Change of Heart

By Liv Rancourt

A body reaps what they sow, and Clarabelle's planted the seeds of trouble. The year is 1933, and not much else is growing in the Oklahoma dirt. Clarabelle's gone and fallen in love with her best friend, so she figures it's time to go out and see the world.

If she's lucky, she'll find the kind of girl who'll kiss her back.

Clarabelle heads for New Orleans, and that's where she meets Vaughn. Now, Vaughn's as pretty as can be, but she's hiding something. When she gets jumped by a pair of hoodlums, Clarabelle comes to her rescue and accidentally discovers her secret. She has to decide whether Vaughn is really the kind of girl for her, and though Clarabelle started out a dirt-farming Okie, Vaughn teaches her just what it means to be a lady. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liv Rancourt
• Release date: Mar 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998582207

Liv Rancourt

An Adams Media author.

Book preview

A body reaps what they sow, and Clarabelle’s planted the seeds of trouble. The year is 1933, and not much else is growing in the Oklahoma dirt. Clarabelle’s gone and fallen in love with her best friend, so she figures it's time to go out and see the world.

If she’s lucky, she’ll find the kind of girl who'll kiss her back.

Clarabelle heads for New Orleans, and that's where she meets Vaughn. Now, Vaughn's as pretty as can be, but she's hiding something. When she gets jumped by a pair of hoodlums, Clarabelle comes to her rescue and accidentally discovers her secret. She has to decide whether Vaughn is really the kind of girl for her, and though Clarabelle started out a dirt-farming Okie, Vaughn teaches her just what it means to be a lady.

Chapter 1

My family disproved the term poor as dirt. See, we was poor, but we had plenty of dirt. We just couldn’t get much to grow.

But being poor didn’t drive me away from home.

Emma Wagner did. She was my best friend all while we were growing up, right up until the day I told her I loved her. She didn’t want to hear those words from me. Clarabelle Ryan, she said, girls don’t love other girls like that.

But I did.

Her half-hearted laugh didn’t hurt too bad. Didn’t realize the damage I’d done till the next time I saw her. She wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t meet my eyes, and neither would her sister. I figured I had another week before the whole town had heard about my wayward nature.

So I packed my change of clothes and begged Momma for a few dollars. She gave me some, but the year was 1933 and what little she had was dwindling. When I said goodbye, I think we both knew it might be the last time. Maybe she was grateful for one less mouth to feed, maybe she’d already heard rumors, or maybe her heart knew I wasn’t the type to marry the Thompson boy down the road.

Home might have been a vacant corner where Oklahoma bumped into Texas, but I headed out to see what I could see. I didn’t have the money for the bus to California, and the winters in New York were too cold. But our preacher used to say New Orleans was worse than Sodom and Gomorrah, so with the application of common sense, good manners, and luck, I found my way to the place I was always meant to be.

The French Quarter.

One July evening, when the air hung like a hot, wet, blanket, I slipped my baby blue dress off its hanger. I had an hour to get to my job as a hat check girl at The Moonlight, one of the only respectable nightclubs in the Quarter. The blue dress’s rayon fabric was lighter than my peach crepe, and the sleeves were shorter than my gold chiffon. People had seen it before, but in the last three months they’d seen all my dresses, and I’d sweat less wearing rayon. I pulled the dress over my head, careful not to smear make-up on the fabric, and inspected the result.

One bare bulb lit my room, and I had to angle my mirror to catch all of me. A knock on the door interrupted me fiddling with my collar. My heart skipped because I didn’t know many people who would drop on by. I cracked open the door.

Short and swarthy, with iron grey hair and dark eyes, my neighbor stood outside my room.

Evening, Mrs. Noschese, I said.

Auntie, Clarabelle. You can call me Auntie.

Auntie. I gave her an apologetic smile. Since moving to New Orleans, everyone but Mrs. Noschese called me Clara.

She headed the two or three families who shared the old house where I lived. My tiny room had once been a slave’s quarters, though it seemed to me the stone floor should’ve held more sadness. I’d only ever felt happy there.

You working again tonight? Her frown cut right through the evening gloom.

I shrugged, hoping she didn’t think I meant to be rude. I have to make money, you know? Momma needed money to keep the farm going, I needed to eat, and, well, someday I wanted to make myself a fourth dress.

A nice girl like you shouldn’t be out in that place every night. Her frown deepened and so did the line between her brows. You’ll get into trouble. She stuffed her hand into the pocket of her apron. Did you have supper yet? Here.

She passed me a warm, paper-wrapped package tied with a string. Thank you, Auntie. I swear I won’t do anything bad.

Mrs. Noschese made a sign of the cross. You might not, but the bad people could do something to you.

Momma had taught me not to trust a Papist, but since I’d never seen prayer put food on the table, I was willing to leave each to his own. I thanked Mrs. Noschese again for the sandwich, and after one final admonition, she left me to finish getting ready. Leaning towards the mirror, I painted on some lipstick, my dress already sweat-stuck to the small of my back. I’d promised not to do anything wrong, but I’d never admit to Mrs. Noschese that there might be some bad things I wanted done to me.

My room opened off the courtyard, which meant I could come and go without disturbing anybody. The humidity had almost washed the rouge off my cheeks by the time I made the fifteen minute walk from my house on Bienville Street to The Moonlight.

Clara! Lorraine’s squeal greeted me on my way through the door. Her face was round and her hips were rounder, and she was the most excitable person I’d ever met. Most everything came out as a squeal or a giggle or a hoot.

I got here early so you wouldn’t be late for your date. I fluffed my skirt so the rayon wouldn’t stick to my legs. To hear Lorraine talk, each date was more important than the last.

White ruffles edged the shoulders of her polka-dotted dress, and her bright red curls were spunkier than they had any right to be. Aw, thanks doll. She aimed a cherry-colored kiss in the direction of my cheek. "This has your name on it,

Reviews for Change of Heart

[bibrarybookslut · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Change of Heart is a story as lovely as its cover, an historical romance that effortlessly transports the reader to 1930s New Orleans, and seduces us into falling in love with Clarabelle and Vaughn. Liv Rancourt captures the essence of the era and the characters, with a wonderful narrative voice that is full of sensual authenticity.

I loved the innocence of Clarabelle, a young woman who chose to the Sodom of the time, hoping that her sinful was might find a home there. It is wonderful the way Rancourt captures her conflicting desires, allowing her to be both proper and passionate at the same time. Vaughn took a little more time to warm up to, initially coming across as an empty, playful sort of scoundrel, but when her transgender nature is violently outed, she comes alive for the reader.

The playful romance between these two women drives the first half of the novel, while a heartbreaking tension between then drives the second. As much as we sympathize with Clarabelle feelings of betrayal, we empathize with the difficulty of Vaughn's identity even more. It is that conflict of genders, desires, emotions, and personalities that makes Change of Heart such a powerful story. You cannot help but be drawn in and entertained by their flirty sort of courtship, and then thoroughly tied up in their efforts to find their way through to true love. Just an altogether wonderful story, with a unique setting and a refreshing narrative voice.


As reviewed by Sally at Bending the Bookshelf