Love Starts with Elle(60)

“Water sounds good.”

“We argued the night before she headed south, got cut off, and couldn’t reconnect.” Heath got up for the kitchen, opened the fridge, then walked back to the living room with two waters, running his stocking feet lazily over the floor. “Fourteen hours later, she was dead.”

“Listening to you now, it seems so impossible, like, ‘No, it can’t be. Bring her back.’”

“I felt that way for about three months, wrestling with the permanence. Ava wasn’t coming back.” He sat down, closer to Elle than he’d been before, and passed over a water. “It meant a lot to me to know Tracey-Love was safe with you while I was gone. Since Ava died, I haven’t left her with anyone overnight. So, did she do okay after I called?”

“She missed you, Heath, but she finally settled down last night. I let TL and Rio paint with their whole bodies. They’re quite a pair.”

“Bookends. One without a daddy. The other without a mama.”

“I never thought of it, but yeah . . .” Elle twisted the cap off her water. “Here’s some gossip you missed.”

Heath swigged his water, cooling his parched throat. “Do tell.”

“Julianne is opening her own salon, and it appears she’s dating one of Daddy’s friends, Danny Simmons.” Elle gave him a how-do-you-like-them-apples expression and took a shot of water.

“Do I know Danny Simmons? Is this a bad thing?”

Elle laughed, tossing the afghan off. “He’s twenty years older than she is, Heath.” She took another gulp of water, then wiggled her toes into her shoes.

“Right, right, I forgot love came with age boundaries.”

Elle made a face at him. “Whose side are you on?”

“No one’s. What’s wrong with this guy other than being ancient? You know, I have a good mind to accuse you of ageism.”

“Oh, please. Save me your New York lawyer speak.” Elle headed toward the kitchen. Heath rose to follow. “There’s nothing wrong with Danny. He’s a good man, successful, kind, but twenty years older than Jules. Just feels creepy.” She shoved open the screen door. “Thank you for telling me about Ava. I’m sorry you lost such a treasure.”

“Thanks for listening.” He flipped on the outside lights. “Look at me, walking you out your own door.”

She gazed toward the studio. A lone light shown from the window. “It doesn’t feel weird to me. My sister Candace accused me of being a bohemian.”

“I suppose there’s a little bohemian in all of us.” Heath tucked his hands in his pockets as Elle stepped off the deck. “Thanks again for everything.”

She walked backward across the yard, her smile standing out in the darkness. “Anytime.”





NINETEEN

Prayer at the chapel became a crimson ribbon woven through the top of Elle’s June days, tied neatly around afternoons of painting in her studio.

This particular morning she’d felt restless, unable to focus, prayer more difficult than usual. Miss Anna prayed out loud with her Bible open so Elle hitched to her spiritual wagon. The woman prayed a lot for faith, the ability to trust and give up her unbelief.

Elle considered her own loyalties. Who do I trust most, God or Daddy?

First response? Daddy, of course. He loved her, cared for her. He’d raised her. Worked his whole life to provide for her. But at the end of the day, he was still a weak, flawed man.

God, on the other hand, Elle thought, loved her beyond expression, beyond understanding. At least that’s what the Good Book said. So, if she had to choose, even with her weak faith, she’d have to choose the unseen God.

The idea? Trust God over man. Trust Him over herself.

The notion lingered with her all day. Elle paused from working around the studio, preparing for Huckleberry to come by for an art lesson.

“Lord, give me the kind of faith that believes wholeheartedly.”

“Elle, you here?” Footsteps resonated from the studio stairs.

She grabbed the hair tie lying by the sink and opened the door to Huckleberry. “Come on in, Huck.”

Dang, if the boy didn’t look like his namesake, Huckleberry Finn. Plaid shirt, buckle overalls, cuffed pant legs up to his shins, flip-flops. All he needed was a piece of straw dangling from between his teeth.

She motioned for him to enter. “Ready to paint?”

He popped his hands together. “Where’s my easel?” Coming around the work table, he stood in front of the only white canvas Elle had set up.

“We’re going to paint this together.” She tapped the picture taped to a second easel. It was an old picture Granddaddy Garvey had taken of Factory Creek at sunset during the seventies. Granddaddy had captured orange and red rays bouncing off the dark water. And up in the top left corner, a small paddle boat sat alone in the marsh grass.

The image always evoked an emotion from Elle, as if she understood the boat drifting, waiting to fulfill its calling, even at sunset.

Huckleberry squinted at the picture. “An itsy boat? Can I add some trash, ’cause I can tell you, Elle, the creeks are becoming more and more polluted.”

She cupped her hand over his mouth. “We are painting it exactly as we see it.”

“No trash?” he asked through her fingers.