Change of Heart

by Courtney Walsh

  Evelyn nodded, hopeful that meant Lilian had thought of a way she could help. It had been too long since she’d felt truly useful. Working for Abigail had been a great distraction, but the job was only part-time, so her schedule was far from booked.

  Lilian nodded toward a garden beside the stables. “Do you like weeding?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve never tried it before.”

  The older woman stifled a laugh, reminding Evelyn again of the gap between their two lives. “Come with me.”

  Evelyn did as she was told, following Lilian past the greenhouse and down to the garden. By this point in the summer, Lilian’s skin had turned a deep bronze, though years in the sun had wrinkled her a bit.

  “Here, put these on.” She handed Evelyn a pair of gloves. “You just go through each section and pull out the weeds.”

  She looked at the rows of vegetables, so carefully planted. “What if I pull the wrong thing?”

  Lilian put a hand on Evelyn’s shoulder. “This isn’t rocket science, Ev. You’ll be fine.”

  Evelyn wasn’t so sure. She’d always lived by the rules, and Christopher had given them to her. Before they married, it was her father’s orders she carried out. She’d spent the past weeks wondering where that left her. How did she move on without instructions?

  Lilian knelt beside a bushy green plant. “This is lettuce.”

  Evelyn frowned. “Really?”

  She laughed. “Yes.” She gently moved the plant aside and showed Evelyn where the weeds were sprouting. “These are weeds.”

  Evelyn nodded. She saw the difference. Lilian yanked the weeds away and threw them aside. “You gonna be okay?”

  “I think so.”

  And with that, Lilian returned to Dusty, leaving Evelyn alone to figure out how to weed the rest of the garden.

  Slowly, with the sun beating on her shoulders, Evelyn went to work, praying she didn’t somehow mess this up. She knew Whitney Farms had a reputation at the Loves Park Farmers’ Market, and she didn’t want to be the reason they showed up empty-handed that week.

  One by one, she pulled the weeds that threatened their vegetables. She didn’t know much about farming or soil or working with her hands, but she knew if the weeds stayed, they would choke the plants, making it impossible for them to grow.

  She moved down the row of lettuce and over to another row of something she didn’t recognize. Carefully, she determined which greens were good and which were invading the plants’ territory. Then she pulled out what didn’t belong.

  As she worked, Trevor’s words rushed back at her.

  “Figure it out.”

  Had he meant them to be harsh? Unfeeling? They jabbed at her now, poking around the open wound of her failed marriage, leaving her to wonder what she could’ve done to keep Christopher from cheating.

  What if she’d been prettier? More adventurous? What if she’d sold out completely to his life in the public eye? Would he have been faithful then?

  Their life had been so full of promise.

  “You’ll never have to worry about money, Evelyn. That means you can stay home and paint to your heart’s content,” he’d told her the night he proposed. “I can provide for you—a good future.” He kissed her. “Let me make all your dreams come true.”

  She wrapped her arms around him and gave in to his kiss. What he promised was exactly what she’d dreamed of, and she loved Christopher. Everyone did. Even her parents eventually came around, though sometimes she wondered if their initial reservations about the relationship had been true.

  “You’re too young to get married. Don’t rush into this. What’s the hurry?”

  She’d grown so tired of trying to please a father who would never be happy with her. She’d grown weary of trying to make up for all their family had lost when Sylvie died. She could no longer bear the burden of her shame, which only grew every time she saw that look of loss in her mother’s eyes.

  She wasn’t the daughter they wanted, and she knew it.

  But the reality of her life after they’d married was much different from the one Christopher had promised.

  Only months after their wedding, he’d come home to find her deep in her sketchbook on the back porch. It was a couple weeks after her only solo art show at the Loves Park Gallery in Old Town, and she’d had requests for new work. The first show had been so successful, they wanted her to do another one. They’d written about her in the newspaper, and for the first time, Evelyn felt like a real artist. Her success had awakened another hope inside her—to illustrate the children’s book she’d been visualizing for months.

  She’d been thankful for the creative boost that gave her the courage to stop dragging her feet, and even more thankful for a husband whose work afforded her the opportunity to stay home and pursue this dream.

  But something changed that day.

  “This is where I left you this morning.” Christopher’s tone accused.

  “It was a perfect day for sketching,” she said, still excited about all she’d accomplished. “The gallery asked for more pieces. I think I might need to look into an actual studio space. Can you imagine?” The thought made her giddy.

  Christopher didn’t respond.

  “I didn’t even get to the gallery pieces today.” She held the sketchbook up for him to see. “What do you think? Tomorrow I’ll be ready to add the ink.” This children’s book had been a dream of hers, and while she was interested in another show at the gallery, her heart was wrapped up in the idea of illustrating a story, and she had interest from a publisher in Denver.

  He drew in a breath, his body tense.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This isn’t going to work, Evelyn.” He faced her, hands on his hips. His stance reminded her of her father, who barked orders like the drill sergeant he was, but who had never been anything more than an authority figure to her.

  She set the sketch pad down and straightened. “What’s not?”

  “I thought you’d realize what I need in a wife—and be that.”

  She swallowed. “I don’t understand, Christopher.” Her pulse raced. She didn’t want to let him down. She didn’t want to let anyone down. She’d spent her whole life doing what was expected, making decisions based on obligation—but he’d given her permission, for the first time, to follow her heart.

  Was he going to take that permission away?

  “I didn’t think you’d be so caught up in this art thing, Evelyn. It’s not a real job. If anyone is going to take me seriously as a politician, then I need a wife who can play the part.”

  She felt her shoulders slump at his admission, which sounded a bit like a threat. “You want me to stop painting?”

  “I want you to make an effort. Look at you.”

  Evelyn shrank under his stare, aware of her disheveled appearance, her torn jeans. “I was working today.”

  He shook his head, expression disapproving. “You have to decide if this—” he waved his hand in the air at her as if she were a visual aid in a speech he was giving—“is who you want to be.”

  She stood. “This is who I am, Christopher.” Her words lacked conviction and she knew it. He knew it. In truth, she didn’t know who she was—she’d always relied on other people to tell her.

  “I’m going to run for senate as soon as I’m eligible. I want to be the governor someday. If you want to be the woman by my side, then we need to make some changes.”

  She glanced at the sketch pad, the image of her main character staring back at her. Silly Lily would be the story of a goofy little girl who lived her life outside the lines. Evelyn had sketched out plenty of mischief for her character, yet it struck her in that moment that she had no business writing about someone who lived a nonsensical life. She’d only ever lived inside the lines.

  “What do you want me to change?” she asked, sadness winding its way around her.

  “Your clothes, for starters.” Christopher folded his arms. “And I know you’d rather stay home all day,
but you’re going to have to make some public appearances. Do some charity work, join a board or two. Our life is about public service now.”

  She swallowed the lump that had formed at the base of her throat and pictured the image she’d drawn of a curly-headed girl with freckles on her nose. She’d fallen in love with her Lily, and Christopher was going to take her away.

  “I’ll make you an appointment with my stylist. She’ll know what to do with you.”

  She remained under his watchful eye for several long seconds, the kind of seconds that ticked by slowly as humiliation did a number on her confidence. He reached over and grabbed the sketch pad, examining the image she’d finished only moments before.

  “This was never going to be published anyway, Evelyn.” She read pity on his face as if he felt sorry for her—his naive wife who dared to dream a ridiculous dream.

  Who did she think she was, anyway?

  He tossed the sketch pad onto the chair and squeezed her shoulder. “Also, I know some of your friends like to call you Evie, but I think we need to insist that they use your full name. Evelyn is elegant and classic.” He wrapped his arms around her and softened his tone. “You need to correct them from now on, okay? We can’t have the press latching on to anything other than what we want them to.”

  His unwanted kiss took her off guard. She forced herself to kiss him back, but inside, her stomach wrenched.

  Now tears stung her eyes as she continued pulling weeds from around the fragile vegetables. Tiny weeds that threatened to do so much damage if they weren’t removed.

  The small sacrifices she’d made along the way had done the same thing to her life. They’d passed by unnoticed at first, but because they’d gone unattended for so long, they’d grown up taller than she could manage. It hadn’t taken long for them to strangle her.

  It hadn’t taken Christopher long to turn her into the wife he wanted. Compliant. Obedient. Silent.

  The life he said she would have was not the life he’d provided. He’d lied to her—and in so many ways that infuriated her even more than the cheating, more than his lack of remorse.

  He’d stolen her dreams, but the harsh reality was, she’d let him.

  Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as the memory of her so-called ridiculous goals entered her mind. The publisher in Denver eventually stopped calling, and Christopher eventually packed away her sketch pad, replacing it with a date book full of obligations.

  Art had been the one thing she’d chosen for herself, and he took it away.

  She moved on to the next row and pulled a particularly large and stubborn weed, this one deep and rooted in the soil. As she tugged at it, it ripped open her skin through her flimsy gardening glove. She fell backward, and blood seeped through the thin cover of fabric. She removed the glove to inspect her wound, which stung in its rawness.

  She sat, staring at the blood dripping from her palm as tears continued to fall.

  “Figure it out.”

  She’d lost herself. The weeds had grown up around her heart and she’d forgotten everything she’d dreamed of becoming.

  “Evie?”

  Whit’s voice pulled her from the past. She looked at him with clouded eyes, expecting judgment on his face, but found acceptance waiting for her instead. Why would he continue to be nice to her? So many people in town thought they were having an affair—were they treating him like he was some kind of cheater too?

  “You okay?”

  She wiped her cheeks with her dirt-covered arm. “It’s just a cut. I’ll be fine.” She stood.

  He stepped inside the fenced-in vegetable patch and took her hand, inspecting the wound. “Let’s run over to the house and clean this up.”

  “I’m fine, Whit,” she said, yanking her hand away. She didn’t need him to help her.

  “Evie, unless you went shopping for Band-Aids and a first aid kit, there’s nothing in the guesthouse that’s going to make this fine. Besides, it’s almost lunch. Lilian said you’re coming?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t have to.”

  He just stared at her.

  Her hand stung. And he was right. She at least needed a Band-Aid. “Fine.”

  She followed him to the house, careful to hold her hand away from her clothes, though she wasn’t sure why. They were so filthy she doubted she’d ever get the dirt out.

  In the kitchen, Whit grabbed a chair and told her to sit in it. “Stay there, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  “You’re bossy,” she said as he walked out of the room.

  “You’re stubborn.” He returned with a first aid kit. “Let me see it.”

  She held out her hand, palm up. The blood had pooled around the thin skin where her thumb attached to the palm, and it tingled.

  He led her to the sink, turned on the water, and held her hand under it. Then he wrapped a clean towel around the injury and squeezed.

  “Ow!”

  He shrugged. “Gotta stop the bleeding.”

  “You have absolutely no bedside manner,” she said, trying to ignore the throbbing under the towel.

  He looked at her like he wanted to say something but changed his mind.

  After a few awkward moments, he removed the towel and gently turned her hand over to inspect her injury. “Can’t believe it got you through the glove.”

  “Pretty useless glove,” she said. “Besides, I don’t have much of a green thumb.”

  “It’s okay; you’ve got other talents.”

  She scoffed. “Yeah, I’m just oozing potential.”

  He met her eyes. “If you weren’t being sarcastic, I would agree with you.”

  It occurred to her she could probably take care of this cut on her own, but at this point she didn’t want to. She missed having someone take care of her, though she never expected it would be Whit.

  He rummaged around in the first aid kit. “I’ve got a few different bandages in here.”

  She sat quietly, watching him fish Neosporin from the bottom of the kit. He squirted it on her hand. “Rub that in.”

  She did as she was told.

  “What were you doing in the garden anyway?” He found the right-size Band-Aid and tore open the wrapper.

  “Trying to figure some things out.”

  Regret twisted his face. “I’m sorry I said that to you, Ev.”

  “I needed to hear it.”

  “Not from me.”

  She lifted her chin. “Why not? We were friends once, weren’t we?”

  He swallowed but didn’t answer.

  Silence hung between them, the memory of that day in the barn weaving its way back to her mind. While the newspaper had twisted the truth, it was true they were in the middle of an important conversation at the time. One that had gone unfinished.

  “What happened, Whit? Why don’t you like me anymore?” The words made her sound like a pathetic, lonely schoolgirl whose best friend played with someone else at recess.

  He affixed the Band-Aid to her hand. “You still going to be able to paint with that on?”

  The subject change was abrupt and obvious. She didn’t respond right away for the threat of tears, her loneliness spilling over like a too-full bathtub. “I’ll be okay.”

  He stood from his chair. “Good. I got you something.”

  She watched as he moved toward the entryway and returned with a plastic bag, which he promptly handed to her.

  She took it, unmoving. Trevor Whitney bought her a present?

  “Open it.” His words were quiet like the boy she’d met that night during high school. She missed that boy—her friend.

  What was so wrong with them being friends? Why did he insist on keeping an arm’s length between them?

  She looked inside the plastic bag and found a large sketch pad with an assortment of drawing utensils—charcoal, graphite, markers.

  He leaned against the counter, arms folded. “I wasn’t sure what you’d need, but I saw some of your sketches for the painted hearts in an old notebook. Thought this wou
ld remind you what it feels like to be a real artist.”

  Unwelcome tears returned, bringing with them that familiar thick, tight knot at the back of her throat.

  “Is it not the right stuff?”

  She glanced up and found an expectant look on his face. “It’s perfect.”

  The slightest smile danced behind his eyes, but he simply nodded. “Good.”

  “Thank you, Whit.” She stood, the memory of a lost dream swirling overhead. Gently, she took a step toward him, wrapping her arms around him in a quiet hug. “For everything.”

  He stood still, his body stiff at her touch, that boy she used to know miles away. Finally his hand pressed against her back and he held her for the briefest moment. “Anytime.”

  The back door flung open and Lilian appeared in the doorway.

  Evelyn pulled away from him, and they both turned and faced his aunt, who wore a disapproving scowl.

  “So maybe that article was true,” she said. “You two are playing with fire.”

  Evelyn held up a hand to stop her. “You’ve got this all wrong, Lilian.”

  But Trevor’s aunt only glared at her nephew, and Trevor remained eerily silent.

  CHAPTER

  27

  ANOTHER WEEK PASSED before Evelyn had a plan to present to Whit and Lilian. The Whitney Farms Dinner Night was on the community calendar, but only thanks to some string pulling from Gigi. It angered Evelyn that even after her years of doing good deeds for this community, the people had all but turned their backs on her in her time of need.

  They’d even tried to refuse her ice cream!

  Thankfully, they still supported Trevor Whitney as his family had been a Loves Park staple for as long as any of them could remember. Gigi didn’t say so, but Evelyn knew that was her angle when she told people about the dinner.

  Just before it was time to call the Volunteers meeting to order, Trevor sauntered into The Paper Heart with Lilian, that irritated expression on his face. Evelyn’s summons had obviously interrupted his daily chores, and she’d likely hear about that later.