At two o’clock, Huckleberry John lumbered into Common Ground, his dark bangs draping over his right eye, titanium rings stretching holes in his earlobes. His slightly crooked grin seemed unsure when he spotted Elle.
“You beckoned, O great Elle Garvey?” He slumped into the chair across from her.
“Do you want something to drink?” She eyed him, dumping sweetener into her latte.
“Naw, I’m good.” He flicked his hand through his hair. “What’s on your mind, chicky?”
“You. How’s your environmental art coming?”
“Good,” he said, gazing lazily around the shop, dangling one arm over the back of his chair, drumming his fingers on the table.
“Did Angela Dooley accept any of your work?”
“She’s a snob, Elle. I tried to tell her about the Coffin Creek crisis—”
“Come on, Huck. Be honest. What crisis?”
“See?” He tapped his forefinger against the table. “This is exactly how we go wrong in this country. We don’t pay attention until it’s too late.” Passion fortified his response.
“Good point. I hear you, but you’ve got to learn how to present yourself and your projects. And maybe actually learn a little about art. Art may be garbage to some people, Huck, but garbage is hardly ever art. Especially if it smells.”
“But I bet people will never forget my work.” He was cocky, but cute.
Elle sipped her latte. Too hot. “Huck, you’re ineffective.”
“Do tell.”
“Going around town with a fish tank of pluff mud and dead fish isn’t going to help your cause. You’re letting your message get in the way of the messenger. What are you trying to accomplish?”
“Art that focuses on the environment.”
“Got anything up your sleeve besides fish tanks?”
“A few paintings, a couple of mixed-medium pieces,” he confessed.
“Are they odorless?”
“Fairly. But”—his grin made her laugh—“they do stay in my apartment.”
“Huckleberry, I have a long way to go in my own art, but one thing I’ve learned: first be an artist, good or bad, weak or strong, and let your message come out of the work of your heart. You’re letting your passion ruin your art. Instead, let your passion fuel your art. Do you understand?”
“Kind of like put the gas in the tank, not all over the outside of the car.”
“Exactly. You have to be patient. Art takes time.”
Heed your own advice, Elle.
“Is that your nice way of saying I got a lot of work to do?” Huckleberry fussed, shaking his legs, stretching his neck, his arms. The man was incapable of sitting still.
“Not just you. Me too. I’m starting over with painting myself.” A second sip from her latte burned the same spot on her tongue as the first sip.
“We should get together sometime. Hang out, paint or something.”
Elle paused. Could she help him? While she’d been trained, she didn’t feel much farther along than Huckleberry craft-wise. “All right, let’s meet at my place since yours, um, smells.”
“Elle?”
She angled around to see her friend J. D. Rand. “Hey.”
A sheriff’s deputy, he was one of her old gang from high school. Last year he dated Caroline Sweeney until she caught him cheating.
She introduced Huck to J. D., who said, “The man with the fish tank.” Without knowing it, J. D. fueled Huck’s cause. Elle knew then Beaufort had not seen, or smelled, the last of his eco art.
“Did you hear about Caroline and Mitch?” Elle asked J. D.
“Yeah, through the grapevine. About time, eh?”
“I’ll say . . .”
Molly called J. D.’s order, but on his way out, he stopped back at the table, slipping on his Foster Grants.
“Bodean’s having a summer kick-off party tonight. Branan Morgan is playing with his band. Lots of good company, good food, and cold beverages. Love to see you there, Elle. Huckleberry, if you can shower and find clean clothes, come on out.”
Huckleberry glanced down at his shirt, smoothing his hand over a big chocolate-looking stain.
“I’ll see. Thanks, J. D.”
Elle hadn’t been to one of Bodean’s Mars versus Venus parties since Operation Wedding Day was in full swing. Tonight she had dinner with Heath. Maybe she could talk her New York lawyer friend into an evening with some good ole boys.
“Chet, are you out there? Come in.”
Still banking around for a strafing run, Chet didn’t answer Pike’s call, maintaining radio silence. If the submarine located him, he’d be in the drink before he could fire one round.
“Come in, Chet. The mother is gaining. Get home.”
Descending from the fog, Captain Chet McCord strafed the first enemy vessel he’d seen. Six months in the Aleutians and his greatest enemy was the cold, snow, and fog. His greatest victory: arriving home alive, not plowing into the side of a mountain.
Buzzing the con tower of the Jap sub, he peppered it with bullets, then rose into the fog before the enemy could man their guns. His fuel gauge told him to turn toward home.
“Pike, I’m coming home.”
As Chet banked east, he caught sight of the sub as it submerged beneath the freezing surface. He’d only infuriated the gray beast.
His P-36 engine sputtered.
“No you don’t.” Chet tapped the fuel gauge. He had enough to return home. What was going on? The engine sputtered again, nearly stalling.
Chet pushed toward Kiska, gripping the stick, willing his bird to stay alive and warm. Another sputter and he knew. She was freezing up.
Heath paced beside his van, waiting for Elle. She’d called to say she’d lost track of time while painting—he liked the excitement in her voice—and was running a few minutes behind. She’d meet him by his van.
His van. He kicked the front tire. What he need was some cool, secondhand car like a convertible Corvair or a Triumph Spitfire.
After he dropped off Tracey-Love at Julianne’s to spend the evening with Rio, he’d felt kind of lost.
First-date-like flutters ran down his ribs. Just a casual dinner, McCord. With a friend. It’d been eighteen years since he’d been alone with a woman not his girlfriend, wife, or colleague.
To distract himself, he walked over to inspect his angel carving. The core sculpture rose out of the wood, but the details needed to be carved out, sanded, and polished. He’d finish it someday. Before returning to NewYork.
Her fragrance arrived first. Like wild flowers in a spring meadow. When he looked around, he simply felt glad she was in the world. Proud and lucky to be with her. Even if just for one friendly night.
Her hair fluttered over her shoulders, her long brown legs kicked the hem of a flowing blue skirt. A trio of bracelets sparkled from the end of her arm.
He understood why men painted—to preserve images like Elle, real or imagined.
“You look beautiful,” he said, his steady voice masking the rumba going on beneath his shirt.
“So do you. Mighty dapper in khakis and pullover. Very summer-in-the-Hamptons-darling.”
Her breezy tone reminded him tonight was about one friend thanking another. No more, no less. His heart simmered down, slowing from a rumba to a boring ole waltz.
“A friend of mine is having one of his big parties tonight,” Elle said as he held open her door. “Want to swing by after dinner?”
Absolutely. “I am at your command.”
“Really, ’cause I have some studio windows that need washing.”
“Windows?” Heath held his arms out to his sides, giving himself the once-over, grinning. “You got all this and you want windows washed?”
Maybe it was the soft music hovering over Panini’s guests or the flicker of candlelight on the white linen tablecloth, but Elle’s insides felt battered by butterflies.
Handsome Heath wore a blue shirt that matched his eyes, and his bold flirting as he helped her into the van downright messed with her.
“You got all this and you want windows washed?”
But as delectable as he was, her heart wanted to remain in a soft, safe place until the last fragrance of Jeremiah Franklin had faded away.
“Give me the scoop,” he started, sitting back as their server brought a basket of warm bread and appetizer plates. “How often can I expect to get caught in the drawbridge traffic?”
“Daily, if you’re out and about.”
“I was thinking of putting Tracey-Love in school half days, give her something to do while I work.”
“Leave early if you’re concerned about time, but getting caught in bridge traffic is a legitimate excuse around here.”
“Good to know.”
Elle grinned, passing him the bread. On the way downtown, they’d been caught in bridge traffic, and for fifteen minutes New Yorker Heath drummed the wheel impatiently but listened as she talked about a painting she’d started.
He asked about the inspiration behind her idea—drum, drum, drum—offered a suggestion—“What is taking so long?”—talked about colors and the message of her work—“We’re stopped for that one itty-bitty sail boat?”
“Yep.”
He’d glared at her. “New Yorkers would riot.”
The server returned for their order. Elle ordered a brick-oven pizza and Heath the pork roast.
“How’s the book?” Elle leaned to one side, chin in her hand.
“Good, good.” Heath spread his napkin over his lap, reaching for a slice of warm bread. “It’s a World War II love story, which is giving my agent a heart attack, but it’s what came out when I started writing.”
“We’re a slave to the muse, no? Why doesn’t he like the story?”
“If one of your clients was a noted Manhattan criminal lawyer, would you want a love story set in wartime Beaufort and the Aleutian Islands?”
Elle laughed. “No, I guess not. I’d want a legal thriller or political intrigue.”
“Exactly.”
She brushed her hand over the linen. “When do I get to read this masterpiece?”
“When it’s published.”
Ha.
He didn’t even crack a smile.
“Not even a peek?”
Heath tried to hide his grin with a bite of bread. “Maybe, we’ll see.”
“Okay, no more busting my chops about my confidence or sneaking peeks at my work.”
“Yeah, let’s talk about your confidence.” His steady gaze made her butterflies beat their wings. “What happened to the girl who drew on bulletins and water-colored her parents wedding pictures?”
“Gave in to doubt. Let my confidence leak like air from an old bike tire. It became too hard to paint and believe I was any good.”
“Doubt usually has a source.”
Their server refilled their iced teas. Elle waited until she left to go on.
“I had a mentor at New York’s Student Art League the summer after I came home from Florence. I was discouraged and thought if I could find someone who saw beyond my weaknesses, maybe I’d develop my craft.”
“Elle, it’s art. Very subjective.”
“Sure but who wants their professors implying, ‘Should’ve majored in basket weaving’?” Elle placed a slice of bread on her plate and reached for the butter.
“You’re exaggerating.”
“No, I’m not. I had an instructor in Florence as well as colleague who gave me the what-are-you-doing-here eye.” Her first bite of bread was buttery warm. It had been awhile since she’d had much more than dry cereal, stale crackers, and barbecue chips. “I felt like a brown pony running in a pack of psychedelic ones and finding a way to stand out was impossible. People would ask, ‘What’s that spec of dirt doing on this gorgeous, mosaic masterpiece?’”
Heath laughed, covering his full mouth with his fist. “Elle, come on, you’re not a brown pony. Besides, do you really believe every successful artist or writer had someone telling them, ‘Go for it, Van Gogh. You da bomb’?” He arched his brows. “If there are vacancies in your Never Never Land, I want to move in.”
She burst out laughing. “Okay, no, but somewhere, somehow, a voice has to tell the artist, ‘Keep going. You have what it takes.’”
Their server stopped by. “Your order will be right out.”
“What happened that summer? At the Student League?”
Elle leaned forward with her hands in her lap. “I wanted to study impressionism.” She shook her head. “Way harder than it looks.”
“Most simple things are.”
“I met a visiting professor at the Student League, Dr. Petit, who gave private instruction. Paid a lot of money, painted a lot of hours, lived in a closet someone rented to me as an apartment . . . only to be told I’d better marry well or find a good-paying day job.”
“Really, that harsh?” He wrinkled his face.
“By the time I left New York in September, I never wanted to pick up a brush again.”
“Elle, he’s one man.”
“Sometimes one man is all it takes. I came home and started planning the gallery. Time was a commodity I didn’t want to waste. So many people dedicate their lives to the wrong thing. I didn’t want that to be me.”
Heath reached for his tea. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”
The server brought out their dinner, offering ground pepper and cheese toppings. “Can I get y’all anything else?”
Heath glanced at Elle. Good? “We’re fine, thanks.”
The conversation stalled as they ate the first few hot bites of dinner. Elle had been craving brick-oven pizza for a while. She closed her eyes as she chewed. “This was worth you yelling at me for a dead phone battery.”
Heath cut a bit of his meat. “Glad to oblige. Okay, so you were so shut down by this rude professor. What inspired you to paint again?”
Elle wiped her mouth with the edge of her napkin. “A few days ago I was praying at the chapel and”—she tried to pass it off casually with a flip of her wrist—“God kind of asked me what I wanted. The desire to paint came back, so I thought I’d try. Not that I’m going to go showing my work or anything, but I’m taking it one day at a time.”
“I believe God is wiser than Dr. Petit. How about you?”
Elle grinned, shook her head, and bit into her pizza. “Smart aleck.”