Love Starts with Elle(94)

Elle set her book aside and strolled across the lawn in her bare feet. “Are you taking the angel with you?”

Heath wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “Certainly don’t want to haul it to Manhattan. I can leave it here or take it to my new place.”

Elle smoothed her palm over the high arch of the angel’s wing. “This may sound strange, but I believe there’s an angel standing guard over the prayer chapel. Can we take it over there?”

“Absolutely.”





TWENTY-NINE

To: CSweeney

From: Elle Garvey

Subject: Love?





Have crush on my tenant, Heath. But he leaves in a few days. Can hang on to my heart until then. He’s just so . . . real. I feel like he knows me better than I know myself. He’s widowed but dealing with it, honest with himself, with me. Sigh.





How are you?

Love, Elle



August 1942





Chet entered the log-shaped Quonset briefing hut with the rest of the squadron leaders. The round-walled room contained a desk, four short rows of chairs, and Colonel Chennault standing by a map of the Aleutian Islands.

Taking a seat on the back row near the heater, Chet didn’t like the swirl in his stomach. Something was up.

Lt. JasonWeb sat next to him, the collar of his mackinaw flipped up and tucked around his neck. Winter temperatures iced the early September days. “Now I know how a popsicle feels, thanks to Uncle Sam.”

“Relax, Web, it’s still summer,” Chet said. “Wait until fall.”

When the minute hand exactly hit the hour, Chennault launched into his briefing. “We’re advancing.”

Chet sat forward. Yeah, something was up. Just when Umnak started to feel like home. They had movies in the evenings, electricity, and decent chow.

Chennault slapped the map with his pointer. “Adak is two hundred and fifty miles from the enemy on Kiska. We’re moving in next door, boys.”

When the colonel finished the briefing, he tossed a small black box at Chet. “Captain McCord, I think these major clusters will look good on you.”

Chet caught his promotion in midair. “Thank you, sir.”

He’d write to Kelly tonight and tell her of his reward and advancement, though he’d rather tell her he was coming home.





Nine o’clock. Heath shoved his laptop side, his legs burning. His shoulders were tight from concentrating so hard on the scene. This was his last night to work on the story before the business of Calloway & Gardner consumed him.

A little more than halfway through the book, he figured with some focused weekend evenings he could have it done in five or six months. If Rock didn’t work him to death.

But he felt at odds with himself, as if he’d driven too far down the road after taking the wrong exit. It’d be hard to get back.

Just the anticipation of leaving.

Wandering down the hall, stepping over the boxes he’d packed— most of it Tracey-Love’s new toys—he flipped on the hall light to peek in on his daughter. Her long legs and arms were sprawled across the bed, with tangled strands of hair flowing over her pillow.

Two days ago he’d dropped three hundred dollars updating her wardrobe when it seemed overnight her little jeans had turned into flood-waters and her shirts barely covered her belly.

She’d turn five in November and be another year closer to the dreaded puberty.

Gently he moved her legs under the blanket and tucked the edges around her shoulders. Sitting on the edge of her bed, he dropped his arms over his knees.

“What do you think, Tracey-Love? Should Daddy just grab Miss Elle, kiss her until she can’t breathe, tell her there’s more where that came from and walk away, hoping she’ll chase me?” His confession sparked a laugh. “Daddy must think a lot of his kissing, huh?”

Her quiet breathing serenaded him. Good thing she slept. He reckoned a four-year-old didn’t need to hear about her daddy’s love life.

For a while, Heath prayed and listened, then wandered into the kitchen where he nuked a cup of day-old coffee and stepped around to the screened porch.

The moonless night was warm and cottony. But before he could sit, his phone went off. This late. Had to be Nate.

“How’s the World War II masterpiece?”

Heath sipped his coffee. “Masterpiece? Kind of a big word for my small book.”

“I sold it.”

“Come again.” The iron chair creaked when Heath dropped down.

“Bell Harbor Press loved it, Heath. Of course, the manuscript needs some work, but when I talked to their senior acquisitions editor, Wade Donovan, he said they’d been looking for a war book and yours is the one they want. He loves your writing and made a solid offer.”

Heath might regret this confession, but, “Nate, the book isn’t finished. Who is Bell Harbor Press?”

“Can you get it done in six months? I told them you could. They’re an elite Boston publisher with a few bestsellers on their roster. Welcome to your lucky day, Heath.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes and you’ll buy me lunch when you get here. We can discuss the details.”

“Okay, yes. Nate, thanks, man.”