Love Starts with Elle(84)

“Like you were his biggest fan.”

“But I’m yours. And I didn’t want to see you with a phony like him.”

She snatched the broom from the corner. “I used to think women who stayed with cheating or abusive men were crazy and stupid. Now I understand a little bit why they do it.” Her eyes watered. “What if I didn’t have a good family, friends, a mentor like Miss Anna? What if I didn’t know Jesus? How can they walk away from the one bit of security being offered, even if it meant enduring some pain?”

“You’re right, Elle. Makes me grateful.”

“Look at me whining. You lost your wife. I can’t imagine, Heath.” Elle pointed to him with the tip of the broom handle.

“Elle, I’m going back to New York in September.”

She stopped with the broom. “I see.”

“Rock needs me and Nate’s not having much success with my book. Another publisher turned me down.”

“Mitzy Canon turned me down.”

His torso collapsed with disappointment. “What’d she say?”

“Blah, blah, immature, blah, blah, no good, blah, blah, second opinion of critics and gallery owners, blah, blah, you should do something else with your life, blah, blah.”

“Forget her. She’s a New York art scene snob.”

“Then why’d you drag my name past her? She told me to go back to my hole in the wall.”

“But you won’t.” Heath hopped off the stool and walked over to the wall of paintings. “Elle, every time I see your work, I feel something.”

“Like you’re going to be sick?”

“Stop, no. I feel hope, inspiration.” He shrugged. “Makes me want to go write something, create with words what you create with colors.”

“Then be my guest, take the paintings. Give them to friends and family for Christmas.”

He exhaled. Elle almost felt his wind on her side of the studio. “You’re showing these in the Summer Art Walk.”

“I called Darcy today and canceled. She’s ticked, but she’ll get over it. Jeremiah was dead on about one thing: if your work isn’t excellent, don’t go trying out for the A-team.”

“He’s your number one fan, is he?” Heath set the feather painting down, picking up another one. Downtown Beaufort.

“I threw his phone in the river and—” Elle snorted, leaning on the broom.

Heath snapped his gaze to her. “You didn’t.”

“Called him a phone whore.”

“Bold.” He smirked.

“I thought so.” Three days later, it was still funny.

“Why’d you throw his phone in the river?”

“Because I was trying to talk to him and he kept taking calls about football players and, yo, how cool was his team. It was stupid and I shouldn’t have done it, but it brought our relationship to center stage.”

Elle leaned the broom against the table and straightened the paintbrush carousal. Huckleberry was coming by for a lesson. “So, New York. Are you taking Tracey-Love?”

“I thought I might.”

“Rio will bawl her eyes out.”

“TL too. She loves Rio. And you.”

“She’s very special, Heath. Ava would be proud.” Elle opened the turpentine jar, dipped in a paper towel, and wiped down her already cleaned palette. “Did you read the letter yet?”

“I’ve tried, keep getting interrupted. Visitors, phone calls. But I’ll make my summer-end deadline. It’s time, I know it.”

“You’ll get your book published, Heath.”

“You’ll show your paintings around the world.”

“Ha, not if I don’t paint them.”

“If I promise to keep writing, will you promise to keep painting?”

She tossed the paper towels in the garbage, then knotted the white bag. “Maybe. Maybe.”

When she walked around the table, the trash bag dangling from her fist, Heath reached out and molded her into his embrace, his cheek firm against her hair.

Dropping the trash, Elle gripped him, burying her face into the soapy fragrance of his shirt.





To: Elle Garvey

From: CSweeney

Subject: Coming home





Elle,

Mitch and I decided today to be in Beaufort for Christmas. I cannot wait. Let’s take out my old boat and drift on the Coosaw.

I’d write more, but Carlos and I are off to Thailand for a meeting.





Love you, Caroline



Lights turned low. A quiet calm in the cottage. Heath roamed down to Tracey-Love’s room, the bare floor cold against his bare Fred Flintstones.

It’d been several nights since he woke up with her curled against his back. He prayed the returned to New York wouldn’t set her back but add to the strength of her lowcountry victory.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake her, Heath pondered his decision. Not that he could change his mind, but once a child was involved, the ramifications were greater.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you, we’re going back to New York,TL,” he whispered into the dark. “No, not right away, but in a few weeks, after Labor Day. I talked to Granddad. We’ll spend Thanksgiving with him and Uncle Mark, Aunt Linda, and the cousins.”