12. Evie
“ I ’ll be back.” Grabbing my water bottle from the fridge, I head for the door. I went from daily jiu jitsu to sporadic attendance, and both my mental and physical health are suffering for it. I feel stiff and pent-up, frustrated with my out-of-control life. I need to get it all out on the mat.
“You on your way to class?” asks Tristan, glancing over my gi. This is the first time I’ve seen him all day. He’s been in his bedroom since he came home earlier, talking on the phone. “I’ll come with you.”
“Well, hurry up then,” I say impatiently, swinging my backpack over one shoulder. “It’s really far from here and I don’t want to be late.”
He leaves the room, returning a minute later in a pair of black gi pants, a plain white tee, and clean, all-white Jordans. His gi jacket and duffel are slung over one arm. “Let’s go.”
I speed all the way there, annoyed we’re living so damn far away from everything. I love Tybee Island, but it’s not the most convenient place to stay, not when my whole life revolves around Savannah. Well, maybe not anymore. Losing my apartment and my job did change things.
Tristan seems lost in thought as I drive, his seat reclined back so far it looks like he’s settling in for a nap. I thought guys stopped that nonsense in high school. “What’s up?” I overtake a slow-as-molasses Mustang whose driver apparently doesn’t know how to drive a car of that caliber.
“Hm?” He stares at the road ahead, his eyes glazed over. It’s obvious he’s a million miles away.
“You’re being uncharacteristically quiet.”
“Just thinking,” he says.
“About?”
“You don’t want to know,” he assures me with a tired smile.
“Is it about the distillery?” I ask, amazed that no matter what man in my life I’m talking to, it always comes back to that blasted place.
“Yeah. I met with your dad today,” he says. “Threatened him with legal action. Gave him a contract and one week to sign it. After that, things get real.”
My heart dips unpleasantly at this news. “Realer than they’ve already been?”
“Mhm.” He shifts, returning his attention to the passing scenery. “I don’t think you understand just how much time, how many chances, we’ve given him. We don’t usually roll like this. The fact we’ve been this patient, when it’s obvious he doesn’t give a flying fuck about making things right, is a testament to the way my father treats his friends. Anyone else would’ve felt the heat months ago. I wouldn’t have even had to come down here.”
He's right, of course. If Daddy had just paid his debts, or at least been honest with the Kellys about his financial situation, Tristan wouldn’t have had to waste time by coming to Savannah. I don’t know Owen Kelly well, beyond what I saw during the summers their family used to visit, but he seems to be a fair, patient man. He was always kind to me.
But it’s undeniable that he and his sons have another, darker side. Not all of their business is on the up-and-up. Neither is my father’s, though. Makes me wonder if the shadiness started with him, or if he learned it from his own father. Doyle Whiskey wasn’t always legit. During Prohibition, my family produced unknowable amounts of illegal spirits and ran speakeasies throughout Georgia. I can only imagine the sort of lifestyle that went along with that.
Still, Tristan’s words administer an unexpected sting. They remind me that this is strictly business. We’re married on paper, but in reality, we’re no closer than we were as kids. The time we spend together is usually in the company of Finn, Malachi and Timmy, playing cards or watching TV. Sometimes they invite me to smoke with them on the patio, but I usually refrain. Seems like that’s their thing, and as welcoming as his friends are, I can’t help but feel like a third wheel. A fifth wheel. Whatever.
“Anyway, we’ll see how it goes,” continues Tristan, oblivious to my ambivalent musings. “I’m hoping he comes around and signs that shit himself. If not, I’ll have to get down to business in a way he understands.”
Alarmed, I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “You wouldn’t hurt him physically, would you?”
“Not unless it was absolutely necessary.”
I wait for him to crack a smile, to reassure me that he’s just messing with me, but he doesn’t. We stop at a light right on the edge of town, minutes away from Phoenix Rising. “You can’t just?—”
“I can, Evie,” he counters softly, shutting me up despite his gentle timbre. His green eyes glint, as beautiful and hard as emeralds. “And if I have to, I will.”
Coming to jiu jitsu with Tristan may not have been the best idea. The mat’s full, as usual, but I’m ultra-aware of him the whole time, despite my best efforts to ignore him. It doesn’t help that Eddie introduced him as an MMA champ in the beginning of class. I guess he watched some of Tristan’s fights online because he’s suitably impressed now, and Eddie is impressed by nobody. They roll a couple of times together, demonstrating several advanced techniques, and now everyone wants a turn.
I came tonight to get my mind off the soap opera my life has become, not have its main star in my face all evening. My frustration must be apparent because I put Eddie on his ass so fast that he laughs. “Okay, Evie, I see you.” It’s the only time I win. He matches my energy after that, aggressively but carefully forcing me to tap out three times in a row.
Helping me to my feet the third and final time, he looks me over, a puzzled frown marring his face. “You good? You seem kinda … mad. ”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “You know how it is.”
His eyes flicker over to Tristan, who’s got a girl in a head and arm choke. I watch as he moves from full mount, where he’s straddling her, to a side mount, his head tucked beside hers as he completes the hold. It’s mesmerizing, how smooth with it he is. Every stage of the hold rolls into the next like a choreographed dance, only his partner’s not keeping up too well. She taps out, laughing breathlessly when he releases her and sits up, a kind smile on his face as he says something to her.
A flash of something hot and ugly spears through my belly. I’m so used to seeing Tristan spar with men during his televised tournaments that it didn’t occur to me he’d be practicing with women today. Which is stupid of me. Why wouldn’t he spar with women? I snap my gaze back to Eddie, who’s regarding me with a faint grin.
“What?” I ask, tightening my belt.
“It’s just practice,” he says, his smile now full-on teasing. “If you don’t like hubby rolling with the girlies, maybe you oughta give him a heads-up.”
My jaw drops, and I’m sure my eyes are the size of saucers. “What are you talking about, Eddie?”
“Don’t bother denying it, because Opal told me everything,” he says, hands on his hips. “Can’t say I think it was a good idea, but it’s your life.”
“Your sister has a big mouth,” I mutter, ducking my head. “Anyway, it’s not …” Not what? Real? For everyone to know? All of the above?
He squeezes my shoulder. “I was telling her about Tristan working out here, and how some of the girls—and one of the guys—were interested, and she told me to make sure he ‘behaved himself.’” Eddie hooks his fingers into air quotes. “Because he’s married. To you.” His eyebrows creep up, in judgment or curiosity, it’s hard to tell. “That was news to me.”
“It’s temporary,” I explain, my voice so hushed he has to lean in to hear me. “My dad was trying to …” It’s so humiliating I falter, but Eddie squeezes my shoulder again.
“I know. She told me.” I give him a withering look, but he just chuckles. “I still think it’s kinda fucked-up, but I gotta give the man props for standing up for you like that.”
“Yes, he’s very chivalrous,” I murmur, looking at my feet .
“Does he feel the same way about you?” asks Eddie.
“About me being chivalrous?” I ask, my head popping back up in confusion.
“Nah, Evie.” He gives me a look like he thinks I’m being ridiculous. “I mean, is he feeling you the way you obviously feel him?”
The unexpected question wraps around my heart like a chokehold and squeezes extra hard. The fact he’d even ask means he probably knows the answer. How embarrassing.
I guess there’s no use denying it, even to myself; my crush on Tristan is alive and well, and unfortunately very obvious. Maribelle’s taunting words from the other day slither to the forefront of my mind, highlighting how pathetic I am.
“I don’t think so, but that’s not what our arrangement is about,” I say to Eddie, hoping the flush on my face from our rolling session camouflages the blush of embarrassment.
“Well, you’re grown, so I’m gonna assume you know what you’re doing.” Someone calls his name, and he steps away to assist another pair sparring nearby.
Taking a deep breath, I re-do my ponytail and look around for another partner. But it’s Tristan who walks over to me, pointing to the mat. “Let’s go.”
There’s no good reason for me to refuse, but I hesitate anyway. “I’m not very good.”
He screws up his face, disappointed in my response. “I don’t want to hear that shit, Evie. I saw you the other night—clearly you know what to do.”
“Not against you,” I argue, my heart already pounding at just the thought of rolling around with him.
Tristan assumes a starting stance, legs apart and bent, and offers his fist for a bump. “You can either get ready and participate, or you can stand there and make excuses while I take you down. Your choice.”
“Tristan.” I laugh uneasily, but he’s got this determined sparkle in his eye that I know all too well. It used to mean noogies or shoving me into the water at the beach. Now it means he’s going to engage, whether I want to or not. I mirror his stance, bumping his fist.
We move around each other for a few seconds, sizing each other up. I try to grab his lapel a few times, but he evades me with ease. Right as I move in to try again, he lunges and executes an arm drag that goes right into a leg sweep. In seconds, I’m on my back and he’s on top of me, but I manage to keep my wits about me long enough to avoid getting sucked into the fastest hold of all time.
He’s taking it easy on me, though. I’ve seen Tristan spar; in no reality would I be able to hold him off for this long. Because that’s all I got—defense. He gives me just enough room to “escape” his holds, but never enough to actually make any headway. After seven or eight minutes of this, my muscles start going shaky from exertion.
“Don’t give up on me now, Doyle,” he taunts, his mouth so close that I feel the vibration of his voice as much as I hear it. He pops up into a full mount, which means he’s sitting astride my torso, his Herculean legs hemming me in. Then he leans forward slightly, his hands on either side of my head.
“My last name is Kelly,” I grunt.
Blinking in surprise, he lobs a crooked smile down at me, and I can tell he’s lost focus. Taking advantage of that, I scoot my hips to the side and trap his left ankle with mine as I grab his right arm. I bridge my hips, look back over my shoulder like I’m going to roll, and then turn, flipping Tristan onto his back. The whole thing takes maybe three seconds.
He laughs, tapping my hips. “Nice, Evie. That was good.”
My heart, which is already pounding, dips deeply. I don’t know what’s better: Tristan’s praise or the feel of his solid body beneath mine. Aaand that’s enough of that . “Thanks. I think I’m done, though. I can’t feel my arms anymore.”
Standing on wobbly legs, I extend my hand to him, and with a grin, he takes it.
The sound of a lawn mower pulls me out of the light sleep I’ve been trying to hold onto for the past hour or so. Opening my eyes, I roll onto my side and stare at the moving boxes lining the wall. I haven’t had the chance to unpack them, nor have I had the desire. Poppy looks at me from a box beneath the window, her new perch. She and Juniper have already jacked up the blinds in their obsession with seeing outside .
“Happy birthday, Evie,” I whisper past the lump in my throat. This isn’t how I thought I’d greet twenty-three.
How did I get here? I feel like my life has been tossed into a blender. Things weren’t perfect before, but they were pretty good. I had a well-paying job that I was great at and a nice apartment—even if it was obnoxiously close to Daddy.
But all that’s gone now. It’s tempting to blame Tristan, who blew into town like a hurricane, but really, things were starting to change before he got here. Daddy had been getting pushier in his attempts to bring me on at the distillery and, unbeknownst to me, sliding further and further into debt. If Tristan hadn’t come down, I could be married to Cole Deschamps right now. Ugh .
Maybe I should be counting my blessings.
I’m having coffee and attempting to make pancakes from a box mix when my phone rings, an unfamiliar number flashing across the screen. I ignore it and flip the blobby pancakes on the skillet, pleased to see they aren’t burnt. Nice. Maybe I can make Tristan breakfast for once.
My phone blinks with a new voicemail, so I rest the spatula on the countertop and give it a listen.
Hello, this is a message for Miss Evelyn Doyle.
This is Francesca Bianchi, the executrix of Mrs. Myrtle Ann Campbell’s estate. I’d like to meet with you at your earliest convenience. Please give me a call back at 555-810-6655.
Thank you.
My throat closes, and I close my eyes. Aunt Myrtle . Today would have been her birthday, too—September twenty third. It’d almost slipped my mind. She died a few years ago, days after her one hundred and third birthday. We’d always celebrated our birthdays together, but I was still at Agnes Scott then, so a phone call had sufficed. That is, until I got news that she’d passed. I’ve never quite gotten over the fact that I missed our last “special day.”
Because Aunt Myrtle never had children, there was no one to claim her property—though I sometimes wondered if maybe she’d have left it to my mama had she not died so young.
No one has lived at the estate since Myrtle passed, but I know it’s not abandoned. The house is old, so I always assumed she’d left it to the historical society or something .
Bewildered by the voicemail, I call Ms. Bianchi back right away. The call connects after three rings. “Francesca Bianchi speaking.”
“Hi, Ms. Bianchi? This is Evie—Evelyn—Doyle. I just received a voicemail from you.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you for calling back,” she says brusquely. “I have something of utmost importance to discuss with you. When can we meet? I have two openings this morning. Otherwise, I can meet on Thursday, in the afternoon.”
“I can meet this morning,” I say, because my schedule is wide-open for the unforeseeable future.
Tristan wanders into the kitchen, shirtless, confused and yawning, his hair adorably messy. Rubbing his eyes, he glances behind me at the stove. “Is something burning?”
An hour later, Tristan—who insisted on tagging along—and I walk up to the front door of Ms. Bianchi’s fiduciary firm, which she runs from a lovely, historical house right off Warren Square.
A tiny, older woman with brown skin and blue eyes answers the door. She’s the epitome of a classy, breezy Southern lady, with her loose chignon and her cream linen tunic and pants. “Well, aren’t you the spitting image of a young Myrtle!”
“Me?” I squeak, hand to my chest. I’d been told I resembled Mama, but I could never see it.
“Yes, you. I certainly don’t mean your handsome beau, here.” She welcomes us inside with a tinkly laugh. “Pleased to meet you, dear.”
We shake hands. “And you, as well.”
She turns her attention to Tristan, eyes twinkling. “You must be the boyfriend.”
“Actually, I’m Tristan.” He extends a polite hand. “The husband. Nice to meet you, Ms. Bianchi.”
My heart skips a beat. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.
“Now that’s nice,” she says, guiding us to a sunny sitting room where there’s a pair of plush, velvet armchairs. “You make a fine couple. Can I offer you all something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”
“Water is fine, thank you.” I tuck my hair, which I wore loose today, behind my ear. My whole outfit was thrown together at the last minute as I was too curious to put off this meeting. I wanted to see Ms. Bianchi as soon as possible .
Once she’s brought us each a glass of water, Ms. Bianchi sits across from us with a leather portfolio. “As you know, it has been a few years since your aunt passed, but I remain the executrix of her estate and all her holdings. She asked me to give you this on your twenty-third birthday.” Reaching into the portfolio, she retrieves an envelope and hands it over to me.
I see Tristan’s head jerk up from the corner of my eye. He doesn’t know today’s my birthday because I didn’t tell him. Ignoring the tiny sliver of guilt I inexplicably feel at that, I carefully unseal the envelope.
“You must be wondering why she chose this specific birthday to leave you something,” Ms. Bianchi says with a small chuckle, fingering the edges of another paper.
“It does seem a little random,” I admit. Aunt Myrtle left me a small sum of money when she died, and even that was difficult to accept because I just wanted her back. I still feel that way, although extra cash would help right about now. Tristan’s said more than once that I’ll always be taken care of, but that doesn’t feel right. What happens if he wants to get married for real one day? I doubt his new wife would be cool with him funding his ex-wife’s life.
But when I pull the paper from the envelope and read its contents, I nearly faint. I keep reading the words over and over, thinking they’ll disappear or change.
“I was twenty-three when I inherited this home, and it is my hope that you will one day find joy here as well ...”
“Evie?” Tristan finally asks.
“She left me the estate.” I look up at him, biting my lip. “The house, the gardens, all of it.” Shaking my head, I glance over at Ms. Bianchi. “I don’t understand.”
Ms. Bianchi smiles warmly, her eyes gentle with empathy. “Myrtle was a woman of many surprises, as you well know. She wanted you to have it.”
“But why?” I ask, tears welling up in my eyes. This is surreal. The house and garden I spent countless summers at as a child were all mine now.
“You must know how your aunt adored you, Evelyn,” Ms. Bianchi says softly. “She saw the same love for this place in your eyes that she herself had. She believed that you would cherish and protect it.”
“I absolutely will,” I breathe, holding the paper to my racing heart. I can’t believe it. “Can I move in, then?”
“You can do whatever you’d like,” Ms. Bianchi replies. “It would be a beautiful place to raise a family, I’d think.”
No, no, not another blush . Plucking my glass up from the coaster, I drain the rest of my water.
“Is that right?” Tristan angles an irresistible smile her way before shooting it at me, his dimples making an appearance. He shouldn’t be allowed to wield that smile all willy-nilly. It’s dangerous. “Sounds like we’d better get over there then, Evie. The sooner we start, the better.”
Ms. Bianchi giggles like a schoolgirl, clapping as I die inside. I give Tristan a dirty look, my face throbbing with heat as he grins back at me.
“How sweet,” Ms. Bianchi coos. “How long have you been married?”
“Just a few weeks,” I manage.
“My word!” She gasps. “Was your wedding announcement in the papers? I must’ve missed that.”
“No.” I twist my hands in my lap. “It’s—it’s complicated.”
“We didn’t publicize it,” Tristan says. “Her father doesn’t like me too much.”
To my surprise, Ms. Bianchi smirks. “Myrtle didn’t like him too much, so I would take that man’s opinion with a grain of salt.” She glances at me. “Respectfully, dear.”
I laugh a little, folding the letter back into its envelope. “She always was a good judge of character.”
“Yes, she was, and quite discerning,” she says. “Myrtle used a trust to manage the transfer of the estate’s ownership because she didn’t want anyone coming between you and that house.”
“Is it safe to assume that no one knows about this, then?” asks Tristan.
“Yes.” Ms. Bianchi nods. “That’s exactly right.”