Love Starts with Elle(50)
“Yeah, sorry, guess I never responded. I moved south for a few months.” Heath walked to the bedroom to check on Tracey-Love. She slept peacefully with her arm hooked around her doll, Lola. Best purchase he’d made in a long time.
“What do you think? Can you make it to the city in a few weeks for the Network News Awards? We’d like you to accept a lifetime achievement award on Ava’s behalf.”
He wandered the living room in circles. “Right, right. Tell me the date again.” Only skimming Blue’s e-mail, Heath had never registered the dates.
“June thirteenth. A Friday evening. She’d want you there, Heath.” In his broadcaster’s voice, Blue spoke as if he’d heard from Heath’s wife a few minutes ago.
So moving on didn’t mean leaving everything about her behind. “Yes, I’ll be there, Blue. Thanks for calling.”
It’d be a fast trip. Three days, maybe. He’d get with Rock, check up on Callaway & Gardner. But Tracey-Love wouldn’t be strong enough to tag along.
Returning to the club chair and taking up his laptop, Heath wondered if he could ask Elle to watch TL and owe her another dinner of gratitude. Also, pay her five hundred for the painting. What was he thinking offering only a hundred? Cheap.
The awards would be black-tie, probably at the Grand Hyatt or uptown at Radio City. Where’d he stored his tux?
Reaching for his phone again, he dialed Rock. “I’m going to be in town for the Network News Awards. Want to meet for dinner?”
“Perfect timing. I need to talk to you about coming back, son. The inmates are running the asylum.”
Rock, always exaggerating. “What’s going on now?”
“Doc and Tom are pushing me out, trying to take over. I need a strong ally.”
Heath tried to imagine any man, or two, outsmarting his old boss. “And you think I can help?”
“Absolutely. We’ll talk when you’re here.”
“Rock, before you go, I’ve got a friend down here who’s helped me out more than I can repay. She’s an artist. You think we could stop in and see your old friend Mitzy Canon? See if she’d check out my friend’s work, give her a boost in the biz?”
“Don’t see why not. If anyone can launch an artist’s career, it’s Mitzy Canon, the artist maker. I’ll give her a call.”
“I owe you.”
“Serious? Then when can I expect you back at the firm?”
“Night, Rock.” Heath hung up and headed to the kitchen to clean up dinner.
Note to self: Check girl-stuff sites to see what age to start assigning household chores.
SIXTEEN
At two o’clock, Huckleberry John lumbered into Common Ground, his dark bangs draping over his right eye, titanium rings stretching holes in his earlobes. His slightly crooked grin seemed unsure when he spotted Elle.
“You beckoned, O great Elle Garvey?” He slumped into the chair across from her.
“Do you want something to drink?” She eyed him, dumping sweetener into her latte.
“Naw, I’m good.” He flicked his hand through his hair. “What’s on your mind, chicky?”
“You. How’s your environmental art coming?”
“Good,” he said, gazing lazily around the shop, dangling one arm over the back of his chair, drumming his fingers on the table.
“Did Angela Dooley accept any of your work?”
“She’s a snob, Elle. I tried to tell her about the Coffin Creek crisis—”
“Come on, Huck. Be honest. What crisis?”
“See?” He tapped his forefinger against the table. “This is exactly how we go wrong in this country. We don’t pay attention until it’s too late.” Passion fortified his response.
“Good point. I hear you, but you’ve got to learn how to present yourself and your projects. And maybe actually learn a little about art. Art may be garbage to some people, Huck, but garbage is hardly ever art. Especially if it smells.”
“But I bet people will never forget my work.” He was cocky, but cute.
Elle sipped her latte. Too hot. “Huck, you’re ineffective.”
“Do tell.”
“Going around town with a fish tank of pluff mud and dead fish isn’t going to help your cause. You’re letting your message get in the way of the messenger. What are you trying to accomplish?”
“Art that focuses on the environment.”
“Got anything up your sleeve besides fish tanks?”
“A few paintings, a couple of mixed-medium pieces,” he confessed.
“Are they odorless?”
“Fairly. But”—his grin made her laugh—“they do stay in my apartment.”
“Huckleberry, I have a long way to go in my own art, but one thing I’ve learned: first be an artist, good or bad, weak or strong, and let your message come out of the work of your heart. You’re letting your passion ruin your art. Instead, let your passion fuel your art. Do you understand?”
“Kind of like put the gas in the tank, not all over the outside of the car.”
“Exactly. You have to be patient. Art takes time.”
Heed your own advice, Elle.
“Is that your nice way of saying I got a lot of work to do?” Huckleberry fussed, shaking his legs, stretching his neck, his arms. The man was incapable of sitting still.