6. Evie
E xhausted, I opt to sleep in on Sunday morning, murmuring prayers into my pillow instead of at Opal’s church. Last night plays over and over in my head. The fight, and then booking it out of there with Tristan, neither of us speaking until we got to my truck.
“Are you okay?” he’d asked again, sounding all worried as I unlocked the door.
“Yeah.” I’d slipped into the driver’s seat, barely looking at him. I didn’t want him to see my still-shaking hands. Didn’t want him to know how scared I’d been just now, and not just for myself. Cole has never actually hurt me, but he’s crazy enough that he would kill Tristan.
“Why didn’t you tell me you?—”
“Get home safe, okay? Go on.” I’d closed the door in his face and started my car, berating myself for not listening to my instincts, the ones telling me to avoid Tristan Kelly. Turned out it’d been for reasons other than what I’d expected, but still.
“Give me your number at least,” he’d demanded through the glass.
Why? So we could continue rehashing the good ol’ days, or better yet, discuss my ass-kicking skills? Nope . His motives were no better than my father’s—he wanted the distillery, nothing less and nothing more. I hadn’t felt like explaining any of this, so I drove away, leaving him on the sidewalk, awash in the purple glow of a neon sign.
I feel kind of bad about that now, but Tristan’s a big boy. I’m sure he’s fine.
Juniper leaps onto the bed, joining Poppy, and we cuddle quietly while I scroll through my socials. It’s rare I get slow mornings, and I savor this one, eventually bringing coffee and cinnamon toast back to bed.
My bathroom always smells like royal jasmine at this time of year, thanks to Mama’s varieties climbing the latticework outside. It always reminds me of my Great Aunt Myrtle, may she rest in peace. She had the garden of all gardens, a sprawling, verdant paradise that seemed to go on forever in an estate on Whitemarsh Island. She was my father’s aunt by blood, but Mama was the one she adored. She treated her like a daughter, teaching her all there was to know about tending a garden for usefulness as well as beauty.
This is why Mama’s own gardens were so lovely despite our urban locale. Our lot is big by city standards, but it’s still penned in by streets and wrought iron gates, nothing like Aunt Myrtle’s country estate. And yet it thrived under Mama’s care, rows of vegetables and herbs behind the kitchen, neat shrubs along the perimeter of the gate, and lush, colorful blooms that attracted so much attention that it was typical to see tourists snapping photos from the sidewalk. Mama’s garden routinely won local awards, something she didn’t aspire to but appreciated all the same.
Maribelle did ballet from day one, but I preferred tagging along behind Mama with my little shovels and gloves. When she saw that it was more than just a phase, she and Aunt Myrtle began teaching me all of their secrets. Aunt Myrtle was ancient by that point, but she loved sharing her garden with me. She gave me my first book on tinctures, a dog-eared, yellowing tome that looked like it predated Jesus. She liked to tell me stories of the old ways, back before people went to the doctor for “any old thing,” when they relied on what they had in their own backyards to heal them .
Drying my face, I take one last flowery whiff and shut the window. My phone’s vibrating when I get back. It’s Daddy, who’s been making himself scarce since Tristan came by the other day. For once, he leaves a text instead of a voicemail.
Let’s meet for lunch tomorrow at Callista’s.
My treat.
I stare at the words, ambivalent. Daddy knows that Callista’s is my favorite. Either he’s going to try and butter me up to do what he wants, or he’s finally realized that we can’t keep on going like this. That would be nice, but I’m betting on option number one.
Standing up from my heirloom tomatoes, I stretch out the kinks that’ve accumulated from hours of hunching over. It’s a scorcher of a day, and I’m dewy with sweat—okay, I’m drenched—but I’m in my happy place. Honeybees bouncing around the roses, sunlight twinkling through the trees, my hands sinking into the rich, dark soil—this is my meditation. Wiping my brow with the back of my hand, I reach for my canteen and finish off my water. I’ve been weeding, pruning, and plucking for hours now, a bounty of tomatoes, bell peppers, chard, English cucumbers, and basil in my basket. I make a mean salad, but most of this will go to Opal, her mom, and other friends that appreciate homegrown goodness.
“Evie,” a male voice calls.
Oh, for the love. Sounds like Tristan’s out on the sidewalk. Brushing my hands off on my leggings, I walk around to the front of the house. Sure enough, he’s on the other side of the gate, peering through like a weirdo. A really cute weirdo.
“Nice hat,” he says as I get closer.
I finger the edge of my wide-brimmed straw hat, glad the heat’s got my face redder than a stupid blush ever will. “It’s either that or a third-degree sunburn.”
“It’s adorable.” He grins, jerking his chin. “Did I catch you at a bad time? ”
“What’re you doing here?” I reply instead, looking him over from the safety of my sunglasses. He’s wearing athletic shorts and a white t-shirt with fresh white Nikes, his loose curls pushed back by sunglasses of his own.
“What’d you expect? You just ran off last night.” He grips the wrought iron, bottle-green eyes dancing over me like he’s making sure I’m still in one piece.
“I didn’t run off; I drove off. Safe and sound. What’d you think was gonna happen?” I ask, bemused.
“I don’t know, but I’m assuming that asshole knows where you live,” he says, the corners of his mouth turning down.
Balancing on one foot, I scratch my leg with the other. “He does, unfortunately.”
He frowns and starts to say something, but then stops and looks past me, at the house. “You gonna make me stand out here all day?”
“You want my daddy to run you off his property?” I ask. “’Cause he will.”
“Nah, he’s not even here. I just saw him in town.”
“Doing what?” I ask, surprised.
He laughs a little. “I don’t know, Evie. He was talking to some guy on the sidewalk.”
Hoping I don’t regret this, I push open the gate. “Where did you park?”
“Down the block.” He slips inside, latching the gate behind him. “Don’t worry—if Daddy Doyle does come back, he won’t even know I’m here.”
“Hmph.”
Tristan follows me back to the vegetable garden, chattering a mile a minute about how much he used to love playing here when we were kids, and how my mom had the best rhubarb pie, and wow—is that the garden I talked about last night? He’s suggesting I grow some Maryjane over by the bird feeders when I shove my basket at him. “Here, make yourself useful.”
“Put me to work,” he says, winking. “I don’t mind getting my hands dirty.”
I squint at him in the late afternoon sun, my silly heart skipping a beat as I try to figure out if he’s being flirty. It wouldn’t mean anything. Tristan’s been a tease for as long as I can remember. He could make Mama blush with gushy compliments over her buttermilk biscuits as easily as he could Maribelle, pulling her onto his lap during movie night.
Whatever. Collecting my supplies, I start up the carriage house stairs, careful not to bump into the potted dwarf citrus trees I found at the nursery last weekend. Tristan follows closely, nearly bumping into me when I stop to open the door to my apartment, and I glance back just in time to catch him raising his gaze.
“Tristan Kelly!” I gasp. “You were not just looking at my ass!”
“Guilty.” He smiles slyly, following me inside. “With all due respect, you have a phenomenal ass.”
Oh, boy. “You’re something else.” Face burning, stomach flipping, I drop everything on the counter and point for him to do the same. Poppy and Juniper look on from the windowsill, staring at Tristan. They’re probably wondering what species he is. I don’t make a practice of bringing boys here.
I take off my hat, loosening my hair from its messy braid, and head for the sink to wash my hands. “Do you want something to drink? I have water, sweet tea with lemon, and beer.”
“Sweet tea sounds good.” He plops onto a barstool, looking around the room. “I think you have more plants in here than you do outside.”
“Probably.” Shrugging, I follow his gaze from the massive Monsteras on either side of the window to the Pothos dripping from a little shelf in the corner. Spider plants, peace lilies, elephant ears, and ferns crowd a nearby table. “They make me happy. Clean the air, too.”
He nods, turning back to me. “You’ve got a cool set-up here.”
“Used to be the carriage house. Daddy had it redone when I came home from college.” I pour us each a glass, sliding his across the counter before taking a sip of mine. Nothing like the cold, sugary relief of sweet tea on a hot summer’s day, for real.
“Mm, that’s good,” he says, licking his lips after a long sip. “Not really a tea person, but there’s something about sweet tea. I like the lemon.”
I lick a tang of lemon from the corner of my mouth. “Only way I drink it.”
“What is all this?” he asks, picking up one of the tiny glass bottles on my countertop .
“Some of them are extracts, but most are tinctures,” I reply. “I make them with the herbs I grow.”
Leaning down, he examines the handwritten labels stuck to the bottles. “Like what?”
“Echinacea, elderberry, turmeric, ginseng. Whatever.”
“Oh, right—you were talking about that last night,” he says, his face brightening with realization. “How’d you get into it?”
“My great aunt. Long story,” I say dismissively, not wanting him to bore him with nerdy herbalism chatter. “Hey, is your arm okay? I saw you flinch when DJ landed that punch.”
“Yeah, it’s all right. A little sore. Only reason he got me was ‘cause it was two on one.” He lifts his chin, his eyes locking with mine. “Until you stepped in, anyway.”
Poppy makes her way over, rubbing against Tristan’s leg. Chuckling, he bends to pet her. “You flirting with me, cutie?” I roll my eyes. I guess like recognizes like. “What’s your name?”
“Poppy.” I nod at Ms. Judgy, who’s still watching from the window. “And that one over there is Juniper.”
“I’m more of a dog person?—”
“Don’t you dare speak out against my babies,” I warn, pointing at him.
“But I like Poppy,” he finishes loudly, lifting her to his lap. “And she likes me.”
“She likes everybody.”
“Nah, we have something special,” he whispers as she head-butts his chin. “So, what’s the deal with you and Cole?”
“Ah, the real reason you came over.” This makes sense. Of course, he’d be caught up on what went down last night. I’m having a hard time not thinking about it, myself. “And here I thought you just wanted more drama with my dad.”
“You know, I could’ve just texted you.” He bends over to release Poppy. “If you’d given me your number when I asked for it.”
I laugh incredulously. “You’re really used to getting your way, aren’t you? When did you get so pushy? The Tristan I knew was so sweet and easygoing.”
“I’m still easygoing, when I want to be,” he says, sipping his sweet tea. “But I was never sweet. ”
“Yes, you were?—"
“Maybe with you and your sister.” His eyes twinkle. “How is Maribelle?”
I busy myself with a pile of junk mail, my mood effectively soured. Of course, he’d ask about her. “Married and pregnant with kid number two.”
“Being an aunt is the best, huh?” Tristan leans forward, sniffing the potted mint on the countertop. “I love Lucky’s kid like he’s mine.”
Of course, he does. He and Lucky were always close. “I don’t ever see my niece, to be honest. Maribelle and I barely talk.”
“Huh.” He frowns slightly, pivoting. “So, back to last night. That was some chokehold—were you going to tell me you’d started training?”
“I don’t train, I just … practice.”
“Same thing. You took that guy out like a pro,” he says, giving me a crooked smile. “Kinda gave me a boner.”
“Ew, Tristan!” I groan, covering my face.
“I mean it,” he insists, but he’s laughing now. “That shit was impressive, Evie Knievel.”
“Thanks.” I play it off, but his words hit my heart like an arrow.
Tristan was always about wrestling and jiu jitsu, even when we were pretty young. He talked about it all the time when they came to visit, showing off videos of his matches on his phone. There was already a little bit of hero worship happening on my end, so that just made me like him more. I admired his strength and discipline, the passion he had. Besides a few hobbies, like reading and gardening, I didn’t have anything like that.
Sometimes, after the Kellys went back home, I watched videos of Tristan by myself. I liked seeing him fight. I liked seeing him, period.
After Mama left, I needed something physical, a way to process all the hurt and anger that had been building inside me for years. I was tired of being tired, of being depressed and out of shape. Opal’s brother Eddie encouraged me to try Brazilian jiu jitsu after listening to me complain about my pathetic life for the millionth time, but—deep down—Tristan was the real reason I took him up on it. And Tristan was the reason I stuck it out when I was frustrated, when I felt like I’d always suck.
At the studio I could put it all on the mat. Nobody pitied me, but nobody took it easy on me, either. I didn’t just shed my baby fat. I shed the version of myself I hated—the weak, whiny victim who couldn’t stand up for herself. At the end of the day, it wasn’t even about losing weight. It was about processing my feelings, not hiding them or eating them. It was about being strong—inside and out—and being someone I was proud of. It was about winning.
Needless to say, Tristan doesn’t know any of this. I don’t want him to. He inspired me at a time when I really needed it, and that’s enough.
“Where do you train?” he asks, taking out his phone. “Sorry, practice .”
“Phoenix Rising. It’s a studio across town,” I say. “I go most days after work.”
“Is it just BJJ or do they have punching bags?”
“They have everything.”
“I’ve been looking for something like that down here.” He nods, typing. “Can I tag along next time you go?”
I shrug, struggling to keep my emotions in check. Seeing Tristan in action on the mat would be incredible. “I guess.”
“You going tonight?”
“Sunday’s my day of rest. I might go over to Opal’s for dinner.”
“I should probably leave you to it, then.” Tristan finishes his tea and stands up. “As long as you can reassure me that Cole isn’t a threat.”
I wrinkle my nose. “What would you do if he was? Camp out on my couch?”
“Maybe.”
“Look, it’s really not that deep. Cole and I dated—and I use that term loosely—for a while in high school,” I mutter, shaking off the shame that rises whenever I think about it. “Not my finest moment.”
Tristan blinks. “High school? And he’s still obsessed with you?”
“I wouldn’t say obsessed,” I counter. “He’s just used to getting what he wants, and he acts the fool when he can’t have it.”
His bright eyes darken like cloud shadows rolling across a meadow. “Give me your phone.” He holds out his hand. “Please.”
I do, reluctantly, watching him enter his info. Then he calls himself, immediately silencing it from his end. “Now you got my number, and I got yours. I know you’re more than capable, but I’m just a call away.”
Concluding my second appointment of the day, I drive into town with the windows down, singing along to my favorite playlist. It’s been a good day. One, it’s absolutely beautiful out, the temperature hovering in the high 70s. And two, I secured both of the accounts I set out to win today. One of my new clients was so enthused about our flavored vodkas that he ordered twice the amount we’d agreed to and then referred me to their sister location in Hilton Head. I’m hoping I can secure that account, too. I’d make a mini vacation out of it, scooping up Opal and staying for the weekend.
“Yesss,” I sing, sliding into a just-vacated parking spot outside Callista's. A mix of freshly baked bread and warm pastries drifts from the open door, beckoning me inside. Busy or not, I couldn’t ignore the allure of a free meal, and besides, Daddy did ask nicely.
I find him on the busy back patio, seated at a table beneath the shade of a giant oak. Callista’s is known for this—instead of removing the tree during the patio's construction, they cleverly integrated it into the design by building around it.
“There’s my girl,” Daddy says, rising to pull out my chair. “Hello, Evelyn.”
“Hi, Daddy.” I take my seat, wondering at his good mood. He’s been an absolute bear lately, and not the cuddly kind.
“I’m glad you could make it,” he says, motioning to one of the glasses on the table. “I went ahead and ordered you a mint julep.”
“Thanks.” I take a tiny sip. It’s my favorite summer cocktail, but I don’t usually imbibe on workdays. “You said you needed to talk about something. Is everything okay?”
“More than okay.” He leans back with a smug smile, clasping his hands over his belly. “In fact, we have reason to celebrate.”
My belly gives an anxious somersault. “We do?”
He nods. “Looks like we won’t have to tangle with the Kellys after all, which, by the way, you should not even know about. I don’t know why Tristan included you in that mess, especially in the gauche manner he did.”
“Hm,” I say, cooling my hands by wrapping them around my drink. I don’t know why Tristan included me either, but unlike Daddy, I’m glad he did. Coming into the light is always preferable to being left in the dark.
A server stops by briefly to take our order, and then we’re alone again. Daddy leans forward, his eyes gleaming. “How would you feel about joining forces with one of Savannah’s finest families?”
He’s definitely acting bizarre. I glance at his drink, wondering if it’s his first of the day. “That depends. What do you mean?”
Reaching across the table, he takes my hand and clasps it between the two of his. It’s jarring, frankly. I don’t think Daddy’s held my hand since I was a little girl. “The Deschamps have a … shall we say vested interest in Doyle Whiskey. We have a few shared goals, and …” He rambles on and on, a word salad with little nutritional value, until my ears catch the last two words.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, my insides going cold.
Daddy purses his lips. “I said , you and Danny’s son are to be married.”
“Married? To Danny Deschamps’ son?” I slowly pull my hands away. “Which one?”
Why am I even asking? The thought of marrying any of the Deschamps boys makes my stomach roil. Besides, I already know, don’t I?
“Cole, obviously. I thought you’d be pleased, seeing as the two of you had a thing in high school.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Apparently, he still carries a torch for you.”
I have no idea how he even knows about that, seeing as our “thing” comprised mostly of late-night, backseat fucking, but that’s beside the point. “Cole’s a creep,” I hiss. “I wouldn’t marry him if my life depended on it.”
“In some ways, it does,” he says, pasting that awful smile back onto his face. “This marriage will unite our families, giving them joint ownership of the distillery. Thus, the money we owe them will be settled.”
“You mean money you owe, not me,” I whisper, my heart pounding so hard and so fast I feel like I might vomit. He can’t be serious. He can’t .
“They’ll pay off our other debts, as well,” he continues as if I hadn’t spoken. His eyes glaze over, like he’s someplace else. “Including what we owe the Kellys.”