Love Starts with Elle(61)

She dropped her hand, wiping it against her apron. “No trash.

I’m trying to get you to expand your horizons.”

“Why don’t we paint in tandem, you know, then compare our expressions?” He picked up the palette knife.

Elle took it away from him. “Don’t make me regret doing this.”

“Testy.” He dug his hands into his big pockets, trying to frown.

“Okay, let’s mix some paint, then talk about how we want to approach the painting.”

Trying to get Huckleberry to settle down and paint the original picture was like trying to bridle a fly and train it to fetch. But after an hour of forcing him to focus and start over (thank goodness for the fluidity of oils), she sat back and watched him recreate a beautiful scene, emotion and all. He had incredible talent, and if he applied himself, he could have the impact he so desperately wanted.

When his session ended, they set up a future date before he left, then Elle cleaned the brushes and palette, thinking she needed to run over to Mama and Daddy’s to do laundry. The dirty clothes pile was beginning to merge with the clean. Her cell phone rang as she started sorting whites and colors.

“I hear you’re painting.” Darcy Campbell, owner of downtown’s Wild Heart Gallery, was on the other end.

“A vicious rumor, Darcy.”

“Huckleberry told me. He was in trying to peddle his smelly art. I tell you, Elle, I’d support his cause if he could present it in a socially ingratiating fashion. Last time he came in, the place reeked of dead fish for two days.”

“When was he there? He just left my place.”

“Yeah, he said you’re helping him paint.”

“Trying.” Elle dumped her whites into a Wal-Mart bag. “He’s really talented, Darcy, but so fascinated with garbage.”

Darcy’s chuckle spilled into Elle’s ear. “No kidding. So, was he right? Are you painting?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Great. I’m featuring you for the Summer Art Walk and don’t go letting any of the other galleries talk you into showing with them. You’re exclusive with me for September. Can you be ready?”

“Ready? No, I can’t be ready.” Darcy’s Charles Street gallery was the best gallery in the lowcountry. Located in an 1886 home, it had elaborate cast-plaster moldings, ceiling medallions, stone fireplaces in every room, and jib doors opening to the verandahs. She maintained its rustic, cultured atmosphere and often showed work by New York and London artists. Names. Not wannabes.

“Then get ready. Nothing like a little pressure to motivate you creative types. I want to help launch your career, Elle.”

“Darcy, I have no career. I’m dabbling, not painting-painting.”

“Well, stop dabbling and get serious.”

Sigh. The woman kidded not. Darcy took the business side of running a gallery extremely seriously and Elle had learned a lot from her. Darcy also had the marketing acumen and art-world connections to give an artist a leg up toward New York or London, Paris, or LA.

“Darcy, please hear me. I appreciate you, but I have nothing to show. I am barely painting. Most of this is just for me. Therapy. Worship, if you will. I’m not good enough to have people pay ten dollars, let alone hundreds.”

A car door slammed on Darcy’s side of the call. Keys jingled. “You forget I’ve seen some of your early work. I’ve always admired your use of color and ability to capture the emotion of a scene.”

“You flatter me, but no.” Elle snapped open a second Wal-Mart bag to start bagging her jeans and tops.

“I’m not flattering you. I’m tired of watching you play at art.”

The AC unit kicked on, shoving aside the warm air for cool. The afternoon sun heated the studio through the glass.

“Darcy, I appreciate you, I do, but give me a year or two.”

“Do you really want to waste another year? If you’re pushing Huckleberry to be the artist and the man he’s called to be, then I’m doing the same to you. Feel my finger in your back?”

Elle dropped the laundry-filled Wal-Mart bag and walked over to her paintings. She liked Feathers. And Girls in the Grass. There was the unfinished Downtown Beaufort, and oh, a painting from last fall when Hurricane Howard went over them and she hunkered down with Caroline at her place.

Then Heath’s voice haunted her. God is wiser than Dr. Petit . . .

“Five paintings.”

“Six.”

“Maybe.”

“Now I can tell you Sir Lloyd Parcel will be showing too.”

“Darcy, Sir Lloyd Parcel? You can’t hang my work in the same gallery as his, let alone the same county, the same state, the same country.”

“Simmer down. Ruby Barnett is coming down to do the review. This will help her ease into your work. It’s a brilliant plan. I’m featuring Lloyd and you in my ArtNews ad.”

“Ruby Barnett? Dang, Darcy, are you trying to destroy me before I even get started? She’s one of the toughest art critics.”

“All the more to have her view your work now. Elle, I heard Angela boxed you out, and while I’m not a religious person, looking at what’s happened to you the last few months makes me think the Divine is trying to get your attention.”

A needlelike chill raced down Elle’s arm. “Perhaps, maybe, we’ll see. But Darcy, let this first show be the hometown girl with her homegrown paintings. Give me a chance to see if I’m any good. No press, please.”