Love Starts with Elle(48)

Without consideration, Heath fired the half-full water bottle against the far wall. It hit the tile and puddled.

He banged out the kitchen door onto the porch. The gentle humid night rebuked his anger. He dropped to the edge of the iron rocker, whispering his emotions to God. First about Ava, then Tracey-Love being sick, and finally his behavior toward Elle.

Man, he’d been a bear to her when she’d arrived at the hospital. He groused and grumbled because she wasn’t ready at his beck and call. But who’d gotten up at 1:00 a.m. to drive him to the ER, without one word of complaint? Not one hint of “You owe me.”

She never defended herself when he suggested, rather rudely, she should remember to charge her phone battery. Instead she apologized again and drove them home in comforting silence, stopping by the pharmacy to fill a prescription and waited as he ran into Publix for Gatorade and juice. And when Tracey-Love asked for her new dolly, Elle hunted high and low. Discovering Heath had left it at the hospital, she drove back to get it.

Living in her house, imposing on her hospitality, he’d acted like a world-class jerk. He’d make it up to her. Figure out a way and make it up to her.





FIFTEEN

Between Caroline’s e-mail, Candace’s ridiculous accusation of sabotage, and Pastor O’Neal’s Sunday morning reminder that Jesus said, “My sheep hear my voice,” Elle needed to do some come-to-Jesus soul searching.

At thirty-one, raised in church, she could not confess she confidently knew the voice of her Lord.

Sitting in the chapel, second pew, right side, Elle felt like a blank slate. She had nothing going on in her life but Him, and for the first time, she felt completely surrendered.

And she liked it.

At the altar, Miss Anna remained vigilant, pacing back and forth this morning instead of kneeling.

How many years had the older woman been coming here, keeping watch? Forty? Elle’s respect for her deepened. Don’t mistake prayer for inactivity.

Closing her eyes, she offered her thoughts as a sacrifice to the Lord, gave Him her affection. But when a foreign thought flipped across her mind—“What do you want?”—her eyes popped open to a quickened pulse.

Me? What do I want?

“What do you want?”

Elle sat forward, peeking around. Are you talking to me?

“What do you want?”

Open a gallery and— “What do you want?”

I just said, open a gallery— Arguing with herself, fine existential moment.

“No, tell Me what you want.”

Her heart raced. The challenge was not from her mind but from Him.

Miss Anna stopped pacing and stood quietly with her head bowed.

Okay, what do I want? Elle settled down, shoved aside expectations and preconceived ideas, and lowered an empty bucket of desire through her soul.

I want to paint. I want to get over my fears, forget what my professor said to me and paint. There, she admitted it.

She waited, listening, sensing the life on her confession. Yeah, she wanted to paint. After six years of denying her heart, she wanted to paint. God knew, just like Caroline said. Elle wondered how long His question had hovered in the heavens, waiting for her to be still.

Forget Dr. Petit. “I recommend a day job, Elle. You won’t make a living as a painter.” God wanted her to paint.

When she glanced over to Miss Anna, the woman was eyeing her.

“I think God is telling me to paint.”

“Then do it.”

“But how do I know when God is speaking and not my own—”

A white feather fluttered in the space between her and Miss Anna.

“Another one,” Elle breathed.

Miss Anna snatched the feather from the air. “Been a long time since I’ve seen one of these.”

Elle stood by her prayer mentor. “I have another one in my studio. What do you think they mean?”

Miss Anna handed Elle the feather. “God reveals Himself to us in creative ways. We’ve gotten so used to just the preaching and singing, I bet He feels a little boxed in sometimes.”

Elle had certainly put Him in a box and on the shelf.

“Well, an hour or so of prayer and one white feather, I’d say we had a good morning.” Miss Anna ambled up the aisle with her Bible tucked close. “Going home to tend my garden before the sun beats down on me.”

“Can I give you a ride?”

Miss Anna laughed as she shoved open the chapel door.



Brooks and Dunn blasted from iTunes. The ceiling fans whirred. And Elle painted. Digging in her paint box for a tube of titanium white, she squeezed a dab onto her palette.

After her confession and encounter with God during prayer, she’d left the chapel with a surge of creative energy and decided not to let it pass. If she only painted for God and herself, so be it.

“Elle, hey, it’s me.” The knock on the door resounded with the bass drum of the music.

“Heath?” She jerked open the door. “Come in? How’s Tracey-Love?”

“Fine, watching a DVD. We went to the doctor this morning and he’s pleased with her recovery. What are you doing?”

“I,” she said with a tip of her head, “am painting.”

“Good for you.” He came around to see the canvas. “Feathers?”