Love Starts with Elle(82)
Rufe float planes. Did the Japanese fly them in the Aleutians? He’d dropped the term in from memory, so he’d better Google it.
A second car door slammed. Voices. Heath shoved his laptop to the club chair’s ottoman and stood. Ten fifteen. The house had been quiet except for the tap-tap-tapping of his fingers on the keyboard.
Heath had tucked Tracey-Love into bed an hour ago, and so far she remained there. Rock retired to Heath’s room a little before ten. His flight back to NewYork left Charleston at nine a.m., so he planned to rise early.
Muffled yelling.
The noise came from the kitchen side of the house so Heath strolled to the fridge without turning on extra lights.
He craved something cold and fizzy to drink, warm from writing with the laptop on his legs, but if he drank caffeine now he’d never go to sleep. He opted for water.
Chugging down half the bottle, Heath peered out the window, above the edge of Ava’s letter. Elle? The studio’s stairway light haloed her silhouette. A broader, darker shadow followed. Must be Jeremiah.
Their voices rose, then fell. She angled toward him, then turned away. He grabbed her arm.
Fight for yourself, Elle. Don’t let him manipulate you. Heath had half a mind to open the door and cheer her on. But he knew . . . it was none of his business.
But if he were Jeremiah, he’d fight for Elle. She’d be worth every emotion, every act of love.
The silhouettes stood apart for a long moment, then Elle pressed her hand against Jeremiah’s arm. She pointed to the studio and started up the stairs. It took a few seconds, but he trailed behind her.
Years of trial law had trained Heath in body language, but tonight, peering through the darkness wearing the spectacles of his own emotions, he was clueless.
Are they taking the argument inside? Making up?
When his cell rang, he jumped and darted for the living room, snatching the phone from the end table.
“McCord.”
“Did I call too late?” Nate. Couldn’t think to check the time before he dialed. Ambient noise filled the background—laughter, clicking glass, and clashing plates.
“You always call late.” Heath straddled the ottoman, easing into the club chair.
“Yeah, that’s because I’m out here stumping for you.” The voices dimmed.
“Stumping for me? At a party?”
“Some swanky dinner where I met up with some old editor pals of mine.”
“Yeah?” Heath gripped the water bottle. Face a difficult judge? No problem. Persuade a jury? Piece of cake. Hear his book was rejected? Nervous water-bottle crusher.
“Seems they’re interested in war novels, think they’ll make a comeback in a few years and are scouting for good manuscripts.”
“No word from the small press, Poplar?”
A second, then two ticked off before Nate said, “They passed, Heath.”
“I figured.” Heath scooted to the edge of the chair.
“They loved the concept, so much they just bought a war book and are putting a lot behind it. But they loved your writing. So, while I shmoozed with my editor friends tonight, I dropped this little tidbit and got the conversation rolling. Heath, we’ll find a place for this story. But if you want to work on a legal thriller—”
His posture slumped as he fell against the back of the chair. “Rock came down for a surprise visit this weekend, Nate.”
“Can’t live without you?”
“Something like that. Wanted to make sure I remembered my six-month deadline. I’ll be back in the city by the middle of September.” His decision came swift, without contemplation. “Guess I got this novelist thing worked out of my system.”
“Heath, don’t give up. We’ve gotten close. Your talent will make a way. Keep sending me what you’ve got, I’ll pitch it. Shoot, I’m doing this as much for Ava as you.”
Heath said good-bye, tossed his phone to the table, and shut down his laptop. Clicking off the lamp, he stretched out on the couch and tugged the afghan over him. For a long time, he stared into the darkness, praying, seeking the wisdom of heaven.
Light footfalls echoed down the hall and a warm little body shoved in next to him. Rolling over on his side, Heath smoothed her rough hair with his palm and kissed her moist cheek.
In the morning, he’d confirm with Rock—the September return date worked well for him.
The prayer chapel was hallowed and quiet when Elle entered Monday morning, sitting in her usual place, second row, right side.
Miss Anna knelt in front by the altar, her hands lifted in silent worship.
Opening her Bible, Elle tried to read the words written in red, but tears interfered.
She sniffled and prayed for a long while, struggling to find contentment in God despite the weekend’s events.
“Want to tell me about it?” Miss Anna shoved Elle aside so she could sit.
Elle wiped her cheek with her fingers, wiped her nose with a very weary tissue. “Jeremiah and me . . . it’s over.”
“And you regret it?”
“No.” Lifting her head, Elle stiffened against her rolling emotions. “Not really, but I sure as shootin’ didn’t want to go through it twice.”
“Well, now you know. He’s not the one for you.”
Elle’s laugh lightened her own sadness. “I wanted him to be, but when I looked close, Miss Anna, I saw the truth.”