Love Starts with Elle(45)

Elle stood where she was told—Candace had that kind of effect on her—and scooped her hair away from her face. She’d slept with it wet and now the ends were tangled. “All right, what has Angela Dooley’s panties in a wad?”

“You mean, what are you doing to put her panties in a wad? She’s friends with the owners of Bay Street Trading Company. Last night they told her they were renting the second story to someone who will be opening an art gallery.”

“So, yeah, Leslie Harper and I looked at it. Candace, it’s perfect.” Elle stooped over, propping her elbows on the table, too tired to stand. “I couldn’t believe it was available.”

Candace flashed a set of documents. “Hang on to your hat, sister, because you can’t open an art gallery in this county. Elle, when you sold to Angela, you signed a noncompete. Are you collecting feathers?” Candace stretched to pick up one of the two white feathers.

Elle slapped her hand over Candace’s. “What’s this about a noncompete?”

“These are gorgeous. Where did you find them?” Candace held the white plume up in the light. “It’s perfect.”

Elle ran her hands over her eyes. “They just appeared. One when Julianne prayed for me after the Jeremiah ordeal and the other before I went to church one Sunday.”

“You’re serious? Out of nowhere? What do you think it means?”

“God watching over me? Angels hanging around? People suing me?” Elle shook her sister’s shoulder. “Talk to me, Goose.”

Candace ran her finger along the tip of the thick plume. “Gives me chills.” She looked at Elle. “Can I have this?”

Elle hesitated. Could she give away a God feather? “I don’t know. I mean . . .” She reached for the second feather. God was generous, Jesus being His prime example. What was a feather among sisters? “Take it.”

“Thank you.” Candace tucked the feather in her attaché like a kid who’d just found candy. “Okay, to the business at hand. Elle, when you sold the gallery, Angela asked you to sign a noncompete.”

“I vaguely remember.” Those first months of being engaged were frantic and, in retrospect, a blur.

“And in doing so, you promised not to open another gallery for three years.” Candace held up a document for Elle to read.





. . . agrees will not directly or indirectly engage in any business that competes with Angela Dooley in regard to art, the acquiring of, selling, or distribution for a period of three years.





The sun drifted behind a cloud and the studio faded to gray. “I can’t open another gallery for three years?”

“You told me you read the addendum.”

“I did, I did.” Sort of. “But I was so busy . . . why didn’t you tell me?”

“I asked you. I said, ‘Elle, did you read the addendum?’ You said, ‘Yes, Candy, I’m not stupid.’ And I said, ‘Okay, just checking.’”

Moaning, Elle draped herself over the table. “I meant to read it thoroughly, but I was so distracted with wedding plans, closing the gallery . . .”

“The best you can do in this county is create and sell your own work.”

“But I’m not supposed to be in this county. I’m supposed to be married, living in Dallas.” She hammered the table with her fist.

“I’d never say this to anyone else, but, Elle, if you wanted to be married to Jeremiah, wouldn’t you be?”

“Um, he dumped me.” For a lawyer, Candace could be dense at times.

“Really? You didn’t do a little sabotage work? Who draws a line in the sand over a haute couture home and a vintage?”

“Me, that’s who,” she said, face still pressed to the table. “Besides, it was more about opposing purposes. The day we sold the gallery, he sat in your office and promised me I could open one in Dallas. A week later, he reneged.”

“And that was it? ‘I can’t open a gallery so I quit.’ ”

“I never quit, he did.” Elle shoved her hair out of her face and leaned against the table. Heat prickled over her skin, more from the conversation than the temperature of the studio.

“Whether it was on some subconscious level or not, Elle, you sent him the message you weren’t ready for marriage.”

“Candy, you’re crazy. Why would I sabotage my own life? I run around Beaufort for a year executing Operation Wedding Day against everyone’s sound advice, humiliating myself, kissing a few toads, blech. Then, when someone finally invites me to the dance, I back out? He’s the one who said he didn’t have time for marriage. Not me.”

Candace slipped the sale addendum into her case. “You said it first without words. You’re an amazing woman, Elle, but I don’t see you married to a pastor. Growing up, you hated the label “Deacon Garvey’s daughter.” You always defended Mitch O’Neal, the rogue preacher’s kid, because you felt the congregation placed unrealistic expectations on him. Now apply that to yourself as an independent, grown woman being married to a minister. Some women make great pastor’s wives, but it’d drive you crazy.”

“I loved Jeremiah, Candace. Isn’t that enough?”

“Apparently not, because here you sit.” She looked around the studio. “To be honest, I think you like this bohemian existence.”