A Change of Heart

by Nancy Frederick

  "Come on, I'll help you look."

  Annabeth snapped back to attention, her reverie fading. She folded the pale yellow dress and dropped it into one of the big black bags, remembering Maggie's joy when she had finally said, "Oh Maggie, you get the dress. I like this yellow one just as well." Maggie had thrown her arms around Annabeth and sworn allegiance for all the rest of time.

  How long afterwards when her father announced he was bringing someone to dinner? Not too long.

  "You don't have to cook every day. We never have any fun any more. All you do is housework." Maggie complaining, wanting to go out, have fun.

  "I promised Dad, says he's bringing home some intern at his office. Help me, peel a carrot, come on."

  Maggie scowling but helping. "I hate to cook. Just open a can. All the same you know."

  "I promised my dad."

  The dinner was perfect, what was it I cooked…can't remember… meat… chicken...can't remember. Watching Dad come in the door with Hugh, tall, nice boy, older than me, of course an intern at the firm.

  "Look," Maggie squealing, "Cute! Let me stay to dinner, please."

  "Sure, why not."

  Maggie flirting at the table with Hugh…don't they look cute together…he's cute…he likes her…. I'm glad for them….Look at the way she twinkles and laughs and tosses her head. Could I do that with someone? No…maybe…no…I don't think so. Giggle…like tee hee hee…like in the movies…I could tee hee hee…no….

  Dad cornering me in the kitchen later…why did I let Maggie stay…Hugh was for me to meet and me laughing at him, the old matchmaker. "You won't find a better catch than Hugh McGraw," said Dad so sternly.

  Fish…I'd made fish…that's right….

  Stepping back from the armoire for a moment, Annabeth opened the top box of a pile in the corner. Books. How to Shrink Your Gut in Thirty Days. How to Get Rich in Thirty Days. How to Run a Successful Restaurant. R.J. At last there was something she could discard in toto. Grasping the box carefully, Annabeth carried it down the stairs, her arms aching by the time she reached the first floor landing.

  Determined to press onward, Annabeth climbed up again, but before she had reached the door to the attic the phone began to ring, so she turned quickly and walked into her bedroom, now panting.

  "Hello?"

  "Got another boyfriend?" asked Laurel in a way which was far too amused and sophisticated for Annabeth's taste.

  "Cleaning out the attic."

  "Talk about a fun project."

  "It's actually kind of nostalgic."

  "I'm glad you're having fun. I'll be there next Wednesday for Thanksgiving, sometime in the afternoon. Okay with you?"

  Annabeth thought of Laurel with pleasure as she climbed back up the stairs, but this time before she reached the top, the doorbell rang, forcing her to climb down yet again. "I'll probably lose ten pounds," she mumbled, "Or drop dead."

  Doug Hawkins smiled in a concerned way as she opened the door. "I stopped by Gleason's and they told me you quit."

  "How nice of you to come checking on me. Come on in for some coffee."

  Doug returned Annabeth's smile and followed her into the kitchen. "I see what you mean about all the work you've done in here. It's charming. So special. So you."

  He touched her shoulder gently as she gestured toward the kitchen table, where he took a seat. It was just a few steps from the table to the stove, from the stove to the counter, from the counter to the table, but Annabeth could feel Doug watching her walk. She set the coffee cups on the table, a plate of cookies taken from a ceramic jar, and then she sat facing him. Doug looked deeply into Annabeth's eyes and she met his gaze, but then demurely glanced away, until he spoke, "So you've retired from the ice cream game?"

  "It's kind of a long story."

  "I have plenty of time." Once more Doug's gaze did not waver, and Annabeth, getting up her nerve, met his glance. For a moment their eyes were locked, and in that short space of time a beam of light opened between them, a connection they had not quite made before, and Annabeth knew they both felt safe.

  "I was a slut," she said, "Well there was more to it than that."

  "You weren't a slut. What happened?"

  "Well, you know I slept with George." Doug listened intently, nodding, as Annabeth continued, "And it made no sense for me to do it. I pretended it was a relationship, but really it was just…um.…"

  "Screwing?"

  Annabeth blushed, but determined to tell the truth, to have it out so Doug could help her make sense of everything, she said, "Yes, screwing. I mean he seduced me sort of at first, but I didn't resist. I didn't even wait to get to know him. We just…" and here her voice faded slightly, "Screwed."

  "Go on," said Doug, no disapproval in his voice or on his face.

  "I thought it meant something, but it didn't. And the thing is, I never really even knew him. What sense does it make to do that, to think you have a boyfriend when really you're just…."

  "Getting laid?"

  Annabeth nodded, this time the words coming more easily, "Yes, getting laid. And the thing is, it was great, just as good as with R.J., and he was my husband. I didn't even feel I had to hurry to be…um…satisfied."

  "Good sex is a nice thing."

  "Screwing isn't making love, but it feels like love, at least it did to me."

  "And this makes you a slut?"

  "I slept with Charles. I don't know why. He wanted to. He asked me to marry him. Wanted to give me everything that matters to me. But I said no. And then I quit."

  "What was it that he was going to give you that matters so much to you?"

  "Well, I don't actually know. I don't think he knows me that well. He would have stood by me I think. I wouldn't have been alone."

  "Being alone can be frightening. Do you love Charles?"

  Annabeth's face looked tortured briefly as she answered, "No. I'm not even attracted to him. I think he's a nice man, though."

  "Why do you think you slept with him?"

  "Because I'm a slut. I sleep with everyone who asks me. And the sex is great. Even Charles was great, well, it was nice, lovely, satisfying. Oh, I don't know."

  "So the problem is really this: you do things and you don't know why, but you're guilty about them."

  Annabeth considered this. "I'm not so guilty. I enjoyed the sex. Oh, I am a slut."

  "Let's deal with the slut issue first. You had sex with two men and your husband--that's all, right? No affairs while married? No sex before R.J.?

  Annabeth looked shocked, "Of course not."

  "And it turned out that these men were incredible studs."

  "Yes."

  Doug laughed. "Everyone is some woman's bohunk I guess, but I doubt that either Charles or George is the stud of all time. Maybe it's you."

  "Me?"

  "Yes, you, not that you're a slut but that you're a sexual person, that your sexual energy is strong, just like your creative energy is strong, and your nurturing energy is strong, and you kind of got swept away. Like any artist. Picasso was a regular satyr they say."

  Annabeth laughed then, "Okay, so that makes me an artist, not a slut?"

  "It makes you human. Now let's think about this some more. Why do you suppose you slept with men you're not attracted to--other than the fact that they're bohunks." Doug laughed once more and, feeling more carefree, Annabeth joined in.

  She thought for a long time about his question and couldn't answer it, so finally she just said what was on the top of her mind all along, "Because they asked me."

  "And do you do everything people ask you to do?"

  Annabeth nodded, "Yes," then hearing herself, her eyes opened wide with recognition. "My goodness, yes I have always done what everyone asked me, whether I wanted to or not, actually I don't even think about whether I want to, I just do it."

  "Maybe it's time you stopped."

  "Yes," she said, her voice becoming excited, "I'll stop and think from now on and if I don't want to do something, I'll s
ay no."

  "Good for you!" Doug smiled at Annabeth, warmth and tenderness in his eyes.

  "And no more men. I'm not sleeping with anyone. Not till I want to."

  "Come on, Annabeth, let's go upstairs and screw. You know you want it."

  Annabeth, feeling startled, looked at Doug. What was he saying? What was that expression behind his eyes? Wait--she was being silly; he was just teasing her. "Sorry, Doug, but no thanks. Maybe another time."

  Doug laughed nonchalantly at the polite refusal. "Why wait, you sweet thing? It's inevitable." He stared deeply into her eyes, his own eyes blacker and more sparkling than she had ever seen them.

  Her breath catching in her throat, Annabeth replied, "Sorry, Doug." She could get the hang of this! Wasn't it nice of Doug to let her practice saying no on him.

  "It's just as well," he said with mock seriousness, "After those imitation hunks, you'd probably faint with a real one like me."

  "No, I'd bewitch you. Be glad I let you off the hook."

  Together they dissolved in laughter, his hand reaching out automatically to enfold hers across the table.

  "Say, Doug?"

  "Changing your mind already. I'm too much man for you."

  "Actually I was wondering if you had plans for Thanksgiving. My dad and his wife and the girls and Sally's fiancé Jackson will be coming here. I'd love for you to join us. If you don't have something better to do of course."

  "I'd love to come here. It's so nice of you to invite me. No doubt so you can seduce me afterwards."

  "Nope, I'm a reformed slut."

  "But you could backslide at any time."

  "You wish." Doug and Annabeth laughed together for a long time.

  Annabeth smiled from time to time, thinking of Doug, later in the afternoon when he had gone and she was back in the attic. Opening the first drawer in the armoire, she removed a blanket from R.J.'s old boat, and gave it a shake, a faint dusting of sand falling from it, even after all these years.

  R.J. making the boat go way too fast and smiling at me, "You like it when we race, don't you baby?" Only the second date and he calls me baby…so cute. Gull's Island, not too far, and jumping into the water from the boat, R.J. sliding his hands down my back, down my hips, kissing me there in the water…the Gulf so warm…the salty aroma…the smell of life beginning…my shorts loose…his hand sliding up the leg…oh I am weak…I will fall down. R.J. kissing me, pressing me tight to him…the feel of him against me…the Gulf undulating with life…ribbons of green in the water…life…things growing…his mouth on my mouth….the taste of him…the smell of the Gulf. Lying on the blanket on the sand…no…nobody is around…his hands on my skin…oh...to be touched…to touch…oh his mouth on me…birds circling overhead…the sound of their cries…the smell of the Gulf… the feel of life…of the lifeforce…. Opening to R.J….all open like a flower…like the waves that crash on the sand…the sand under the blanket…soft against my back…R.J. on top of me…racing like the boat…breathing… heart racing like the boat…the water coming closer….wave…a big one over my arm, my side…holding tight to R.J., oh yes…like the Gulf…warm and filled with life.

  Flushed, her breath coming rapidly, Annabeth snapped back to reality, loosened her grip on the blanket, which she had been clutching to her chest, her arms wrapped around it in an embrace. Allowing the sadness to wash over her briefly, she stood silently for a long moment, then straightened her back, folded the blanket and dropped it into the black plastic bag.

  "Look at this," she said, marveling. Under the blanket lay a sheaf of drawings of her house, done years ago from many angles. And there was a garden, like the one she had wanted to plant. "Oh my." Annabeth flipped from one drawing to the next, pausing for a while to note the details. "They're good, they're not bad at all." She thought for a while, looking at the sketches, and felt sentimental for a while, but then her thoughts turned to other drawings she might do, a series of sketches of country houses with gardens. Just what she needed--more work. Now there was the attic to clean, knick knacks to paint for shows before Christmas, Thanksgiving to prepare. "There's plenty of time for everything. Talking outloud to myself again. Crazy lady in an attic."

  The drawer was deep and below her drawings lay a sign, Welner's Waffles, something she had lettered for R.J. to have made professionally, although he never needed it.

  "You think I want to be some working stiff all my life? Of course not. There's more to me than that." R.J. so earnest, so determined.

  A restaurant is a really hard business, but R.J. is so clever and charismatic.

  "Yeah, a waffle house, that's what I'm thinking."

  "But there are waffle houses all over the place. Why not some chic little bistro? Get musicians in, make it a hangout?"

  "What, with six or seven tables? And some high-priced New Orleans chef?" R.J. looking at me like I'm out of my mind.

  "People like that sort of thing."

  "Yeah, if they really liked it, there'd be one in town. I'm thinking a waffle house, I told you. Then a chain of waffle houses. Welner Waffles on every corner. The trouble with you, Annabeth, is you think small. You can't think small and get anywhere in this world."

  Dropping the sign into a trash bag, Annabeth shook her head. How many times had R.J. said that to her? How many times had he complained that her dreams were ordinary? Too many. There was a fire in him, though, something very appealing about it, R.J. always dreaming, always wanting to fulfill those dreams. It was so exciting to hear, to be swept along on them. But how many of his dreams had he actually fulfilled? Annabeth shook her head again. So few. All talk and no action, that's what R.J. was. And she'd loved him so.

  Annabeth looked down to see the cat winding around her leg. She reached a loving hand down to pet his soft fur. "Dinner time already, is it? You're a hungry boy?" She reached down, scooped him up, then held him close to her chest in a hug, his cheek automatically rubbing against her own. Then, setting him down, she rose and followed the racing cat down the stairs, a filled plastic bag in her hand.

  Later that evening, after she'd worked some more upstairs, Annabeth, strangely filled with unending energy, sat at her kitchen table, painting the cottages she'd envisioned, taking her time, enjoying her work. She didn't have small dreams. She didn't think small. And her painting was improving. Annabeth followed the same routine each day. Mornings she worked on knick knacks, afternoons she cleaned out the attic, and in the evenings, she sat at the kitchen table, working on the series of cottages.

  The following week was devoted to Thanksgiving preparations. She shopped for all the ingredients, readied the house, and cooked. On Wednesday Annabeth made pies, as she had for years, some for her feast, some for Julie, who always took them along to Bobby's family in Mobile. On Thursday morning, she rose early, made stuffing and popped the turkey in the oven. Soon Laurel, who'd arrived the day before, joined her in the kitchen and began to help.

  They worked side by side for a couple of hours, the conversation pleasant and casual, until Laurel squealed, "Oh my gosh!" and ran upstairs. Thinking there was a crisis, Annabeth was about to race after her when the doorbell rang. By the time Laurel came downstairs, Annabeth was busy pouring drinks for the other four members of her family.

  "Have you seen this yet?" asked Laurel as she walked into the living room. She held the issue of Southern Style which featured her apartment, and like a child at show and tell, she began turning the pages, holding the magazine up for all to see at once, and describing each element in detail.

  "How wonderful it looks," commented Sally.

  "Beautiful," said Ginger.

  "Imaginative," said Will.

  Everyone nodded in agreement as Annabeth smiled. How nice that her family was being so supportive and appreciative for a change.

  "Gee, I have an old cabinet in the garage--I bet you could do wonders with it," said Ginger, but before Annabeth could answer the doorbell rang again and she went to let Doug in.

  "Oh, wow," she said, taki
ng from him a huge bouquet of roses. How nice of you."

  He followed her into the kitchen, still carrying a basket filled with fragrant biscuits and a bottle of white wine as well, both of which he set down on the counter as she retrieved a vase for the flowers.

  "Mmm, biscuits," she said, recognizing the smell.

  "Not much of a contribution," he said, "But they are home made,"

  Breathing deeply to inhale the aroma of the biscuits, Annabeth enthused, "These smell wonderful!"

  "Thanks! My not so secret recipe."

  "You cook? I'm so impressed. And they look perfect!"

  "Now you'll really want to drag me upstairs and seduce me," he said in a lowered voice, looking so deeply into Annabeth's eyes that her knees began to buckle.

  Breaking open one of the steaming biscuits, Annabeth popped a piece into her mouth, saying "Mmm," then inserted another morsel into Doug's mouth, her fingers brushing across his lips and creating a spark of static electricity, causing them both to jump back, then to laugh. "Come on, meet the family, before your electricity makes me weak in the knees."

  "You mean it hasn't already? I must be slipping," he chuckled, as he followed her into the living room.

  The introductions done, they adjourned to the dining room.

  "Hawkins," said Will, "Like Hawkins Ford, that's right, I remember you coming back to town. Weren't you the boy who helped my daughter with her algebra?"

  "Yes," Doug grinned, "That's me."

  "I was going to come to see you about a new car." For a few minutes Will monopolized the conversation, asking Doug about various vehicles and the deal he might get and listening thoughtfully to the answers Doug gave until Laurel interrupted.

  "Mr. Hawkins, did you see the magazine spread of my apartment and all Mom's artwork," Laurel asked, wanting a change from the boring subject of automobiles.

  "Call me Doug, and no, I didn't."

  Despite Annabeth's protests that the magazine could wait, Laurel retrieved it from the living room and handed it to Doug.

  "Well," he said, turning the pages slowly, taking in each detail, "Isn't this wonderful. What a beautiful apartment. Although I think your mother's talent is wasted on furniture. She should be painting on canvas and selling to galleries."