Love Starts with Elle(72)

“Elle.” Mama leaned over her shoulder. “The punch bowl is low, but it’s after eight. Do you think we should mix up more?”

“No one’s left yet and we have another hour.” Elle lifted the bowl and headed to the back room as several of Julianne’s high school friends arrived.

Julianne had turned the former mud room in the back into the break/storage room. As Elle kicked open the door, she heard a strained, tight-jaw conversation.

“Are you going to keep it a secret forever?”

“The grand opening is not the time and place, and you know it.”

Elle discovered a cornered Danny and a fiery Julianne. Well, this answered her where’s-Danny question. She motioned to the bowl. “Need more punch.”

Opening the fridge for the ingredients to make Granny’s famous Cherries Jubilee (soft on the Jubilee) recipe, Elle kept tuned to the whispers behind her, hating the way the conversation dimmed the joy in Julianne’s eyes.

Danny had no right. Partner, investor, boyfriend, or whatever. How dare he barge in here and demand something of her during the salon’s grand opening.

“Drop it.” Julianne.

“Fine, but we’re revisiting this.” Danny, of course.

He brushed by Elle as she tore open the packets of gelatin and dumped them into the punch bowl. He closed the door with a quiet click, leaving the sisters to huddle under a weighty silence.

Elle twisted open the ginger ale, thinking, praying as her sister wept quietly. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Always with the questions, Elle.” Julianne ripped two tissues from the box on the table.

“Always with the secrets, Jules.”

She pressed the thin tissue under her eyes to soak up the water. “Everything is going so well. Why does he have to push me?”

“At the risk of asking another question, what issue is he pushing?”

Mama chose this moment to check on her refreshment committee (Elle). Her lovely round face peered into the utility room. “Is the punch ready? I declare, twenty more people showed up. Mary Jo is giving them the grand tour. Julianne, are you doing another prize drawing?”

“Yes.” She kept her tear-stained face away from Mama by pretending to rearrange the hair coloring on the shelves. “Ask Daddy to do it, please. The prize is the Hilton Head weekend.”

Instead of consenting and leaving, Mama stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. As if it wasn’t hot and tense enough. Elle averted her gaze. If she looked, she’d crack. Every family had a squealer, stoolie, snitch. The Garvey Girls had Elle. Stool pigeon, first class. She couldn’t help it. One look from Daddy and she always broke like cold glass in a hot oven.

“Everything all right in here?” Mama moved between Elle and Julianne with slow, metered steps.

Elle stirred the punch and watched the floor. The tips of Mama’s perfectly painted red toenails peeked through peep-toe pumps. Mama stopped, pointing her toes in Julianne’s direction.

“We’re fine, Mama.” Julianne shuffled boxes. “What are these doing here? Out of order?”

“Elle?” Mama’s toes implicated her now. “Is this about Jeremiah? You girls seem very distracted.” No malfunction of her Mama Radar.

“Not at all about Jeremiah, Mama.” More punch stirring and a slight sloshing, but Elle held together. “The punch is ready. Can you open the door for me?”

The red-tipped toes hesitated, but did as Elle asked. “I’ll have Daddy do the drawing. Come on out, Julianne. Save the straightening for business hours.”

Mama exited and Julianne grabbed Elle’s arm. Red punch rolled like the tide up the side of the bowl, nearly spilling over onto her white tank.

“Not a word, stoolie. You pinky promised.”

Elle clinched her jaw. Maybe they were too adult for pinky promises. “All right, but whatever is going on with you two, fix it.”

“It’s not so easy.”

“Then make it easy.” Elle’s leg started to cramp from stretching to hold open the door. “I’ve got to get this punch to the table, but we’re not through with this conversation.”

“Yes, we are.”

“No, we’re not.”



Heath had fallen asleep at the kitchen table using his laptop as a pillow, snoozing comfortably until his cell phone broke into his slumber.

He jumped up, slamming his knee into the table leg, and stumbled to the living room.

“McCord.” He fell to the couch, squinting against the afternoon light slinking through the southern windows.

“It’s Nate.”

“Nate who?” Heath propped his head against the couch arm and dropped his arm over his eyes, warding off the glare.

“Very funny. How it’s going?”

“You tell me. Did you get my pages?” As his brain eased awake and started to function, Heath became aware of time and place.

“Didn’t you get my e-mail?”

Heath glanced at his watch. Four? Crap. Tracey-Love’s day school had let out a half hour ago. He shot off the couch, scrambling for his keys, stomping around for his new boat shoes.

“What e-mail?” Forget shoes, go barefoot.

“Yes, I e-mailed. Said I loved it. I’m getting attached to Chet. I sent a proposal to six publishers.”