Love Starts with Elle(83)

“One doesn’t sit before the Lord long without learning to hear the unspoken.”

“The New York gallery owner called too. The one Heath McCord put me in touch with and—”

“Heath McCord. Reminds me of my Lem. Now he’s one to mourn losing.”

Elle laughed over her tears. “Are you turning matchmaker on me?”

“No, no, just saying, you know, in case you wondered about my opinion.”

“We’re only friends.” Great friends, if she thought about it.

“I suppose it’s wise not to jump into another emotional dance just yet.”

Elle grinned at Miss Anna’s choice of words, suddenly warm with the memory of dancing with Heath.

“Tell me about this art woman.”

“Mitzy Canon. She’s a voice in the art world and called me to say clearly I was an amateur and to assure me of her opinion. She sent my work to other gallery owners and critics who agreed with her.”

Miss Anna laughed. “I see. God is making it hard on Himself. Upping the ante so He can prove Himself to you.”

“Doesn’t feel like He’s on my side at all right now.”

“Oh, oh, my dear friend, how will you ever learn of His goodness and faithfulness if you never slay a Goliath? Nothing is impossible with Him.”

Miss Anna grabbed the back of the pew, pulling herself to her feet, and gathered her Bible, pocketbook, and old sweater. “See you in the morning.”

Elle decided to pray awhile longer. “I’ll be here.”

Miss Anna paused in the open doorway, her face sweet and cherubic, her eyes almost glowing. “Yes, I know, you will.”



“Wally. Hey, it’s Elle Garvey . . . I’m good. Listen, I was wondering . . .” She paced the studio, feeling silly now that she’d called him, but she wanted something to do with her days. Add a little cash to her flow, avoid draining all her savings until she earned a living in art again. “Do you have any openings on your lawn crews?”

He guffawed. Loud, in her ear, slapping his palm against the steering wheel, repeating her story to whoever sat next to him. “It’s Elle Garvey, wanting a job . . .”

“Wally, I’m serious. I’m sort of in a setback here and thought I could use a job to get me out of the studio . . . I can’t understand why you’re . . . Wally, stop laughing . . .”

Elle pressed End. Okay, maybe it was a crazy idea, but, aurgh, couldn’t she have control over some element of her life? She kicked a leg of her easel. It teetered and swayed. Her reaction was emotional, even after a night’s sleep and a morning of prayer, but she’d decided to slay her Goliath by giving up on painting and men for a while.

The idea of sweating in the hot sun, challenging her muscles, letting the lowcountry sun brown her skin appealed to her. For now.

The studio stairs rattled and Elle looked toward the door. She recognized the distinct sound of someone taking two steps at a time. When he landed on the top step, she called, “Come in, Heath. The door’s open.”

He breezed in. “How’d you know it was me?”

“The rhythm of your step, running up, two at a time.”

“So, you’re on to me.” He smiled, white against brownish red.

“Yeah, McCord, I’m on to you.” Elle gathered the papers on her work table—bills, printed e-mails, notes she’d jotted during prayer, mostly painting ideas—and stacked them in a neat pile.

“Are you okay?”

Elle dusted the table with her hand. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“I heard you coming home the other night with Jeremiah.”

Hmm, right. “I gave him his ring back. It’s over.”

“I’m sorry, Elle.” He bent to see her face.

She swatted in the air in front of him. “No, you’re not. Say it: you were right. He’s a self-focused egomaniac. Should’ve known when he stumbled over how to spell renaissance.”

Heath wrinkled his expression. “Renaissance?”

“Long story, but I used to say the man I married had to spell renaissance. Sort of my litmus test, after finding out if he loved Jesus, naturally.”

Staring across the studio, Heath moved his lips, the letters tumbling off his breath. “R-e-n-a-i-s-s-a-n-c-e. Renaissance.”

Elle rang an imaginary bell. “Ding-ding. We have a winner, Johnny. Tell the man what he’s won. Okay, I’ll tell you, Bob. A grand, fun-filled life married to Elle Garvey. Just say . . .”—she slowed— “. . . I do and . . .” She stopped. He was looking at her. Warm, she felt really warm. “Shew, what is up with this old AC?”

Heath billowed his T-shirt. “Is it on the fritz? It’s roasting in here.”

Elle clicked the knob up one, then glanced back at Heath. “Better?”

“Much.” He picked at a thick drop of paint on the table. “It’s good you tried with Jeremiah, Elle. Really. Now you know.”

Elle paced the studio, starting to feel the clutter.

“I didn’t see Jer was wrong for me because I didn’t want to see. Me, a college-educated woman, head in the sand.”

“Don’t put yourself down, Elle. It took a lot of courage to walk away from a successful, good-looking man offering you love, commitment, and marriage.”