Love Starts with Elle(51)

“Not just you. Me too. I’m starting over with painting myself.” A second sip from her latte burned the same spot on her tongue as the first sip.

“We should get together sometime. Hang out, paint or something.”

Elle paused. Could she help him? While she’d been trained, she didn’t feel much farther along than Huckleberry craft-wise. “All right, let’s meet at my place since yours, um, smells.”

“Elle?”

She angled around to see her friend J. D. Rand. “Hey.”

A sheriff’s deputy, he was one of her old gang from high school. Last year he dated Caroline Sweeney until she caught him cheating.

She introduced Huck to J. D., who said, “The man with the fish tank.” Without knowing it, J. D. fueled Huck’s cause. Elle knew then Beaufort had not seen, or smelled, the last of his eco art.

“Did you hear about Caroline and Mitch?” Elle asked J. D.

“Yeah, through the grapevine. About time, eh?”

“I’ll say . . .”

Molly called J. D.’s order, but on his way out, he stopped back at the table, slipping on his Foster Grants.

“Bodean’s having a summer kick-off party tonight. Branan Morgan is playing with his band. Lots of good company, good food, and cold beverages. Love to see you there, Elle. Huckleberry, if you can shower and find clean clothes, come on out.”

Huckleberry glanced down at his shirt, smoothing his hand over a big chocolate-looking stain.

“I’ll see. Thanks, J. D.”

Elle hadn’t been to one of Bodean’s Mars versus Venus parties since Operation Wedding Day was in full swing. Tonight she had dinner with Heath. Maybe she could talk her New York lawyer friend into an evening with some good ole boys.



“Chet, are you out there? Come in.”

Still banking around for a strafing run, Chet didn’t answer Pike’s call, maintaining radio silence. If the submarine located him, he’d be in the drink before he could fire one round.

“Come in, Chet. The mother is gaining. Get home.”

Descending from the fog, Captain Chet McCord strafed the first enemy vessel he’d seen. Six months in the Aleutians and his greatest enemy was the cold, snow, and fog. His greatest victory: arriving home alive, not plowing into the side of a mountain.

Buzzing the con tower of the Jap sub, he peppered it with bullets, then rose into the fog before the enemy could man their guns. His fuel gauge told him to turn toward home.

“Pike, I’m coming home.”

As Chet banked east, he caught sight of the sub as it submerged beneath the freezing surface. He’d only infuriated the gray beast.

His P-36 engine sputtered.

“No you don’t.” Chet tapped the fuel gauge. He had enough to return home. What was going on? The engine sputtered again, nearly stalling.

Chet pushed toward Kiska, gripping the stick, willing his bird to stay alive and warm. Another sputter and he knew. She was freezing up.





Heath paced beside his van, waiting for Elle. She’d called to say she’d lost track of time while painting—he liked the excitement in her voice—and was running a few minutes behind. She’d meet him by his van.

His van. He kicked the front tire. What he need was some cool, secondhand car like a convertible Corvair or a Triumph Spitfire.

After he dropped off Tracey-Love at Julianne’s to spend the evening with Rio, he’d felt kind of lost.

First-date-like flutters ran down his ribs. Just a casual dinner, McCord. With a friend. It’d been eighteen years since he’d been alone with a woman not his girlfriend, wife, or colleague.

To distract himself, he walked over to inspect his angel carving. The core sculpture rose out of the wood, but the details needed to be carved out, sanded, and polished. He’d finish it someday. Before returning to NewYork.

Her fragrance arrived first. Like wild flowers in a spring meadow. When he looked around, he simply felt glad she was in the world. Proud and lucky to be with her. Even if just for one friendly night.

Her hair fluttered over her shoulders, her long brown legs kicked the hem of a flowing blue skirt. A trio of bracelets sparkled from the end of her arm.

He understood why men painted—to preserve images like Elle, real or imagined.

“You look beautiful,” he said, his steady voice masking the rumba going on beneath his shirt.

“So do you. Mighty dapper in khakis and pullover. Very summer-in-the-Hamptons-darling.”

Her breezy tone reminded him tonight was about one friend thanking another. No more, no less. His heart simmered down, slowing from a rumba to a boring ole waltz.

“A friend of mine is having one of his big parties tonight,” Elle said as he held open her door. “Want to swing by after dinner?”

Absolutely. “I am at your command.”

“Really, ’cause I have some studio windows that need washing.”

“Windows?” Heath held his arms out to his sides, giving himself the once-over, grinning. “You got all this and you want windows washed?”



Maybe it was the soft music hovering over Panini’s guests or the flicker of candlelight on the white linen tablecloth, but Elle’s insides felt battered by butterflies.

Handsome Heath wore a blue shirt that matched his eyes, and his bold flirting as he helped her into the van downright messed with her.