Change of Heart

by Jude Deveraux

Genres: Holiday books; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Two childhood playmates grow into more than just friends in #1 New York Times bestselling author Jude Deveraux's full-length romantic novel based on her short story of the same name.

In the hugely popular, New York Times bestseller A Holiday of Love, Jude Deveraux wrote a novella about two kids playing matchmakers-Eli and Chelsea, best friends who were determined to find true love for Eli's bighearted mother. But what happens when these ambitious children grow up? What exactly made Eli's mother, Miranda, fall in love with Frank all those years ago? And how does that affect their future together?

Eli and Chelsea lost touch with each other over the years, until Eli bought a house in his father's hometown of Edilean, Virginia, and invited Chelsea for a visit. She had her own life, and was certain that a childhood friendship couldn't be anything more, but she went nonetheless-and found herself quite unprepared for the changes she saw in Eli. And neither of them were prepared to run into a mystery, with a family that needed to be rescued. Now, just like when they were children, they must join together to straighten out a very big problem. The question is what happens after the mystery is solved; they are very different people-so can they stay together?

Combining love and passion with sweet, unexpected twists, and shedding new light on Miranda and Frank's relationship, Change of Heart is an unforgettable addition to Deveraux's classic bestselling novels.

Release date: October 21, 2014

Publisher: Pocket Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

Change of Heart

1



Denver, Colorado

1994

The man behind the desk looked at the boy across from him with a mixture of envy and admiration. Only twelve years old, yet the kid had a brain that people would kill to have. I mustn’t appear too eager, he thought. Must keep calm. We want him at Princeton—preferably chained to a computer and not allowed out for meals.

Ostensibly, he had been sent to Denver to interview several scholarship candidates, but the truth was, this boy was the only one the admissions office was truly interested in, and the meeting had been set to the boy’s convenience. The department dean had arranged with an old friend to borrow office space that was in a part of town close to the boy’s very middle-class house so he could get there by bike.

“Ahem,” the man said, clearing his throat and frowning at the papers. He deepened his voice. Better not let the kid know that he was only twenty-five and that if he messed up this assignment, he could be in serious trouble with his advisers.

“You are quite young,” he said, trying to sound as old as possible, “and there will be difficulties, but I think we can handle your special circumstances. Princeton likes to help the young people of America. And—”

“What kind of equipment do you have? What will I have to work with? There are other schools making me offers.”

As the man looked at the boy, he thought someone should have strangled him in his crib. Ungrateful little— “I’m sure that you’ll find what we have adequate, and if we do not have everything you need, we can make it available.”

The boy was tall for his age but thin, as though he were growing too fast for his weight to catch up with him. For all that he had one of the great brains of the century, he looked like something out of Tom Sawyer: dark hair that no comb could tame, freckles across skin that would never tan, dark blue eyes behind glasses big enough to be used as a windshield on a Mack truck.

Elijah J. Harcourt, the file said. IQ over 200. Had made much progress on coming up with a computer that could think. Artificial intelligence. You could tell the computer what you wanted to do and the machine could figure out how to do it. As far as anyone could tell, the boy was putting his prodigious brain inside a computer. The future uses of such an instrument were beyond comprehension.

Yet here the smug little brat sat, not grateful for what was being offered to him but demanding more. The man knew he was risking his own career, but he couldn’t stand the hesitancy of the boy. Standing, he shoved the papers back into his briefcase. “Maybe you should think over our offer,” he said with barely controlled anger. “We don’t make offers like this very often. Shall we say that you’re to make your decision by Christmas?”

As far as the man could tell, the boy showed no emotion. Cold little bugger, the man thought. Heart as frigid as a computer chip. Maybe he wasn’t real at all but one of his own creations. Somehow, putting the boy down made him feel better about his own IQ, which was a “mere” 122.

Quickly, he shook the boy’s hand, and as he did so he realized that in another year the boy would be taller than he was. “I’ll be in touch,” he said and left the room.

Eli worked hard to control his inner shaking. Although he seemed so cool on the exterior, inside he was doing cartwheels. Princeton! he thought. Contact with real scientists! Talk with people who wanted to know more about life than the latest football scores!

Slowly, he walked out the door, giving the man time to get away. Eli knew that the man hadn’t liked him, but he was used to that. A long time ago Eli had learned to be very, very cautious with people. Since he was three he had known he was “different” from other kids. At five his mother had taken him to school to be tested, to see whether he fit into the redbirds or the bluebirds reading group. Busy with other students and parents, the teacher had told Eli to get a book from the shelf and read it to her. She had meant one of the many pretty picture books. Her intention had been to find out which children had been read to by their parents and which had grown up glued to a TV.

Like all children, Eli had wanted to impress his teacher, so he’d climbed on a chair and pulled down a college textbook titled Learning Disabilities that the teacher kept on a top shelf, then quietly went to stand beside her and began softly to read from page one. Since Eli was a naturally solitary child and his mother didn’t push him to do what he didn’t want to do, he had spent most of his life in near seclusion. He’d had no idea that reading from a college textbook when he was a mere five years old was unusual. All he’d wanted to do was to pass the reading test and get into the top reading group.

“That’s fine, Eli,” his mother said after he’d read half a page. “I think Miss Wilson is going to put you with the redbirds. Aren’t you, Miss Wilson?”

Even though he was only five, Eli had recognized the wide-eyed look of horror on the teacher’s face. Her expression had said, What do I do with this freak?

Since his entry into school, Eli had learned about being “different.” He’d learned about jealousy and being excluded and not fitting in with the other children. Only with his mother was he “normal.” His mother didn’t think he was unusual or strange; he was just hers.

Now, years later, when Eli left his meeting with the man from Princeton, he was still shaking, and when he saw Chelsea he gave her one of his rare smiles. When Eli was in the third grade, he’d met Chelsea Hamilton, who was not as smart as he was, of course, but near enough that he could talk to her. In her way Chelsea was as much a freak as Eli was, for Chelsea was rich—very, very rich—and even by six she’d found that people wanted to know her for what they could get from her rather than her personality. The children had been two oddities in the boring little classroom, and they’d become eternal friends.

“Well?” Chelsea demanded, bending her head to look into Eli’s face. She was six months older than he, and she’d always been taller. But now Eli was beginning to catch up to her.

“What are you doing in this building?” Eli asked. “You aren’t supposed to be here.” Smugly, he was making her wait for his news.

“You’re slipping, brain-o. My father owns this place.” She tossed her long, golden, glossy hair. “And he’s friends with the dean at Princeton. I’ve known about the meeting for two weeks.” At twelve, Chelsea was already on the way to being a beauty. Her problems in life were going to be the stuff of dreams: too tall, too thin, too smart, too rich. Their houses were only ten minutes apart, but in value, they were miles apart. Eli’s house would fit into Chelsea’s marble foyer.

When Eli didn’t respond, she looked straight ahead. “Dad called last night and I cried so much at missing him that he’s buying us a new CD-ROM. Maybe I’ll let you see it.”

Eli smiled again. Chelsea hadn’t realized that she’d said “us,” meaning the two of them. She was great at the emotional blackmail of her parents, who spent most of their lives traveling around the world, leaving the family business to Chelsea’s older siblings. A few tears of anguish and her parents gave her anything money could buy.

“Princeton wants me,” Eli said as they emerged into the almost constant sunshine of Denver, its clean streets stretching before them. The autumn air was crisp and clear.

“I knew it!” she said, throwing her head back in exultation. “When? For what?”

“I’m to go in the spring semester, just to get my feet wet, then a summer session. If my work is good enough, I can enter full-time next fall.” For a moment he turned to look at her, and for just that second he let his guard down and Chelsea saw how very much he wanted this. Eli passionately hated the idea of high school, of having to sit through days of classes with a bunch of semiliterate louts who took great pride in their continuing ignorance. This program would give Eli the opportunity to skip all those grades and get on with something useful.

“That gives us the whole rest of the year to work,” she said. “I’ll get Dad to buy us—”

“I can’t go,” Eli said.

It took a moment for those words to register with Chelsea. “You can’t go to Princeton?” she whispered. “Why not?” Chelsea had never considered, if she wanted something—whether to buy it or do it—that she wouldn’t be able to.

When Eli looked at her, his face was full of anguish. “Who’s going to take care of Mom?” he asked softly.

Chelsea opened her mouth to say that Eli had to think of himself first, but she closed it again. Eli’s mom, Miranda, did need taking care of. She had the softest heart in the world, and if anyone had a problem, Miranda always had room to listen and love. Chelsea never liked to think that she needed anything as soppy as a mother, but there had been many times over the years when she’d flung herself against the soft bosom of Eli’s ever-welcoming mother.

However, it was because of Miranda’s sweetness that she needed looking after. His mother was like a lamb living in a world of hungry wolves. If it weren’t for Eli’s constant vigilance . . . Well, Chelsea didn’t like to think what would have happened to his mother. Just look at the horrid man she’d married. Eli’s father was a gambler, a con artist, promiscuous, and a liar of epic proportions.

“When do you have to give them your answer?” Chelsea asked softly.

“My birthday,” Eli answered. It was one of his little vanities that he always referred to Christmas as his birthday. Eli’s mom said that he was her Christmas gift from God, so she was never going to cheat Eli because she’d been lucky enough to have him on Christmas Day. So every Christmas, Eli had a pile of gifts under a tree and another pile on a table with a big, gaudy birthday cake, a cake that had no hint of anything to do with Christmas.

In silence, the two of them locked their bikes, then walked down Denver’s downtown streets, forgoing the trolley that ran through the middle of town. Chelsea knew that Eli needed to think, and he did that best by walking or riding his bike. She knew without asking that Eli would never abandon his mother. If it came to a choice between Princeton and taking care of his mother, Eli would choose the person he loved best. For all that Eli managed to appear cool and calculating, Chelsea knew that when it came to the two people he loved the most—her and his mother—inside, Eli was marshmallow cream.

“You know,” Chelsea said brightly, “maybe you’re overreacting. Maybe your mother can get along without you.” Without us, she almost said. “Who took care of her before you were born?”

Eli gave her a sideways look. “No one, and look what happened to her.”

“Your father happened,” Chelsea said heavily. She hesitated as she thought about the matter. “They’ve been divorced for two years now. Maybe your mother will remarry and her new husband will take care of her.”

“Who will she marry? The last man she went out with ended up ‘forgetting’ his wallet, so Mom paid for dinner and a tank full of gas. A week later I found out he was married.”

Unfortunately, Miranda’s generosity didn’t just extend to children but to every living creature. Eli said that if it were left up to his mother, there would be no need for a city animal shelter because all the unwanted animals in Denver would live with them. For a moment, Chelsea had an image of sweet Miranda surrounded by wounded animals and uneducated men asking her for money. For Chelsea, “uneducated men” was the worst image she could conjure.

“Maybe if you tell her about the offer, she’ll come up with a solution,” Chelsea said helpfully.

Eli’s face became fierce. “My mother would sacrifice her life for me. If she knew about this offer, she’d personally escort me to Princeton. My mother cares only about me and never about herself. My mother—”

Chelsea rolled her eyes skyward. In every other aspect of life Eli had the most purely scientific brain she’d ever encountered, but when it came to his mother, there was no reasoning with him. Chelsea also thought Miranda was a lovely woman, but she wasn’t exactly ready for sainthood. For one thing, she was thoroughly undisciplined. She ate too much, read too many books that did not improve one’s mind, and wasted too much time on frivolous things, like making Eli and Chelsea Halloween costumes. Of course, neither of them ever told her that they thought Halloween was a juvenile holiday. Instead of tramping the streets asking for candy, they would go to Chelsea’s house and work on their computers while dripping artificial blood. They sent the butler out to purchase candy that they’d later show to Eli’s mom so she’d think they were “normal” kids.

Only once had Chelsea dared tell Eli that she thought it was a bit absurd for them to sit at their computers wearing uncomfortable and grotesque costumes while calculating logarithms. Eli had said, “My mother made these for us to wear,” and that had been the final decree. The matter was never mentioned again.



As Eli rode his bike onto the cracked, weedy concrete drive of his mother’s house, he caught a glimpse of the taillights of his father’s car as it scurried out of sight.

“Deadbeat!” Eli said under his breath, knowing that his father must have been watching for him so he could run away as soon as he saw his son.

Every time Eli thought of the word father his stomach clenched. Leslie Harcourt had never been a father to him, nor a husband to his wife, Miranda. The man had spent his life trying to make his family believe he was “important.” Too important to talk to his family; too important to go anywhere with his wife and child; too important to give them any time or attention.

According to Leslie Harcourt, other people were the ones who really counted in life. “My friends need me,” Eli had heard his father say over and over. His mother would say, “But Leslie, I need you too. Eli needs school clothes and there are no groceries in the house and my car has been broken for three weeks. We need food and we need clothes.”

Eli would watch as his father got that look on his face, as though he were being enormously patient with someone who couldn’t understand the simplest concepts. “My friend has broken up with his girlfriend and he has to have someone to talk to and I’m the only one. Miranda, he’s in pain. Don’t you understand? Pain! I must go to him.”

Eli had heard his father say this same sort of thing a thousand times. Sometimes his mother would show a little spunk and say, “Maybe if your friends cried on the shoulders of their girlfriends, they wouldn’t be breaking up.”

But Leslie Harcourt never listened to anyone except himself—and he was a master at figuring out how to manipulate other people so he could get as much out of them as possible. Leslie knew that his wife, Miranda, was softhearted; it was the reason he’d married her. She forgave anyone anything, and all Leslie had to do was say “I love you” every month or so and Miranda forgave him whatever.

And in return for those few words, Miranda gave Leslie security. She gave him a home that he contributed little or no money to and next to no time; he had no responsibilities either to her or to his son. Most important, she provided him with an excuse to give to all his women as to why he couldn’t marry them. He invariably “forgot” to mention that all these “friends” who “needed” him were women—and mostly young, with lots of hair and long legs.

When he was very young, Eli had not known what a “father” was, except that it was a word he heard other children use, as in “My father and I worked on the car this weekend.” Eli rarely saw his father, and he never did anything with him.

But Eli and Chelsea had put an end to Leslie and all his Helpless Hannahs two years ago. It was Chelsea who first saw Eli’s father with the tall, thin blonde as they were slipping into an afternoon matinee at the local mall. And Chelsea, using the invisibility of being a child, sat in front of them, twirling chewing gum (which she hated) and trying to look as young as possible, as she listened avidly to every word Eli’s father said.

“I would like to marry you, Heather, you know that. I love you more than life itself, but I’m a married man with a child. If it weren’t for that, I’d be running with you to the altar. You’re a woman any man would be proud to call his wife. But you don’t know what Miranda is like. She’s utterly helpless without me. She can hardly turn off the faucets without me there to do it for her. And then there’s my son. Eli needs me so much. He cries himself to sleep if I’m not there to kiss him good-night, so you can see why we have to meet during the day.”

“Then he started kissing her neck,” Chelsea reported.

When Eli heard this account, he had to blink a few times to clear his mind. The sheer enormity of this lie of his father’s was stunning. As long as he could remember, his father had never kissed him good-night. In fact, Eli wasn’t sure his father even knew where his bedroom was located in the little house that needed so much repair.

When Eli recovered himself, he looked at Chelsea. “What are we going to do?”

The smile Chelsea gave him was conspiratorial. “Robin and Marian,” she whispered, and he nodded. Years earlier, they’d started calling themselves Robin Hoods. The legend said that Robin Hood righted wrongs and did good deeds and helped the underdog.

It was Miranda who’d first called them Robin and Marian, after some soppy movie she loved to watch repeatedly. Laughingly, she’d called them Robin and Marian Les Jeunes, French for “youths,” and they’d kept the name in secret.

Only the two of them knew what they did: They collected letterhead stationery from corporations, law firms, doctors’ offices, wherever, then used a very expensive publishing computer system to duplicate the type fonts, then sent people letters as though from the offices. They sent letters on law-office stationery to the fathers of children at school who didn’t pay child support. They sent letters of thanks from the heads of big corporations to unappreciated employees. They once got back an old woman’s four hundred dollars from a telephone scammer.

Only once did they nearly get into trouble. A boy at school had teeth that were rotting, but his father was too cheap to take him to the dentist. Chelsea and Eli found out that the father was a gambler, so they wrote to him, offering free tickets to a “secret” (because it was illegal) national dental lottery. He would receive a ticket with every fifty dollars he spent on his children’s teeth. So all three of his children had several hundred dollars’ worth of work done, and Chelsea and Eli dutifully sent him beautiful red-and-gold, hand-painted lottery tickets. The problem came when they had to write the man a letter saying his tickets did not have the winning numbers. The man went to the dentist, waving the letters and the tickets, and demanded his money back. The poor dentist had had to endure months of the man’s winking at him in conspiracy while he’d worked on the children’s teeth, and now he was being told he was going to be sued because of some lottery he’d never heard of.

In order to calm the man down, Chelsea and Eli had to reveal themselves to the son who they’d helped in secret and get him to steal the letters from his father’s night table. Chelsea then sent the man one of her father’s gold watches (he had twelve of them) to get him to shut up.

Later, after they’d weighed the good they had done of fixing the children’s teeth against the near exposure, they decided to continue being Robin and Marian Les Jeunes.

“So what are we going to do with your father?” Chelsea asked, and she could see that Eli had no idea.

“I’d like to get rid of him,” Eli said. “He makes my mother cry. But—”

“But what?”

“But she says she still loves him.”

At that, Chelsea and Eli looked at each other without comprehension. They knew they loved each other, but then they also liked each other. How could anyone love a man like Leslie Harcourt? There wasn’t anything at all likable about him.

“I would like to give my mother what she wants,” Eli said.

“Tom Selleck?” Chelsea asked, without any intent at humor. Miranda had once said that what she truly wanted in life was Tom Selleck—because he was a family man, she’d added, and no other reason.

“No,” Eli said. “I’d like to give her a real husband, one who she’d like.”

For a moment they looked at each other in puzzlement. Eli had recently been trying to make a computer think, and they both knew that doing that would be easier than trying to make Leslie Harcourt stay home and putter in the garage.

“This is a question for the Love Expert,” Chelsea said, making Eli nod. Love Expert was what they called Eli’s mom because she read romantic novels by the thousands. After reading each one, she gave Eli a brief synopsis of the plot, then he fed it into his computer data banks and made charts and graphs. He could quote all sorts of statistics, such as that 18 percent of all romances are medieval, then he could break that number down into fifty-year sections. He could also quote about plots, how many had fires and shipwrecks, how many had heroes who’d been hurt by one woman (who always turned out to be a bad person) and so hated all other women. According to Eli the sheer repetition of the books fascinated him, but his mother said that love was wonderful no matter how many times she read about it.

So Eli and Chelsea consulted Miranda, telling her that Chelsea’s older sister’s husband was having an affair with a girl who wanted to marry him. He didn’t want to marry her, but neither could he seem to break up with her.

“Ah,” Miranda said, “I just read a book like that.”

Here Eli gave Chelsea an I-knew-she’d-know look.

“The mistress tried to make the husband divorce his wife, so she told him she was going to bear his child. But the ploy backfired and the man went back to his wife, who by that time had been rescued by a tall, dark, and gorgeous man, so the husband was left without either woman.” For a moment Miranda looked dreamily into the distance. “Anyway, that’s what happened in the book, but I’m afraid real life isn’t like a romance novel. More’s the pity. I’m sorry, Chelsea, that I can’t be of more help, but I don’t seem to know exactly what to do with men in real life.”

Chelsea and Eli didn’t say any more, but after a few days of research, they sent a note to Eli’s father on the letterhead of a prominent physician, stating that Miss Heather Allbright was pregnant with his child, and his office had been directed to send the bills to Leslie Harcourt. Sending the bills had been Chelsea’s idea, because she believed that all bills on earth should be directed to fathers.

But things did not work out as Chelsea and Eli had planned. When Leslie Harcourt confronted his mistress with the lie that she was expecting his child, the young woman didn’t so much as blink an eye, but broke down and told him it was true. From what Eli and Chelsea could find out—and Eli’s mother did everything she could to keep Eli from knowing anything—Heather threatened to sue Leslie for everything he had if he didn’t divorce Miranda and marry her.

Miranda, understanding as always, said they should all think of the unborn baby and that she and Eli would be fine, so of course she’d give Leslie the speediest divorce possible. Leslie said it would especially hasten matters if he had to pay only half the court costs and only minimal child support until Eli was eighteen. Generously, he said he’d let Miranda have the house if he could have anything inside it that could possibly be of value, and of course she would assume the mortgage payments.

When the dust settled, Chelsea and Eli were in shock at what they had caused, too afraid to tell anyone the truth—but if Heather was going to have a baby, then they had told the truth. One week after Eli’s father married Heather, she said she’d miscarried and there was no baby.

Eli had been afraid his mother would fall apart at this news, but instead she had laughed. “Imagine that,” she’d said. “But Miss Clever Heather did get her baby, whether she knows it yet or not.”

Eli never could get his mother to explain that remark, but he was very glad she wasn’t hurt by the divorce.

So now Eli had just seen the taillight of his father’s car pull away, and he knew without a doubt that the man had been there trying to weasel out of child-support payments. Leslie Harcourt made about seventy-five thousand a year as a car salesman—he could sell anything to anyone—while Miranda barely pulled down twenty thousand as a practical nurse. “As good as I make people feel, they don’t pay much for that. Eli, sweetheart, my only realistic dream for the future is to become a private nurse for some very rich, very sweet old man who wants little more than to eat popcorn and watch videos all day.”

Eli had pointed out to her that all the heroines in her romance novels were running corporations while still in their twenties, or else they were waitressing and going to law school at night. That made Miranda laugh. “If all women were like that, who’d be buying the romance novels?”

Eli thought that was a very good consideration. His mother often had the ability to see right to the heart of a matter.

“What did he want?” Eli asked the moment he opened the door to the house he shared with his mother.

For a moment Miranda grimaced, annoyed that her son had caught his father there. Escaping Eli’s ever-watchful eye was like trying to escape a pack of watchdogs. “Nothing much,” she said evasively.

At those words a chill ran down Eli’s back. “How much did you give him?”

Miranda rolled her eyes skyward.

“You know I’ll find out as soon as I reconcile the bank statement. How much did you give him?”

“Young man, you are getting above yourself. The money I earn—”

Eli did some quick calculations in his head. He always knew to the penny how much money his mother had in her checking account—there was no savings account—and how much was in her purse, even to the change. “Two hundred dollars,” he said. “You gave him a check for two hundred dollars.” That was the maximum she could afford and still pay the mortgage and groceries.

When Miranda remained tight-lipped in silence, he knew he’d hit the amount exactly on the head. Later, he’d tell Chelsea and allow her to congratulate him on his insight.

Eli uttered a curse word under his breath.

“Eli!” Miranda said sternly. “I will not allow you to call your father such names.” Her face softened. “Sweetheart, you’re too young to be so cynical. You must believe in people. I worry that you’ve been traumatized by your father leaving you without male guidance. And I know you’re hiding your true feelings: I know you miss him very much.”

Eli, looking very much like an old