Obviously these women had an agenda, and Evelyn knew from experience that once they’d set their minds on something, there was no changing it.
But as she settled into her spot on the corner of the couch, she happened to glance at Ursula, who hadn’t said a word for some time, but who seemed to be intent on assessing the entire situation, and if Evelyn wasn’t mistaken, the woman’s gaze was fixed on her.
Few things were as unnerving as that.
CHAPTER
22
IT HAD BEEN SIX DAYS since the Valentine Volunteers had given Evelyn the folders and her mission regarding Trevor’s love life.
Six days since he’d overheard her wondering aloud what was so wonderful about him.
Six days since he’d come by to check on her.
She’d blown it. Big-time. She didn’t have many friends and she’d managed to run one of them off.
Evelyn pulled on a pair of jeans and a tank top and headed outside to try to find Whit. She had to apologize and explain that she hadn’t meant the remark the way it sounded.
But as she approached the house, she saw the entire staff had gathered over by the chicken coop. Farm staff meeting?
She didn’t belong there, and yet curiosity got the better of her. She’d never made it out for one of their meetings before. She approached with caution, doing her best to avoid Whit’s notice, hiding at the back of the small group of ten or so.
Whit stood at the front, Lilian at his side.
“So you can’t keep us all on; that’s what you’re saying?” one of the guys said.
Whit held a hand up. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just telling you we’ve plateaued a little. It’s time to take a look at how things are running and see if we need to make any adjustments.”
Lilian shrugged, perhaps trying to maintain a calm demeanor. “We just need to figure out what we can do to grow. Leveling off isn’t good in any business.”
“Isn’t that why we brought in the cattle? The grass-fed beef is sold before they’re even old enough to go to the slaughterhouse,” one of the guys said.
“That’s been years ago now, but that was a smart addition,” Whit said. “Time to see if we’re missing any other opportunities.”
Evelyn’s gaze circled the small team of employees. They all wore the same nervous expression.
Trevor must’ve noticed. “Guys. This isn’t a death sentence for the farm. I’m asking for your ideas, is all. You’re out and about more than I am. You’re at the markets. Just tell me if anything comes to mind.” Whit took his ball cap off and ran a hand through his hair. “Now, let’s have a good day out there. Lilian is making her special Italian beef for lunch today in the white barn.”
The guys all clapped Trevor on the shoulder or shook his hand before heading out in various directions to feed and water the animals, collect and wash eggs, and water the vegetable gardens. After they left, Trevor finally tossed a glance in Evelyn’s direction but didn’t approach her.
She was leaning against the chicken coop, waiting for a chance to talk to Whit, when Lilian spotted her and waved. The older woman wore wisdom in the form of deep lines on her face.
“How’ve you been, Evie?” Lilian said when she reached her. She wore snug jeans, a brown leather belt, cowboy boots, and a white tank top that made her skin look even tanner.
Evelyn smiled. “I’m doing okay. Sounds like the farm isn’t?”
Lilian waved her hand in the air as if to swat an imaginary fly. “Hard business. We just want to stay ahead of it.”
“Is Trevor worried?” He was deep in conversation with Sutton McIntosh, the livestock manager.
Lilian looked at him. “Who can tell?”
“He is hard to read, isn’t he?”
“One thing is sure, though: these guys love him. They’d do anything for him. He’s just that kind of leader. Knows how to bring people together.”
Evelyn could see that about him. He made people want to be better. Made her want to be better.
“You think he’d be open to suggestions from anyone?” Evelyn asked.
Lilian raised a brow. “From you?” She laughed. “Sure, sweetheart, give it a whirl. I gotta go check on the beans. Have a good day.”
She walked away, leaving Evelyn feeling awkward, standing by herself beside a bunch of chickens.
Trevor glanced her way again, finished his conversation with Sutton, and strode toward her. “You’re out of the house.”
“Good observation.” This was harder than she thought. “Sorry I crashed your meeting.”
“Sorry to deliver such depressing news.”
“You okay?”
He shrugged. “It’s my family legacy and I’m not sure how to make a go of it. I’ve had better days.” He started walking toward the pasture. She followed, mostly because she still hadn’t worked up the courage to apologize for her thoughtless remark.
His family’s legacy. She remembered how important that was to him. It was, after all, the thing that had brought him back to Loves Park.
“I know how much this place means to you.”
He continued walking.
“I was there when you found out about your dad’s Parkinson’s, remember?”
He slowed. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
Understatement. The diagnosis was what interrupted Trevor’s college career, his life plans, and kept him on the farm.
“You never did like to talk about it.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” He plodded toward the red barn with Evelyn on his heels.
“Your dad would be proud of you, Whit,” she said.
He spun around and faced her.
She stopped, backing away. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not my place.”
Never mind that once upon a time it would’ve been.
Christmas break, sophomore year of college. That’s when Trevor learned about his father. His parents were so concerned about his dad’s condition, they’d wanted Trevor home to learn the business before it was too late for his dad to teach him.
She’d watched him wrestle with that decision, the desire to make his own way conflicting with that need to make his parents proud.
In the end, he’d chosen to stay on the farm. Of course he had. He was Trevor.
He let out a long sigh. “No, it’s fine. I’m just having a bad morning.”
“I know a little something about bad mornings.” She forced a smile.
Her sadness didn’t hang like a cloak on her shoulders anymore, but she’d hardly gotten back to normal. She was still refusing to speak to Christopher, ignoring phone calls from her mother, and hiding out in a guesthouse that did not belong to her.
Something needed to change.
He began walking again, this time at a slightly slower pace, toward the greenhouse. “You remember that night?”
She fell into step beside him. “It was the first time I heard you play piano.”
“Sometimes that’s easier than talking,” he said.
If only she could play. She hadn’t known until that night that he was such a musician. They were in the music room at Christopher’s parents’ house—her boyfriend off being Christopher, leaving her alone and empty.
Whit had wandered in looking like she felt, but asking no questions and offering no answers. Instead, he moved to the piano and let his fingers glide across the keys, a haunting melody that seemed to match the mood that had fallen between them. Forlorn somehow. Drawn to watch the ease with which he played, she slid onto the bench next to him. This tall, brooding man seemed to say more with that song than he ever had in words.
Still, she felt like she was privy to something sacred, a side of himself he rarely shared. He stopped playing abruptly, drawing her eyes to his troubled face.
“I’m not going back to school,” he announced.
She hadn’t responded. She had been able to tell by the look on his face he was still processing it himself.
Looking back now, Evely
n could see what an impossible situation that had been for him. Did he regret his choice?
“I have an idea,” she announced, determined to change the subject.
“Oh?” He tugged his hat down lower on his head.
“I don’t know if you’re going to go for it,” Evelyn said.
“Try me.”
She pressed her lips together as if doling out the idea in small bits would go over better with him. “What if you created a section of the farm just for people to come out and pick their own vegetables?”
Whit stared at her like she had an arm growing out of her head. “Why would anyone want to do that?” He picked up his pace, focused on the greenhouse.
“Are you kidding me? People love this stuff.” She practically had to run to keep up with him. “They like to bring their kids out to learn where real food comes from, and there’s something about picking your own food and then going home and making a big meal with it.”
“There is?”
She swatted him on the arm. “Ask Lilian if you don’t believe me.”
Whit shook his head. “I don’t know.” He yanked an old hose from the side of the greenhouse and pulled it toward the outdoor garden, where he hooked it up to a sprinkler.
“Picture this. We kick it off with a big community farmhouse meal. You could do several each year. Lilian is one of the best cooks in Loves Park—everyone knows that—so you’d have a great turnout. Then we tell people they can get their own delicious box of fresh produce, either prepackaged or pick-your-own, every Saturday at Whitney Farms.”
“Would I have to talk to people?” He knelt down at the spigot and the sprinkler shot to life.
Evelyn laughed. “You could let me talk to them. It’s the least I can do.”
“Pick your own, huh?” Whit squinted up at her. “Is that something you rich people do?”
Her own words hung between them. “You still haven’t told me what is so wonderful about him.” Did she make him feel like she was better than him somehow? It wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned the vast difference between their “people.”
“Whit, I wanted to apologize for—”
He silenced her with an upheld hand. “I’ll think about your idea.”
She gave a sharp nod as he stood and headed toward the other end of the greenhouse, where another hose and sprinkler waited to water a second garden plot. Once he’d finished, he walked back to her and stopped. “Anything else?”
“Actually, yes,” she said, remembering the other reason why she’d come looking for him in the first place. “The hearts.”
He groaned. “Can’t we get out of that?” He started toward the pastures now, shaking the fences that kept the cattle from roaming outside their designated area. Evelyn followed doggedly behind.
“Where are you going?” She stopped walking after a minute.
He turned and faced her. “I walk the land every day. The whole perimeter.”
“That’s nuts.”
“Well, I don’t usually have company.” He continued on.
She jogged until she caught up to him, Gigi’s reminders about pushing him toward Maggie echoing in her mind. What did they expect her to do? Outline the good things about a woman she didn’t know? She couldn’t make Trevor fall in love with Maggie any more than she could make Christopher sorry for what he’d done.
“What’s in there?” Evelyn pointed to the barn that sat at the back of the property, the one where he spent so much time.
“Nothing.”
She started toward the barn, and this time it was Whit who had to jog to catch up to her.
“You’re always out here doing things,” she said over her shoulder. “What do you have in there?” She spun around. “You’re not a murderer or anything, are you?”
He shot her a look and she laughed, then took off toward the barn.
“Evelyn, come on,” he called after her. But he was too late.
She pulled on the door and inhaled the smell of sawdust. “What is this place?”
Lumber in various lengths and widths had been stacked on shelves along one of the walls. Machines, counters, and workbenches, along with half-completed pieces of furniture, filled the main portion of the barn, like islands in a sea of possibility.
“So when Gigi said you were a woodworker, that was an understatement?”
“You’ve got to be the nosiest person I’ve ever met.”
“Have you met Gigi and Doris?” She gawked for several long seconds, feeling once again like she was witnessing something private and sacred.
And judging by the look on his face, it embarrassed him to share this space. But they were friends, weren’t they? He could let her in on this one secret. She took her phone from her pocket, found the image of the cover of the magazine Abigail had shown her, and held it up.
He groaned. “Where did you get that?”
“It’s a magazine, Whit! You’re on the cover!”
“Don’t remind me.” He moved past her to the workbench at the back of the barn.
“Seriously, Whit, what is all this?” She watched as he moved around the space, as comfortable in these surroundings as he was out on the farm.
He looked away. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Obviously it is, if you were on the cover of a magazine.”
It struck her again how different he was from Christopher. When Christopher saw his face in the press, everyone around saw it too.
Divorced. For a fleeting moment, she’d forgotten. The word popped into her head, bringing with it emotions she would’ve loved to stuff in a shoe box and bury six feet underground. Once Christopher signed the papers, that status would be official.
“I make furniture. People buy it. It’s really not a big deal.”
She wandered farther into the barn and discovered, on the other side of the machines, a sort of showroom—only she knew he hadn’t set it up for anyone to browse.
“These are your finished pieces?” Evelyn ran a hand across a tall dresser. Dark stain offset aged brass drawer pulls perfectly. Trevor might not be a part of her world, but the people in her world would pay a lot of money for a piece like this.
And that was just the beginning. Behind the dresser were two more, both different styles. Beside those, a bed frame, a headboard, and a gorgeous farmhouse table she would’ve purchased in a second. If she had any money.
“I have a delivery this weekend.”
She walked around to the other side, still inspecting his work. Unlike the shoddy furniture most stores carried, Trevor’s pieces were solid and built to last. This table might double as a bomb shelter in a pinch. “A delivery to whom?”
“A store in Denver. They sell my stuff.”
At the end of his workbench, tucked underneath a hammer and a can of stain, Evelyn spotted an actual copy of the magazine. Likely someone else had brought that here—she couldn’t see him purchasing anything with his face on the cover. She edged it out from under the hammer and stain and read the headline on the front cover.
“‘The DIY Entrepreneur.’”
Trevor groaned. “Put it away, Evie.”
She flipped it open until she found the article, which she hadn’t read. “What is Desvío?”
He took his hat off and rubbed his temples. She didn’t care that he was uncomfortable. And for once she would be sure her curiosity didn’t run him off, even if it meant she had to get bossy.
“It’s the name of my company.” He looked embarrassed. This was a big deal; shouldn’t he be excited? She paged through the article—a full feature on him, his story, and his company, complete with photos of him working in the barn where they now stood.
Images of completed pieces of furniture in an upscale-looking boutique in Denver stared back at her.
“Why Desvío?”
He put his hat back on and leaned against the workbench. “I like the way it sounds.”
She shot him a look.
He sighed. “It’s Spanish for ‘deto
ur.’”
“Detour.” So many questions filled her head. She could tell he had stories, and for the first time since they’d parted ways after her wedding, she found herself wondering what they were. “It’s really amazing. I guess you aren’t so far removed from my world after all.”
“About that.” He stared at the ground. “I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”
She held up a hand, mimicking his earlier gesture, then closed the magazine. “It’s fine. I was never very comfortable in that world either.”
Silence hung between them. Since her life had begun unraveling, Evelyn had started to realize all the ways she’d lost herself. She used to be a person with ambitions and dreams. She used to have convictions to stand by. She used to know who she was. But she’d spent so many years trying to please everyone else, she’d lost her way.
Trevor had those things. He’d always known exactly who he was. How did he do that?
“I can’t believe you’ve been doing all this and nobody knows.”
He gestured at the magazine and smirked. “Lots of people know.”
But she hadn’t known. She bit her lip. More proof of how far out of touch she’d grown from people who used to be her friends. “What’s the story behind the name?”
He stuck his hands in his pockets. How the reporter had ever gotten an interview out of this man was beyond her. “If my life hadn’t taken that detour, I never would’ve learned how to do any of it.”
“You mean school.”
“Right. Remember my dad wanted to teach me how to run the farm before his health made that impossible?”
She nodded.
“Well, he did. But it was here in his wood shop that I actually figured things out.” Trevor’s gaze circled the barn. “And this is where I really got to know my dad.”
Evelyn filled in the blanks as usual. Imagining hours of quiet moments spent together by a father and a son who didn’t need words to communicate.
He set his hand on a plank of wood waiting to be molded into something else—a small piece of something greater.
“I had no idea you were such an artist.” She smiled.
“If I remember right, that was always more your thing.”
Change of Heart Page 16
