Love Starts with Elle(97)

Elle flipped the pages of the magazine with her fingers. “Oh, okay. I understand. Maybe I can fly up . . . sometime. I mean, if you want—”

“Want? If you only knew, Elle. But I have no free time to spend with you. I’m barely getting home to read to Tracey-Love and tuck her in.”

“How are we supposed to move forward if we are never together? If you’re changing your mind, Heath, just say so.”

“My mind has not changed. This is a calendar issue, Elle. Be patient. Let me work this out.”

“Then I have to tell you, this feels all too familiar, Heath. Jeremiah did the same thing to me.”

“I am not Jeremiah.”

“I won’t let it be done to me again.” Elle caught her reflection in the salon mirror.

“Can we talk about this later? I’m due in court.”

“Just think about it, Heath. Maybe we’re not meant to be. We just got caught up in the leaving. Perhaps neither one of us wants to be the first to say good-bye.”

Nothing for a long moment. Then a weighty sigh. Elle pictured him standing at his desk, pressing his fingers to his brow. “How’d we go from ‘I’m sure I love you’ to a seventies R&B song?”

“We’ve had a month to think, pray, get into our own routines.”

“Are you telling me you want out?

“No, but I’m trying to figure out where this relationship is going.”

“Fine, then can we do this tonight?”

She sat up, shoulders back. “Yes. Have a good day in court.”

“Yeah, okay. ’Bye.”

Elle pressed End, staring at the review, the melody and lyrics of Gladys Knight streaming across her heart.





THIRTY

Elle prayed alone in the chapel this morning, keeping vigil in Miss Anna’s spot by the altar. Her mentor had missed prayer yesterday, but when Elle called to check on her, she insisted she was fine.

“My bones wanted to sleep in, is all. I’ll be along tomorrow. I feel the Lord stirring in me.”

Elle peered at the door. She might come late. There was time.

Meanwhile, focusing was hard for Elle this morning. Her thoughts wandered from the painting she was working on for Danny to the resonance of Heath’s voice as they talked last night.

Maybe we do need to step back, reevaluate our relationship.

She’d cried herself to sleep. While they set nothing definite, Elle suspected Heath caved to her doubts. God, I’m a saboteur. Why do I keep doing this?

Because he was in New York and she was here? If the ache in her heart was any indication, she loved him more today than yesterday.

Lord, keep me from myself. I give my heart, Heath, our relationship, all my fears to You. Increase in me so I can decrease.

The chapel doors creaked. Elle rose up on her knees. “Miss Anna?”

“Morning, Elle.”

“Good morning, Pastor O’Neal.”

He sat on the front row pew and patted the bench next to him. “Join me.”

“Is everything okay?”

“We got our first fall chill this morning.” Pastor O’Neal puffed on his cupped hands.

“It was hard to get up. I slapped the snooze one too many times. Had to leave the cottage without a shower.”

He chuckled. “The chapel used to have a fireplace, over there by the communion table. But when the place almost caught fire, the board closed it off.”

“I have a feeling you didn’t come here to reminisce about fireplaces. Is Mitch all right? Caroline?”

“They’re fine. Still planning to be here for Christmas.” He shifted, clearing his voice. “Guess there’s no easy way to say this . . . Miss Anna died in her sleep, Elle.”

No. Impossible. Tiny blips of electricity prickled over her skin. “Pastor O’Neal, no. I just spoke with her.”

“Her sister found her peacefully lying in bed, smiling.” His eyes shone as he stared ahead.

“Jesus Himself probably came for her,” Elle whispered.

“Would she have it any other way?”

“Would He?” Tears slipped along the crevices of her cheek. Slipping her fingers in her hip pockets, she stood at the altar. “What will I do without her?”

Pastor O’Neal joined her, handing her a white note. “Anna gave me this for you about two months ago, instructing me not to give it to you until the right time. Said I’d know when.”

Elle brushed her wet cheeks with the back of her hand and took the note.

“I’d like you to speak at her memorial.”

“I’d be honored.” A tear dripped from her chin.

Pastor O’Neal wrapped his arm around Elle’s shoulder in a fatherly fashion, then lifted his hand to the Lord. His sweet baritone offered a sacrifice to God. “It is well . . . with my soul.”

Elle’s knees betrayed her. She slipped to the floor, weeping. Yes, it is well. But, oh, Miss Anna. I have so much I want to talk to you about.

Eli O’Neal’s song ended, but it drifted over them, echoing between the dark beams.

Elle cried, face first in the carpet, piling tissues beside her head. When her grief eased, she sat up and examined the note in her hand.

In her shaky handwriting, Miss Anna had written “For Elle.” The blue ink from her pen smudged on the beginning of each letter. She unfolded the page.