Love Starts with Elle(52)

“You got all this and you want windows washed?”

But as delectable as he was, her heart wanted to remain in a soft, safe place until the last fragrance of Jeremiah Franklin had faded away.

“Give me the scoop,” he started, sitting back as their server brought a basket of warm bread and appetizer plates. “How often can I expect to get caught in the drawbridge traffic?”

“Daily, if you’re out and about.”

“I was thinking of putting Tracey-Love in school half days, give her something to do while I work.”

“Leave early if you’re concerned about time, but getting caught in bridge traffic is a legitimate excuse around here.”

“Good to know.”

Elle grinned, passing him the bread. On the way downtown, they’d been caught in bridge traffic, and for fifteen minutes New Yorker Heath drummed the wheel impatiently but listened as she talked about a painting she’d started.

He asked about the inspiration behind her idea—drum, drum, drum—offered a suggestion—“What is taking so long?”—talked about colors and the message of her work—“We’re stopped for that one itty-bitty sail boat?”

“Yep.”

He’d glared at her. “New Yorkers would riot.”

The server returned for their order. Elle ordered a brick-oven pizza and Heath the pork roast.

“How’s the book?” Elle leaned to one side, chin in her hand.

“Good, good.” Heath spread his napkin over his lap, reaching for a slice of warm bread. “It’s a World War II love story, which is giving my agent a heart attack, but it’s what came out when I started writing.”

“We’re a slave to the muse, no? Why doesn’t he like the story?”

“If one of your clients was a noted Manhattan criminal lawyer, would you want a love story set in wartime Beaufort and the Aleutian Islands?”

Elle laughed. “No, I guess not. I’d want a legal thriller or political intrigue.”

“Exactly.”

She brushed her hand over the linen. “When do I get to read this masterpiece?”

“When it’s published.”

Ha.

He didn’t even crack a smile.

“Not even a peek?”

Heath tried to hide his grin with a bite of bread. “Maybe, we’ll see.”

“Okay, no more busting my chops about my confidence or sneaking peeks at my work.”

“Yeah, let’s talk about your confidence.” His steady gaze made her butterflies beat their wings. “What happened to the girl who drew on bulletins and water-colored her parents wedding pictures?”

“Gave in to doubt. Let my confidence leak like air from an old bike tire. It became too hard to paint and believe I was any good.”

“Doubt usually has a source.”

Their server refilled their iced teas. Elle waited until she left to go on.

“I had a mentor at New York’s Student Art League the summer after I came home from Florence. I was discouraged and thought if I could find someone who saw beyond my weaknesses, maybe I’d develop my craft.”

“Elle, it’s art. Very subjective.”

“Sure but who wants their professors implying, ‘Should’ve majored in basket weaving’?” Elle placed a slice of bread on her plate and reached for the butter.

“You’re exaggerating.”

“No, I’m not. I had an instructor in Florence as well as colleague who gave me the what-are-you-doing-here eye.” Her first bite of bread was buttery warm. It had been awhile since she’d had much more than dry cereal, stale crackers, and barbecue chips. “I felt like a brown pony running in a pack of psychedelic ones and finding a way to stand out was impossible. People would ask, ‘What’s that spec of dirt doing on this gorgeous, mosaic masterpiece?’”

Heath laughed, covering his full mouth with his fist. “Elle, come on, you’re not a brown pony. Besides, do you really believe every successful artist or writer had someone telling them, ‘Go for it, Van Gogh. You da bomb’?” He arched his brows. “If there are vacancies in your Never Never Land, I want to move in.”

She burst out laughing. “Okay, no, but somewhere, somehow, a voice has to tell the artist, ‘Keep going. You have what it takes.’”

Their server stopped by. “Your order will be right out.”

“What happened that summer? At the Student League?”

Elle leaned forward with her hands in her lap. “I wanted to study impressionism.” She shook her head. “Way harder than it looks.”

“Most simple things are.”

“I met a visiting professor at the Student League, Dr. Petit, who gave private instruction. Paid a lot of money, painted a lot of hours, lived in a closet someone rented to me as an apartment . . . only to be told I’d better marry well or find a good-paying day job.”

“Really, that harsh?” He wrinkled his face.

“By the time I left New York in September, I never wanted to pick up a brush again.”

“Elle, he’s one man.”

“Sometimes one man is all it takes. I came home and started planning the gallery. Time was a commodity I didn’t want to waste. So many people dedicate their lives to the wrong thing. I didn’t want that to be me.”