I called Evan at about eight that evening, this time dialing his cell phone. I knew he would have, by now, gone to the club to unwind followed by dinner with Everett, a man who is both a business partner and as close as a brother to Evan. Their very names said together sound as though the same parents reared them. Evan and Everett. No doubt the names had been said together more times than Evan and Jo-Lynn.
“Evan and Everett are in the boardroom.”
“Evan and Everett have gone to the golf course.”
“Evan and Everett are hunting in Alabama this week.”
“Evan and Everett took a two-week vacation to go deep-sea fishing in the Gulf.”
Wives on such a trip were optional, which was just fine with me, seeing as I absolutely loathe everything about Everett’s wife, Kit. Try hard as I may—and as much as Evan pushed me to feel otherwise—I couldn’t find a single redeeming quality about that woman. Something told me she’d ignore her own mother if it meant gaining another shred of social status.
Evan answered his cell phone on the third ring. He sounded winded.
“What are you doing?” I asked, mentally kicking myself for being curious.
“Treadmill,” he puffed into the phone’s mouthpiece.
I frowned. I was sitting on the back steps of the big house, wearing jeans and a thick pullover sweater and wrapped in an old quilt. It was freezing cold outside, but this was a call I wanted to make in private and Doris had been hovering since supper. I also wanted any excuse to end the call, if necessary, and figured that “Evan, I’m freezing to death” was as good as any.
I decided to get right to the point. “Evan, I’ve decided to stay here for a while. To take Aunt Stella up on her offer to renovate the house.”
Evan didn’t answer right away, but I heard the whir of the treadmill coming to a slow stop.
“Evan?”
“What?”
“I said I’m—”
“I heard what you said, but it doesn’t make any sense, Jo-Lynn. What do you mean? What are you talking about?” His breathing, though still labored, became steadier and less audible.
“I thought I told you last night . . .”
“You told me you would talk to me today. And I’ve been waiting all day. Everett and Kit invited me to dinner at the club, and I passed on the offer of a decent meal with good people just so I could take your call. And this is what I get? My wife isn’t coming home?”
He didn’t say it, but I got the distinct impression he wanted to add “where you belong” to his tirade. “So why didn’t you call me, then?”
“You said you’d call, Jo-Lynn. I’m just trying to keep everything civil here.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, electing to remain silent. The evening wind was beginning to pick up; it whistled around the corner of the house, making its way to the old barn and stables. I imagined it turned right to blow across the field where what remained of the farm lay broken and neglected. On its wings was the sweet aroma of chimney smoke.
“There’s a woman here,” I said, “named Karol. Karol-witha-K Paisley. She’s buying up Cottonwood for the purpose of restoration. Aunt Stella says she won’t even consider selling the big house unless I’m the one who renovates it. Karol is coming over in the morning to talk more about it, and long story short, I’ve decided to take the project.”
“And how long do you think that will take? This . . . project?” What had earlier felt like something I could sink my teeth into suddenly sounded as though I was playing with Lincoln Logs. “Three months. Maybe longer,” I answered with a shrug, knowing that Evan, of all people, would realize that an undertaking like this could take close to a year. Or longer. Aunt Stella would be unaware of it, of course, and Doris would be oblivious to it. But Evan would know.
“I don’t want you gone that long, Jo-Lynn. You and I both know you are looking at more than three months from home. I’m not a client who doesn’t know the difference. Don’t try to pull anything over on me.”
I pulled the quilt in tighter and drew my knees closer to my chest. “Evan, you’re the one that—”
“Jo-Lynn.” He spoke firmly, and I hushed. “I know I’m the one who started this little midlife crisis we seem to be in.”
We? I thought. Yes, yes. You started it, and I jumped right into it. You wanting more, me wanting . . . something. Anything at all.
“I don’t need to be reminded. But that doesn’t mean I want my wife living off in Cottonwood, Georgia, population fifty. If that many.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Look, come on back, you hear? Everett and Kit want to have us up to their mountain cabin next weekend. Everett even suggested we make it a four-day weekend. You come on back, we’ll have a nice little vacation with our friends, and we’ll start to put this time in our lives behind us. You don’t need a house to decorate to find yourself, Jo-Lynn.”
“To decorate? Is that what you think this is? Throwing a few draperies up and coordinating throw pillows? I’m doing more than that, Evan. I’ll be restoring something that is a part of my history and heritage.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re my wife.”
I closed my eyes and tilted my head forward until my forehead touched my knees, then pressed so hard I saw little flashes of color behind my lids. Without opening them, I said, “That’s just it, Evan. I don’t want to just be your wife. Do you realize how little I have to show for myself ? I’m a middle-aged woman with no children to be proud of. I don’t have a job—and please don’t say that being your wife is my job. That’s hardly an accomplishment. What you need, Evan, is a woman to show off at country club social functions. What do they call them? Trophy wives? Someone to tag along on these weekend excursions Everett feels obligated to bring Kit to. And let’s face it, that’s only because she’d skin him alive if he didn’t. Which brings me to another point, Evan: Everett and Kit are your friends. Not our friends. Yours. I personally cannot stand Kit Jansen and you know it.”
He was silent. I pictured him leaning on the arms of the treadmill, one knee bent, hip cocked out. I pictured his face, boyishly handsome in spite of the receding hairline and Van Dyck beard cropped close. I watched with my mind’s eye as the sweat poured past his sideburns, along his jawline, and onto the thick hand towel he always kept draped over his shoulders during a workout. I saw his face turn red, blanch, then turn red again.
“Hello?” I opened my eyes and gazed past the inky outline of naked trees and into the blue-black of the evening sky. I focused on what appeared to be a tiny roof on a tiny house, peeking out from between the branches of high-growing shrubs and thick-leaved trees. I squinted to bring my vision back into focus, trying to determine just what it might be and wondering why I’d never noticed it before.
“She can be a bit much, I agree,” he said finally.
“A bit much?” I redirected my thoughts as I shook my head. “No. We’re not going to use Kit Jansen as our common ground, Evan. Not now. Not in this conversation. I’m coming home tomorrow to pack some things for my stay here, but I am staying here for the next three months, six months, or twelve months, if that’s what it takes. I’m staying, and if you want to come down on weekends or if I feel like coming up sometime, I will. But I am doing this. I’m bringing back the former glory of the big house because it’s what I want to do and it’s what any interior designer would want to do. It’s a stab at something great, Evan, and I haven’t had a stab at something great in a very long time.”
I stopped in my tirade so fast I nearly choked on my tongue, then pressed my hand against my breast and waited for Evan to explode. But he didn’t. He merely said, “Well, I tell you what, my dear. Either come home to stay or don’t bother to come home at all.”
I felt my jaw go slack. The wind hollered as it cornered the house. I stood; it was telling me to go inside. “Fine then, Evan. I won’t come home. All I need is some good work clothes anyway, and they’ve got a mall in Raymore. It may not be Lenox Square, but it’s got a Belk and a Wal-Mart. You might not be able to survive on such, but if I don’t do this thing I may not survive at all.” I paused for the briefest of seconds. “Call me should you change your mind.”
“About what?”
“About anything,” I said, then disconnected the phone.