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Copyright © 2021 by Eva Marie Everson
All rights reserved. First printing 2021.
Printed in the United States of America
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Iron Stream Media serves its authors as they express their views, which may not express the views of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.
Scripture quotations from The Authorized (King James) Version.
Rights in the Authorized Version in the United Kingdom are vested in the Crown. Reproduced by permission of the Crown’s patentee, Cambridge University Press.
Cover design by Elaina Lee
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021930332
ISBN-13: 978-1-64526-309-8
E-book ISBN: 978-1-64526-310-4
PRAISE FOR DUST
From the first word to the last I was enthralled with this story. Everson’s love-story-through-time will appeal to every reader who cheers when love triumphs. This is Everson at her best.
~Rachel Hauck
New York Times bestselling author of The Wedding Dress
Author Eva Marie Everson’s characters in Dustare flawed, their choices, both good and bad, intersecting and influencing each other’s lives. Everson’s layered southern family drama reveals the complexities of relationships and the unexpected and sometimes painful consequences of our choices. While we might regret how what we say and do affects others, with every turn of the page Everson reminds readers of a vital truth: life doesn’t have to be perfect to be good.
~Beth K. Vogt
Christy award-winning author of the Thatcher Sisters series
What is one life worth? Eva Marie Everson’s Dust takes the readers on a slow, Southern, and yes, dusty journey through several decades as we watch the lives of her characters intermingle amidst the little and big tragedies, heartaches, and celebrations of life. With breathtaking, sometimes sensual prose, Everson explores romantic love in all its passion and brokenness as the characters make choices whose consequences bleed into other lives for generations. A thought-provoking and soul-stirring story.
~Elizabeth Musser
author of The Swan House Series
Allison meets Westley as a callow girl and enters their marriage on the wings of starry-eyed optimism. It is the 1970's, and Westley has kept a secret that impacts the years to come. In a web of memorable characters who intersect profoundly, Dust is a novel of exquisite breadth and width, a soulful story of a woman coming into her own that shows us it is the seemingly ordinary life that is, in fact, extraordinary.
~Claire Fullerton
award-winning Author of Little Tea
Fans of Eva Marie Everson will rush to purchase her latest novel, Dust. A complex story line moves the story at a rapid pace which makes readers fall headlong into this page-turner. The characters remain with you long after the ending and you will find yourself thinking about them long after the final page. In Dust, Everson secures her place at the top of women's fiction.
~Renea Winchester
award-winning author of Outbound Train
Eva Marie Everson's novel Dust is a poignant story about family, not simply family defined by DNA. but the struggles, joys, and disappointments that bond us. These characters face challenges that ultimately determine who we really are and how we love one another.
~Christa Allen
award-winning author of Since You’ve Been Gone
Dust invites readers to dwell inside a story of hearts so vivid, one cannot help but smell the vintage-era scene in which they breathe. Eva Marie Everson sculpts each scene with emotional and relational authenticity. Every character rises with such profound realism from the pages, tears well for the fates of both hero and antihero. Everson deepens our compassion for those on various sides of life's dramatic struggles. Yet she also carries us from realistic pain points to address the ultimate existential question: meaning. As a therapist, I see the reflections of living souls in the eyes of Everson's characters. My only challenge in endorsing Dust lies in offering a recommendation with eloquence worthy of this author's extraordinary talent.
~Tina Yeager
LMHC, Award-winning author, Speaker Flourish-Meant Podcast Host, Life Coach
I didn’t write today. I read—all day. I didn’t cook today. I read—all day. I didn’t eat today. I read—all day. Dust, by Eva Marie Everson is an epic story. I loved it as much as I loved A Woman of Substance by Barbara Taylor Bradford. This is Everson’s best book ever!
~Ane Mulligan
bestselling author of Chapel Springs Revival
“How is it that our lives can be so affected by the decisions of others?” A question asked in Eva Marie Everson's book, Dust. Her amazing character development will make you wonder if you’ve met some of these people in your life. She takes you on a journey of love, loss, and everything in between. A must read and maybe even more than once.
~Edwina Perkins
Managing Editor, Harambee Press
Everson, at her page-turning, keep-you-reading-all-night best brings Dust to the world. She has penned a novel that intrigues, shell shocks, and keeps you guessing. She peels back and exposes the beauty and tragedy of everyday life. She draws in-depth psychological characters that pop in and out, leaving you reading until wee hours seeking them.
~Merilyn Howton Marriott, M.S., LPC
Award-winning author of The Children of Main Street
This is Eva Marie Everson's opus. I have read her books for years and this one takes story to a new level. Filled with characters whose personalities are so vivid, you feel as though you are peering over their shoulders, Everson wraps you tight in the drama of a family and how, even with good intentions, things can go awry. Everson's descriptions of the era make you long for the time you may have walked there. Dust is memorable. Dust is endearing. Dust cannot be wiped out of your mind at the end of the day. This book will remain with me forever.
~Cindy K. Sproles
bestselling author of What Momma Left Behind
In Dust, Everson commands a rich Southern setting and a wide cast of characters with a deft hand and an evocative voice. Perfect for book clubs and women's groups, Dust brings to life the questions of every woman who has wrestled with marriage and motherhood, while understanding that, sometimes, we live not only with the choices we make, but the ones that are made for us.
~Lindsey Brackett
award-winning author of Still Waters
CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Before
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter
Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Anyone who knows anything about classic rock knows that “Dust in the Wind” was released as a single in January 1978 by the progressive American rock band, Kansas. Written by Kerry Livgren, the song became a track on the group’s 1977 album Point of Know Return. The song was haunting. Beautiful. One of my favorite all-time pieces of music from my young adult years. The inspiration, it has been reported, came to Livgren from biblical scriptures (Ecclesiastes 1:14, 3:20; Genesis 3:19) but the song itself was composed only as exercises for the guitar (to learn fingerpicking). Chances are, “Dust in the Wind” wasn’t played on the radio until late January 1978. I took the creative liberty of giving it airtime for Allison and Westley in October 1977. And that’s okay. I am a writer; I can do that.
So, allow me to begin by thanking Kerry Livgren for such an amazing piece of lyrical literature. When I heard the song on Pandora a few years ago, the idea for Dust formed, then took on new meaning as I focused not on our being dust in the wind but in where that Wind carries us. I will also admit that Michelle’s misunderstanding of “Carry On Wayward Son” was originally, well, mine.
There are so many others to thank: my Page 6 group from Word Weavers International who read the bits and pieces of the manuscript for over two-and-a-half years; Ramona Richards, my critique partner; Jessica Everson, who said she didn’t understand the quandary women found themselves in in the late 1970s and so inspired me to go back and “fix things;” Tina Yeager who said, “Who will victimize Cindie next?” and so opened up a whole new world and character in Patterson Thacker; Merilyn Marriott who helped me understand the nature of the self-sabotaging beast; my agent, Jonathan Clements, who encouraged me, even after some time had gone by, to keep at the writing of the story; my husband who left me alone while I sequestered in my office for hours upon hours only to emerge a tad moody; my street team who gave me so many high-fives and who, by and large, taught me that “I have all idea” must be a colloquialism known only to the Southern region of my birth (so I removed it from the dialogue); Ann Tatlock, my editor (I am still so excited!); Lucie Winbourne for her proofreading talents; and to all those who prayed me through an incredible difficult time in which the writing of this book took place.
Finally, “thank you and I love you beyond measure” to the Lord God Almighty whose Word tells me that although my bones may one day return to dust, I have a purpose, and that, no matter how great or how small, that purpose matters.
Eva Marie Everson
DEDICATION
To my Little Bro …
… who loved Jesus …
… and classic rock …
I miss you more than I have words.
And I love you to bits.
Big Sis
Before …
Patterson
June 5, 1965
Atlanta wasn’t just steaming hot; Atlanta was practically on fire.
And so was Patterson Thacker, who stood at the Groom’s Room window, blinking toward the church’s parking lot three stories below. He breathed slow and steady as words repeated in his head. His heart. He could do this. He could marry Mary Helen and be true to her. To her and to the children they would someday have. He wanted this. Had chosen this … more or less.
He took another breath. Tugged at the bow tie his father had tied a bit too tight. Watched steam rise from the asphalt to form ghostly mists. Again, for the hundredth—no, the millionth—time that day, he willed his nerves—and his expectations—not to get the better of him. Because he knew, he knew he had to be careful. His unadulterated passion for the woman who, somewhere in this building of cold stone and stained glass and stretching spires, was as hot as the day. This day. Their wedding day.
Of all days …
He grimaced. Mary Helen had worked herself into a lather planning the perfect date. A date that, she’d told him when she’d settled on it, would occur early enough to keep their guests from walking through the outskirts of hell to reach the church doors. One that meant their outdoor reception at the country club could be—and would be—enjoyed by all.
But her meticulous planning had come to naught; Atlanta was smack dab in the middle of a heatwave unlike anything they’d experienced that century—or so the weatherman declared only nights before during the five o’clock news.
Of course, Mary Helen had been fit to be tied. She couldn’t believe it, she said. Absolutely couldn’t believe that God in his mercy would do this to her … to her of all people, good Christian that she was.
Patterson had tried to calm her. Tried to tell her that, no matter what—heat or cold, rain or shine, if the flowers stood glorious in their vases or wilted like Grandma’s lettuce—they’d be married soon. Husband and wife, off to live the best life any two people ever had. And wasn’t that the whole point of the day, he’d asked, his fingertips traveling the length of her arm in some hopeful way of easing her frustrations.
But she’d slapped his hand away, which—with all their years together—hadn’t surprised him. She’d pretty much been slapping his hand away since the night seven years ago when a high school football game slated them for the state championship. A night when he’d noticed her—really noticed her—for the first time, cheering from the stands for the team. From that night on, they’d been an item—”Patterson Thacker and Mary Helen Robinson”—the golden couple, the couple most likely to …
But she’d kept him on a tight physical leash from night one. Sticking to group dating and closed-mouth kisses and hands kept at safe distances. A fact, he convinced himself, in keeping with the standards of her being “the kind of girl a man brings home to Mother.”
“The ones you bring to your bed,” his father had informed him in one of the rare moments when they spoke of such things, “and the ones you bring home to Mother are not the same girls.”
Time had proven his father’s sage words—advice, perhaps—to be true. There had been a girl during his first three years at Princeton—a flower-child-hippie-type named Dani—who’d fit the first bill just fine. He would have never brought Dani home to Mother. Or to Atlanta for that matter.
Fun while it lasted, but once he’d proposed to Mary Helen, he kissed Dani goodbye.
So to speak.
He sighed deeply now, thinking of her … wondering where she was and how she was and if she ever thought of him fondly. The heat through the window—or was it the memory of Dani tangled in threadbare sheets—warmed him enough that he tugged again at the collar of the overly starched tuxedo shirt. And, again, the blindingly white bow tie resisted the insert of his index finger as though its ulterior motive—and perhaps Mary Helen’s—was more to strangle him than to make him look debonair.
“A sign of things to come,” his best friend—and best man—said from behind. Patterson turned to smile at Dexter Holloway, who stood peeling his tux jacket off. “Goodness, man. Could Mary Helen have picked a hotter day? Even the air conditioner can’t keep up.”
“Don’t start,” he answered. “She got so emotional after the weather report the other night, I thought she was going to have a meltdown that would make every Southern woman worth her salt stand up and take notice.” He stepped away from the window. “I mean it, Dex, if it weren’t for all those gifts at her mama and daddy’s house
, she probably would have cancelled the whole thing.” He grinned to lighten the notion. “You know Mary Helen can’t resist a good china pattern. And the thought of returning all that Limoges …”
Dexter slid the cuff of his shirt over his watch. “Son, you’ve got about ten minutes before the reverend comes in here to get us.” He looked up with a grin. “Run now and I’ll provide cover.”
“Come on. After seven years, you think I’m about to run off now?”
Dexter nodded, bringing his hands to rest on his narrow hips. “Seven years and counting. Son, I cannot believe you two held out this long.”
“Wasn’t my idea.”
“But tonight’s the night.”
Heat—different than before—slid over Patterson, and he smiled. “Let’s certainly hope so.” He looked at Dexter then, a man who’d been married two years now. A man whose wife was about to pop, ready to bring his baby into the world. “Ever hear of a woman balking on her wedding night?”
“I’m sure some woman somewhere …”
Patterson raised his brow in jest. “But Mary Helen will be worth the wait.”
Dexter laughed. “Oh, I’m sure …”
Patterson paced the room then, the thick red carpet soft beneath shoes that had been polished to such a shine he could see his reflection in them. When he stopped at the window again, he tapped the toe of one to the beat of a rhythm only he could hear. One that came out of nowhere. One with lyrics he whispered under his breath.
“What’s that?” Dexter asked.
Patterson looked up. “Nothing,” he said with a shrug. “For some reason I’m singing ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues.’ I got the album last week and—other than when Mary Helen’s had me at this function or that—I’ve listened to it nonstop.”
“I read somewhere that Dylan’s recording another one soon.”
“Oh, yeah? That would be cool.” He paused, thinking. “Man, I love Dylan …”
Dexter plopped down onto a charcoal-gray sculptural sofa that appeared to have been dropped onto one too many times by one too many groomsmen. “This waiting …”
Patterson found the nearest chair, unbuttoned the tux jacket, and eased down. “You think you’re anxious. What about me?”
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