room, his joints aching, tension gripping his jaw and temples. He found Elle alone in the ER waiting room sitting under an ominous dark window. She had a solid too-much-caffeine jiggle going on with her right leg.

When she saw him, she jerked to her feet. “What’d they say? Is she all right?”

“She’s sleeping.” He sat on the blue vinyl chair next to her, but only for a second. It hurt to stay still. “They hooked her up to an IV, drew blood.” He walked to the edge of the room. “She screamed bloody murder.”

“Do they know what’s wrong? Virus? The flu?” The heat of her hand resting on his back comforted him.

“The doctor is guessing meningitis. Guessing. ‘Hello, Mr. McCord, your daughter is dying and I’m guessing it’s meningitis.’ How do you even get meningitis?”

“Heath, she’s not dying. Didn’t you say she was sleeping? And after they run the test, the doctor will know what’s going on. A kid can get meningitis any number of ways.”

He stood with his feet apart, hands hooked over his crossed arms. “I’m horrible, Elle. A horrible father.”

“Because your daughter is sick? Every one of my nieces and nephews spent a night or two in the hospital. Rio must have gone three times to the ER as a baby.”

“Babies, yes. Tracey-Love, if you haven’t noticed, is a little girl.”

For a split second, Heath let himself be fiery mad at Ava. Justifying the heat in his chest by the idea she’d be cussing him right now if the situation were reversed. I never signed up to do this alone, God.

Elle moved in front of him. “I’m not going to let you be the martyr. You’re tired and frustrated, I get that, but children of all ages get sick. It doesn’t make you or anyone else a bad father unless you did it on purpose. Did you do it on purpose?”

He stared at some vague point beyond the reception desk. “No.”

“I rest my case.” She pressed her hand on his arm. “Heath, I’ve watched you, you’re a wonderful father.”

“No, I’m not.” His posture softened with his tone as he gazed at Elle. “When we moved down here, I knew practically nothing about her. I can recite case studies, list a hundred client names and their case numbers, if we won in or out of court. Worse, I can give you stats on athletes dating back to their college days. Height, weight, averages per game, the names of their celebrity girlfriends. But my kid?” The look in her eyes contradicted his tirade. “The nanny sent me down here with a ten-page instruction manual, typed, single spaced. What Tracey-Love wore, what she ate and when. Bed and bath time . . . I didn’t even know that Dora the Explorer was a cartoon.”

“Heath, you’re yelling.”

“Maybe I want to yell.” Heath stepped into the corridor. “Hey, everyone. I. Am. A. Bad. Father. That’s right, you heard me. Bad father, right here.”

Elle jerked him back to the chairs. “You want them calling social services? Crazy-acting single dads don’t sit well with some folks.” She stared at him, hands on her hips. “I didn’t take you for the self-pity type. Listen to me, Tracey-Love is going to be fine.”