Love Starts with Elle(43)

He dropped down to the padded chair with a thump. “And what if she’s not fine?”

“Heath.” Elle knelt in front of him, her hands resting on his knees, and for the first time he realized he’d shown up in public wearing his sleeping pants. “Can we just take it one step at a time? Wait to hear what the doctor says.”

“This is why we agreed to never have children. Ava and I were career people. What do I know about raising a kid?” He ran his hands over his face, laughing without merriment. “And guess what? Tracey-Love inherited my Fred Flintstones. We still didn’t preserve the legacy of Ava’s feet.”

Elle slipped into the chair next to him. “Are you saying you wish she’d never been born? Heath, please . . . ,” she whispered.

“No, no. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m mad at myself, mad at Ava . . .” He reached for Elle’s hand and wrapped his fingers around hers. “Just keep saying TL’s going to be fine, okay?”

“She’s going to be fine. I mean it; I’m not just trying to make you feel better.”

His eyes burned. “He wouldn’t take her, would He?”

“Who?” Elle bent to see his face. The tip of her hair brushed his knee.

“God.” He looked at Elle for hope, for assurance that a loving God would extend him mercy.

“Heath, no. I mean, He’s God and He can do what He wants, but remember He is good and He is love. Even when we don’t understand our circumstances. But right here, right now, I get the feeling He’s not going to allow anything to happen to Tracey-Love.”

Lord, help my weak faith.

Maybe this was a wake-up call. Get his head out of the clouds, forget novel writing, call Rock and return to the law. Rehire Tracey-Love’s nanny, enroll her in a preschool where PhDs in child development could raise her, watch her, warn him if she was coming down with something.

Elle squeezed his hand. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.” He squeezed her hand back.

“Mr. McCord?”

“Dr. Morgan.” Heath jumped up, dragging Elle with him. “Is she all right?”

The doctor slipped his hands into the large pockets of his white coat. “We’re almost certain it’s viral meningitis, but we won’t know until the labs come back in about an hour. We put her on a low dose of steroids. I want to admit her for twenty-four hours.”

“Okay, fine, whatever. Where is she? I’m staying with her.” The idea of his girl waking up in the hospital alone, crying . . . it physically pained him.

“Why don’t you go home, get some sleep? A few hours. She’ll be asleep at least that long, I assure you.” Dr. Morgan placed a firm hand on Heath’s shoulder. “Tracey-Love is in good hands. You’ll be more value to her if you’re rested and stable, Mr. McCord.”

The good doctor was crazy. “I’m not leaving her alone. She is afraid of the dark and strange places.”

“Heath,” Elle said softly but firmly. “Go home, shower. Change your clothes. I’ll stay with TL. You can bring back one of her toys, clothes for tomorrow. What do you say?”

Heath looked down at his old T-shirt and pajama bottoms. They were soiled from caring for Tracey-Love. “No, you go, Elle. Stop by Wal-Mart, get her a doll or a stuffed animal. But no bears. She doesn’t like bears.”

“Heath, you have a long day ahead of you. Go shower and change.” Elle leaned in with a sniff. “You smell, friend, and you’re going to embarrass your daughter.”

He growled. “She’s four.”

Dr. Morgan turned to go. “I’ll leave you two to duke it out.”

Elle shoved Heath toward the exit. “Go. I promise I will not leave her.”

He paused as the doors slid open. “I can’t lose her, Elle. I can’t.”

“You won’t. Have faith.”

Faith? He’d poured out his last ounce the day they lowered Ava into the ground.



As Tracey-Love slept in the quiet hospital room, Elle ran her thumb over the pulpy spot around the girl’s thumb.

Keep her, God. Give Heath strength.

TL’s skin felt dry. In the yellow light haloing the bed, Elle found her handbag and searched for a compact bottle of lotion.

Cotton blossom. Elle poured a drop into her palm and massaged the lotion into Tracey-Love’s hand.

“If your mama were here, I think she’d do this for you. Don’t you? The doctor says you’re going to be fine, up and playing in a few weeks.”

The room door creaked open and Heath slipped inside, clean and combed, wearing a fresh button-down and jeans. “How is she?” He leaned over to kiss his daughter, dropping a Wal-Mart bag onto the foot of the bed.

Elle capped the lotion and dropped it into her purse. “Fever broke. The doctor came by . . . said it’s viral meningitis.”

“Yeah, he called my cell.” Heath opened the bag and produced a pink-faced, cherubic doll with shiny, short blonde curls. “She wanted this doll the other day when we were shopping. I told her no, wait for her birthday.”

“Very pretty. But you buy her gifts when she’s sick and she might like being sick,” Elle said with a wink.

“She better not. My heart can’t take it.” Heath broke the doll out of the box and set it under the covers with Tracey-Love. “It’s cold in here. Is it cold to you?”