Love Starts with Elle(89)

Grinning, Heath rubbed his palms together. “What? We were also doing a good deed.”

“Whatever.” She bumped him with her hip.

Darcy entered with an elegant, poised black woman. “This is Elle Garvey’s work, Ruby. Isn’t it fascinating?”

Elle stepped from behind Heath. Might as well face the music.

“Only six? It’s a good thing you’re showing Sir Lloyd Parcel, Darcy, or I’d consider this a waste of time.” Ruby dug in her low-slung black leather bag.

Only six? She hates them already. Floor beneath me, open up.

Darcy glanced toward Elle. “Ruby, this is the artist, Elle Garvey.”

Elle approached, her hand extended. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

Ruby reluctantly gripped Elle’s fingers. “So you say now, until you read my review.”

Ruby Barnett walked slowly along Elle’s display, observing each of the six paintings, taking notes. When she stopped in front of Feathers, she lowered her arms to her side, paper and pen gripped in her hand.

Candace and Sara Beth watched on the other side of Heath and Elle. Julianne returned, whispering, “Is that the reviewer? What’s she doing?”

“Yes and I don’t know.”

Something about Feathers had her attention. Or disdain. For those who knew of the feathers apparition, the painting ministered. But if they didn’t know, Elle wondered if her simple rendition of white feathers positioned against a midnight blue silk would evoke any emotion or interest at all.

After a moment, Ruby scribbled in her pad, then moved to the next painting. Elle watched the slow sag of her shoulders. She tried to write again, but stopped, putting her notepad in her bag.

“Darcy, where are the Sir Lloyd Parcels? I met him in London last year. A fascinating man.”

Darcy didn’t catch Elle’s gaze. “His paintings are in the front room, Ruby. Are you sure you don’t want to spend more—”

“The Parcels please.”

“Through this door.” Darcy motioned to her assistant, Christine. “Please bring Ms. Barnett some water.”

Heath’s broad hand slid along Elle’s shoulder, a comforting gesture. “I’m sorry.”

“How rude.” Candace circled the small family gathering, “I’m going to go ask her what she—”

“Candace, don’t you dare.” Elle blocked her older sister. “You want to make it worse by insulting her? ‘Elle Garvey’s amateurish work was highlighted by her immature sister.’”

Candace conceded, frustration sharpening her expression. “Fine. For you, Elle. But she barely looked at them.”

“She reviews hundreds of paintings a year, Candace. She doesn’t have to look long to know what’s good.”

“Then I’m done here.” Candy reached around Julianne to her husband, Alex. “Want to take your wife to dinner? Might as well take advantage of a night without the children. Jules, Danny, want to come? How about you two?” Candace regarded Elle and Heath.

“I think I’ll stick around,” Heath said.

“Me too.” Elle recognized a familiar Presence in the ancient dining room and she wanted to stick around.

“Hey, Elle. Great stuff.” Deputy J. D. Rand’s booming voice broke the silence of the show room. A stunning, willowy brunette clung to his brawny arm. Nothing about J. D. was understated.

“Evening, J. D. You remember Heath McCord from Bodean’s party.”

“Yeah, bubba, good to see you.” The men grasped hands. “This is Eloise Bell, new in town.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Love your work.”

Heath nudged Elle. Ruby had returned and stood in front of Feathers. J. D. moved on with Eloise.

“Ruby.” Darcy joined her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Her answer faded between the y and the s.

Elle and Heath waited by the stairwell, watching. When Ruby lowered her chin to her chest and her shoulders collapsed, Darcy whispered to her.

Ruby sobbed, shaking her head, mumbling, slowly sinking to the floor.

Darcy disappeared in the powder room off the front left, returning with a tissue box, and knelt next to Ruby.

More gallery visitors entered, spotted Ruby on the floor, then exited.

“This is why you paint, Elle,” Heath whispered. “You touch people in the hidden places.”

Maybe it’d been five minutes, perhaps fifteen, but when Ruby lifted her head, she gazed back at Elle with glossy eyes.

“My father was a musician,” she said, propping herself up with her hand flat on the floor. “Traveled all over the south with a blues band, sending home what money he didn’t spend on food and women for my brother James and me. I was twelve years old, hiding five-and one-dollar bills from my mama in a cigar box under my bedroom floor board so she wouldn’t spend it on bourbon.”

“You never told me this story, Ruby,” Darcy said.

Heath shoved Elle closer.

“I’ve pushed so much out of my mind, Darcy. We lived on the outskirts of Charleston, nothing much more than a shack. But James and I kept it clean, studied hard in school, looked after Mama.”

“What is it about the feathers, Ruby?” Darcy asked.

“So many things,” she muttered. “One hot summer afternoon, right after the war, Daddy was heading off to one of his gigs. Mama fought him like there was no tomorrow. I hid under my bed, the mattress springs snatching my plaits, tucking my head in my arms, crying, praying for Mama to leave him alone. Doors slammed. Mama cracked Daddy’s cheek with her hand, begging and screaming for him to stay home, get a job shrimping or working construction. But music was Daddy’s true love.” Darcy ran her hands over Ruby’s shoulders. “My mama warned me against a tuba player.