Love Starts with Elle
Rachel Hauck
ONE
BEAUFORT, SC
December 21
From the loft of her Bay Street art gallery, Elle Garvey leaned against the waist-high wall, admiring GG Galley’s “Art in Christmas” show. Visitors and patrons—some Beaufort residence, others curious tourists—milled among the displays, speaking in low tones, sipping hot cider.
The mellow voice of Andy Williams serenaded them. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year . . .”
“Elle, are you the queen, surveying her kingdom?” Arlene Coulter gazed up from the bottom of the loft stairs, her bright red Christmas suit its own fashion work of art.
“Yes, and are you my loyal servant?”
Arlene curtsied, her bottle-blonde hair falling forward like silky angel hair, the hem of her skirt sliding up her knee. “Yours and yours alone, O you of whom Art News wrote, ‘One of the lowcountry’s finest galleries.’”
“Best hundred-dollar bribe I ever spent.” Elle descended the stairs, catching sight of her baby sister, Julianne, selling a bronze sculpture to a young woman wearing pearls.
“Darling”—Arlene linked arms with Elle and led her to the back wall—“your artist eye is truly God gifted. Tell me now . . . is this the work of the great Alyssa Porter?”
“It is.” Elle surveyed the paintings. They spoke to her each time she viewed them. She envied Alyssa and artists like her—the ones who had the courage to chase the dream.
Elle had lost hers a long time ago.
“And what do you like about this artist?” Arlene squeezed Elle’s arm tighter.
“Her paintings move me.” Elle freed herself from Arlene and moved to Alyssa’s Rose Garden, convinced it’d be a masterpiece one day.
“Move you?” Arlene studied one of the abstracts through a one-eyed slit, her short, red-tipped fingers squeezing the point of her chin. “I suppose they move me too. I’m just not sure where.”
“You’re looking for a definite image, Arlene. Don’t be so concrete. Let your imagination run . . .” Elle hooked her arm around the woman’s shoulders. “Follow my hand. See how you just moved out of the sunlight into the shade?”
“No, but, girl, I really love your bracelets. Where’d you get those?” Arlene grabbed Elle’s wrist to study the tricolor bangles.
“You beat all, Arlene.” Elle twisted her hand free.
“Well, a good set of bracelets is hard to find.” Arlene gazed again at the painting. “So, what should I do about Miss Porter?”
“Buy her. The New York art scene has discovered Alyssa and if you don’t purchase something before her first auction, you’ll never be able to afford it. Here . . .” Elle walked to the other side of the display. “This one on the bottom right is only two thousand dollars.”
Arlene stood an inch way from the bottom painting, tipping her head to one side. The track lighting haloed the back of her head.
“I’m afraid if I buy one of these I’ll wake up one night with the dang thing hanging over my head whispering, ‘I see dead people.’”
“If it does, call Pastor O’Neal, not me.”
Arlene bent in half as if she hung upside down, then snapped upright. “What about this artist over here. Coco Nelson. Now this I get. Look—a woman’s face, with eyes and hair.”
“Coco’s a wonderful artist,” Elle said. “Very realistic work. This series is called ‘Love and Romance.’”
“Very fitting for you, sugar.” Arlene arched a brow at Elle. “This piece, Proposal, is stunning.” Her voice rose and fell into a sing-song.
Elle ignore her subtle teasing. “Yes, there’s something about it. An ordinary gentleman down on one knee proposing to an ordinary woman.”
But the emotion Coco evoked in the scene was anything but ordinary. When she’d sent in the piece, Elle couldn’t hang it at first. Too embarrassed after last year’s Operation Wedding Day fiasco when she tried to date every available bachelor in Beaufort. She wanted no reminders of love and romance.
Until Jeremiah Franklin.
“Okay.” Arlene spun around. “I’ll take the Alyssa Porter and this Coco Nelson.”
“You won’t regret it.”
“Says who?” Arlene passed Alyssa’s abstract piece again, sidestepping the image as if it might spring to life and spar with her.
Elle laughed, leading the way to her desk across the old, former hardware store. She treasured the talented, sometimes whacky, interior designer who landed lowcountry clients like doctors, lawyers, and hotel developers. In the early days of GG Gallery, business from Coulter Designs had helped keep the gallery lights burning and Elle’s hopes alive.
“What’s the damage?” Arlene flashed her checkbook.
“Hold on, now, let me add a few more zeroes. zeros.” Elle jammed her finger on the adding machine’s Zero button.
“Add all you want. I’m only writing three.” Arlene fanned her face with her opened checkbook. “So, how’s it going with the good pastor?”
The mere hint of Dr. Jeremiah Franklin made Elle feel bubbly. “Good.”
“If the glow on your cheeks is any indication, I’d say it’s more than good. How long y’all been together now? Few months?”