Love Starts with Elle(73)

Heath burst out the kitchen door and jogged for the van. “Any word?” He cradled the phone on his shoulder as he buckled in and fired out of the driveway.

“It’s only been a few weeks, Heath. Publishing is hard business. Marketing wants one thing, the editors something else.” The meter of his voice was slow and casual, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to walk to the corner store for a soda or not.

“Give it to me straight, Nate.”

“They passed.”

“All of them?” The news hit hard.

“Yeah, I pressed them for an answer since I knew they’d set aside time for your proposal as soon as they got it. But right away, I heard no interest in a war piece. Legal thriller, New York City crime, suspense? Yes, but no wartime love stories.”

“I see.” Heath realized how much he wanted a book deal. Chet and Kelly deserved to have their story told and read. He paused at the Fripp Point stop sign, waiting for late-afternoon traffic to pick up before turning onto Hwy 21. If he got caught in drawbridge traffic, he’d really be late. The school should’ve called.

“They’re salivating for another The Firm.”

“What happened to fresh and original?”

Nate sighed. “Okay, a fresh and original The Firm. Heath, you’ve done your research, the writing is solid, great characters and setting, but marketing for war stories is tough right now.”

“I’m sure you did your best.”

“He said dubiously. Hey, old friend, I met editors, bought a lot of coffee and lunches on your behalf.”

“Okay, advise me.” Heath tapped his brake as the traffic over the bridge slowed. Shoot, he’d caught the bridge light. Way in the distance, two sailboats with towering masts drifted toward the bridge, unhurried, without a care.

Sure, they didn’t have a little girl, waiting for her delinquent daddy.

“You can keep working on this book. I’ll keep looking for a publisher. But it’ll take time. Or you can get to work on another legal thriller. With your improved writing, I think we’ll go to auction before the printer ink is dry. Based on your legal experience, you could pound out something in a month. Just remember to change the names to protect the innocent.”

“What are my chances with another publisher and the war story?” Heath drummed his fingers against his steering wheel. Except for the anxiety of being late for Tracey-Love and Nate’s news, he might have enjoyed the view from the crest of the bridge—a hazy pale sky, the sheen of light bouncing off a sun-kissed river, the peaceful drift of a sailboat toward home.

Elle had warned him about bridge traffic. Leave early.

“A friend of mine is a publisher over at a new house, Poplar Books. They’re very small, but serious about publishing. I can send the manuscript over there. If they want it, the advance will be in the low five figures. And they lean toward literary works.”

“Send it.”

“I’ll keep you posted.”

“I guess if I have to set it aside to write something more popular and mainstream, I will.”

“Just keep it in the back of your mind, Heath. And don’t think you’re selling out. There’s more than one kind of book in that soul of yours. So, you write a legal thriller to get established, then you can write World War II novels.”

Heath thanked him, then listened as Nate rambled on about something—a date he had last week? He kept saying “she” and “her.” Heath peppered his side of the conversation with “um-hum” and “really.” He was too distracted by the rejection news and being late to pick up Tracey-Love to listen like a good friend.

When Nate hung up, Heath tossed his phone into the passenger seat, drumming his hands on the wheel. Let’s go.

No one wanted a war novel? Bump ’em. Heath thought the world could use a few more war novels. People forgot sacrifice so easily.

The bridge light flipped to green and Heath’s foot hovered between the brake and gas, waiting for the line to move. Come on.

Tracey-Love’s white-sided daycare came into view minutes later. Heath turned into the parking lot and shifted into Park. The late-day sun splashed the center of the yard with white gold. The place felt deserted. He popped open his door.

“Tracey-Love? Anybody?”

He started for the doors when he spotted Tracey-Love. She sat alone with her feet dangling from a bench, her ankles crossed and locked.

“Hey, baby.”

She jerked her head up. Dirt streaked her cheeks and chin; her eyes were red rimmed.

“D-d-daddy.” She launched herself from the bench, her pink sundress flapping around her knees as she ran. Her backpack swung from her narrow shoulders. Slamming into Heath’s arms, TL gripped his neck so tightly he choked. She shivered with sobs.

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay. Daddy’s here, Daddy’s here. What happened?” Heath tried to see her face, but she kept it buried against his neck. She was hot and sticky.

Still cradling her and speaking in low tones, he walked toward the school door and pried it open. “Anybody here?”

A stern-lipped Miss Millie met him at the threshold. “Well, you made it.”

“Mind telling me why my girl was sitting out on the bench alone, crying?”

“She wouldn’t wait for you in here.” Miss Millie walked around a low table, sliding pint-sized chairs underneath. “She was convinced you weren’t coming.”