Love Starts with Elle(57)

Julianne held up her pinky finger. “Pinky swear. No one outside this room right now will ever hear of this.”

“What? You’re in love. Most people want to tell the whole world.”

“Elle, pinky swear.” Julianne’s voice left no room for debate. “If you don’t, I’ll make up a lie so horrible about you—”

“Your own sister?” Elle slowly raised her pinky, challenged by the hard glint in Julianne’s eyes.

“Not a word, Elle.”

She wrapped her pinky with Julianne’s. “Pinky swear. Not a word.”





EIGHTEEN





MANHATTAN


Mitzy Canon’s art gallery, 821, was a converted Chelsea warehouse with high ceilings, exposed steel beams, a thousand carefully aimed lights, and a definite chill in the air. At least to Heath, though he liked the paint on the cement floor—fiery red. Nice touch. Made him feel like he walked on the cover of hell.

A stringed quartet played Brahms in the far corner while gallery guests and patrons viewed colorful images of headless bodies painted by new artist Geraldine V.

Heath considered himself to be opened-minded about artistic expression, but this Geraldine V. baffled him. If he looked too long at her images, a darkness weighted his soul. The opposite of how he felt holding Elle’s Coffin Creek painting—which he’d hung in the cottage living room (over her protests).

A black-tie server handed him a glass of white wine without asking if he wanted it. When the next tray passed by, Heath returned the favor.

Where was Rock? He’d gone off to find Mitzy fifteen minutes ago. Heath walked the perimeter of the gallery, recapping last night’s awards ceremony and tonight’s dinner with Rock.

The ceremony was lovely and honoring of Ava. But even as he accepted the gold and crystal award on her behalf, the gesture felt vain.

She’s not here, he wanted to say. The place where she now lives outshines the sun. Yet spending an evening reminiscing and laughing did his heart good, and put some distance between his growing feelings for Elle.

He wondered what she and Tracey-Love were doing. He’d called in the morning to check on TL, who cried the entire call. But Elle seemed to have things under command.

“She’s afraid you’re not coming back, Heath. But I’m assuring her you will, so nothing stupid, McCord.”

“Promise. Nothing stupid.”

So the tremors from Ava’s death still shook his little girl.

This evening he’d dined with Rock. Heath decided if the man ever left the law, he could go into acupuncture. He knew all of Heath’s pressure points and how to massage them. Until they arrived at the gallery, Heath had all but decided to fly back to St. Helena, pack up, and return to Calloway & Gardner next week.

Yes, they had some critical and interesting cases coming up, but Rock needed him to help balance the power. And Heath expertly played that game.

“Heath . . .” Rock waved as he made his way across the gallery with a slender woman draped with a silver gown and lots of diamonds. The voice of the American art scene, Mitzy Canon.

“Heath McCord.” She stretched her hand for him to kiss, not shake. Very Morticia Addams. “So sorry to hear of your wife’s tragic demise.”

He cast a glance at Rock, who shrugged; he hadn’t told her.

“Thank you, but I’m confident she’s in a better place.”

“One can only hope.”The reflective gallery lighting made Mitzy’s eyes appear hollow in her attenuated face. “Rock tells me you have an artist friend. Don’t we all?”

“Her name is Elle Garvey.”

“And what’s her story?”

“She owned a gallery. Sold it to move away, but things didn’t work out. She’s down on her luck, trying to sort out life. She’s been a good friend to me . . . after my wife’s tragic demise.” Behind him, Rock snorted. “And I’d appreciate it if you could look at her work. Help her out.”

Mitzy sipped her wine, flirting, winking at a passing gallery guest. If Heath hadn’t been standing two feet from her, he’d wonder if she heard a word he said.

“Is she tortured?”

Heath arched his brow. “Tortured?” Rock nudged him in the back. “Yes, very tortured.”

“The good ones always are.” Mitzy motioned to a man on the other side of the gallery. “I’ll be happy to review her work. I’m always looking for new stars.” When the man appeared at her side, Mitzy asked Heath to write down Elle’s information. “If we like her, we’ll ask her to show in our spring opening.”

Heath gave Mitzy’s assistant Elle’s information—e-mail and cell— then backed toward the door. “Rock, it’s been fun.”

“You’ll be in touch?”

“I’ll be in touch.” Heath shoved the door open and stepped into the crisp Manhattan night. People hurried along the sidewalk and the street was a sea of red taillights. In the distance, a horn blew. A taxi stopped at the corner to pick up a fare and from the open doors of a nearby café, music played.

But all he wanted to hear was the sound of the wind in live oaks and the cicada’s river song.



“All right, ladies, these are the rules.”