The only words spoken between us came early in the morning when he’d walked into the bedroom to get his clothes. “Sweetheart,” he whispered from beside the bed, his fingertips brushing my hair from my face.
“Go away,” I told him.
And he had. Which was, truly, the worst part. Because it was and wasn’t what I wanted. What I needed. No, I needed him to tell me that the whole thing had been a joke. A horribly bad joke. Or a dream. A nightmare. Something every new bride dreams on the second night in her new home. Instead, he pulled clothes off hangers, went into the bathroom, showered, and several minutes later, left the house, taking the car and leaving me alone.
I stayed in bed until nature forced me out. I took a shower. Brushed my hair, pulling it into a ponytail, and then my teeth because, God knew, I didn’t want morning breath. Westley didn’t. He’d made that clear, hadn’t he? And I stupidly wondered if this Cindie Campbell person had morning breath after . . .
I slid into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, then made both beds, before shuffling into the dining room, surprised to find the table cleared. And, in the kitchen, everything had been left spick-and-span. The percolator stood in the center of the stove with a note taped to it: JUST PLUG ME IN. I’LL PERK THE BEST CUP OF COFFEE YOU EVER HAD.
I tried to smile. In fact, I may have, especially after I took the first cinnamon-laced sip from where I sat in the living room. From where I stared out the wide window onto the street outside, thinking about that long brown car and hearing the words Mama said to me after the wedding.
“I won’t get a chance to say this again, so listen up. I’m telling you that Westley Houser is the kind of man who needs to run his own household. Whatever he wants, Allison, you just follow his lead. Don’t mess this up. Don’t shame me and your daddy. We’ve done good by you and—”
“Mama,” I had whispered. “I love you so much and I love him so much and I promise you—Ipromise you—I won’t do anything to embarrass you or Daddy.”
I sighed into my coffee, my vow choking out any thoughts I had of calling Mama … of asking her what I should do … of asking her if I could come home. If I could pretend none of this—meeting Westley, dating him, marrying him, becoming his wife in every sense of the word—had ever happened. But what kind of shame would I bring on her and Daddy—or Grand—if I left Westley after less than two weeks of marriage? They’d never be able to hold their heads up again, especially not in a town like Bynum.
Movement from the driveway jerked me from my melancholy long enough that I was able to walk over to the window and peer out. To see Miss Justine bounding out of her car as though she were no more than a twenty-one-year-old. The much-needed smile broke across my face at the sight of her—such a petite woman dressed in the middle of the morning as if she were heading for a late-night downtown dinner. Black boots . . . a full-length mink coat … hair teased high. A rope of pearls wrapped around her black-gloved wrist.
I opened the door, setting my coffee on the console TV simultaneously, to find her already on the porch, arms opened wide.
“Come here, darlin’,” she said before I had a chance to greet her.
And I did. Even though I towered over her, I folded into the maternal warmth of her, remaining there until she said, “Let’s go inside before rumors start.”
I offered a cup of coffee, which she took, then complimented me on the flavor. “Rose Beth couldn’t have made a better cup,” she declared after we’d returned to the sofa and she’d removed her gloves and coat to show off a sporty suede skirt and coordinating sweater. Thick gold chains hung around her neck, low enough to lie askew over her breasts and her makeup was, as before, a tad too much for my taste, but seemed to represent who Miss Justine was at the very core of herself.
“Westley made the coffee,” I admitted. “A peace token, I guess.” I looked up at her. “How did you know, Miss Justine?”
She took a sip of coffee before answering. “Westley called me the minute he got to work. Confused as I’ve ever heard him. Told me in that little-boy-with-his-hand-in-the-cookie-jar voice that he’d messed up everything. He thinks you’ll never forgive him.” She cocked a penciled-in brow. “Will you?”
“Should I?”
“Of course, you should. He didn’t have the child while the two of you were married, did he?”
“No, but—”
“And he hasn’t slept with the girl since the two of you met, has he?”
“I don’t think so—”
“He hasn’t,” she clipped. “I know, because I asked him. And he swore he hadn’t.” She pointed at me. “When you’ve been married a whole lot longer, you’ll learn to ask the right questions right up front. You’ll also learn how to put Westley in his place and keep him there. Which, by the way, is in knowing yours.”
I placed my cup on the low, oval coffee table. “But, Miss Justine, how can I believe that? That he hasn’t been with her since … the baby … was conceived?”
She laughed. Actually laughed. “Oh, child. If there is one thing I know about Westley Houser it’s this—if you ask him a direct question, he will not lie. He may hold some things back—and believe me, that boy’s untold shenanigans could fill a book, but he won’t lie.” She cupped my chin, her long nails lightly scraping the tender flesh of my throat. “He’s not a bad boy, he just made a bad decision.”
“Marrying me?” I asked, wondering what a woman like Miss Justine really thought. Shouldn’t he have married the mother of his child? Shouldn’t he have done better than keeping Michelle a secret, all the while dating me? Proposing to me? Meeting me at the altar? How could she possibly justify such behavior? How could I?
She released me, her pearls clunking against each other. “Heavens no. That was the best decision of his life, if you want my opinion. No … going out with that Cindie Campbell is what I mean. Honey, listen. That family—you don’t know—they’re a mess. White trash, some people would call them.” She waved a hand laden with gemstone rings. “Not me, mind you. I’d never call anyone that. But even over here in Odenville we’ve heard tell of Lettie Mae Campbell and her lot. And I’ll tell you another thing: if I know women like her—and I do—she thought her daughter giving birth to Westley’s child was her meal ticket.” Her shoulders squared. “I’m surprised she didn’t have him in a court of law, but for whatever reason … maybe she thinks she’ll get more out of him this way.”
I looked toward the spare bedroom. “My sister and her husband are coming on Friday night,” I said, mainly because I didn’t know how to respond to the information. I’d been sheltered most of my life, but I knew white trash. I understood … I thought. And this new piece of information made me more confused than sure. How could Westley—Westley—date a girl like Cindie Campbell? I couldn’t picture it. Couldn’t bear it. Not another word of it. “They’re driving my car in.”
Miss Justine blinked. “Well, I don’t know what that has to do with anything, but if I had to guess, I’d say Mister Westley spent last night in one bedroom and you in another.”
Shame washed through me. Maybe my actions had been no way for a bride to behave. I didn’t know. I hadn’t been at it long enough. “Yes, ma’am.”
Again, her laughter filled the house like a dog’s bark. “Good for you, princess. Good for you.” She scooted closer, gathering my hands in hers. “Want my advice?”
“Yes, please.” Because I surely couldn’t ask my mother for any right then. Or my grandmother. Maybe my sister when she arrived.
“Keep him in the guest bedroom another night. Make him sweat just the teeniest weeniest bit. But, tonight, make a meal he won’t forget and then listen to what he has to say about that little girl. And about his plans.”
“His plans?” My heart hammered. Westley had plans? Plans he could have and should have told me about before now, certainly.
“He’s got some,” she said, drawing me back from the angst that wanted to simmer below the surface. “He told me all about them and I support him 10
0 percent.” Her hands squeezed mine. “If need be, with my money. And if you knew the Campbells you would too.”
I sighed. Westley. Had. Plans. Plans Miss Justine knew about and I didn’t. Not that I’d given him a chance the night before to tell me anything. And not like he hadn’t had months to do so previously. “I only know how to make tuna casserole.” I nodded toward the back of the house. “Decently, I mean. In spite of my grandmother’s attempts to teach me.” I pointed toward the kitchen. “The one I made last night is in the fridge.”
“Good land of the living,” Miss Justine said as she stood and reached for her coat and gloves. “Then let’s get going. Go change into something presentable, child. Can’t have you out and about in jeans and a sweatshirt. Then, you and I will run to the Piggly Wiggly, get what we need for a nice, big salad to go with that tuna casserole, and first thing tomorrow you’ll come over and Rose Beth will start your cooking lessons.”
I stood. Took a deep breath and forced a smile I didn’t quite feel yet.
Raise your radish, Allison…
All right, Grand. All right. If you could keep going with all your tragedy, then so can I … “Miss Justine?”
She shoved her arms into her coat. “Yes, lamb?”
“How’d you get so wise?”
Again, she laughed. “Honey, when you get to be as ancient as me, you’ll be wise, too. It’s the gift the good Lord gave us—a reward for putting up with our men for as long as can be.”
The table was set when Westley came home, the house dimly lit and inviting. I didn’t dress up—I wore the same slacks and top I’d worn to the grocery store—and I didn’t put on makeup or spritz on body spray. But I stood in the dining room behind my chair, hands gripping it, waiting as he walked in, a sense of relief etching away at the look of concern. “Hi,” he said.
“I’m still upset,” I told him right away, just as Miss Justine instructed. “But we have to eat and I—I want to hear what your plans … are.”
He hung his coat over the back of his chair, then leaned against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. “You talked to Miss Justine?” he asked, his face declaring that he was, indeed, a man with both everything to lose and everything to gain by our conversation.
“She talked to me.” I pulled out my chair and sat. “Sit, Wes.”
He smiled as he complied. “Ali …”
“Salad?” I asked, tossing it again before scooping it into a bowl for him. “And I bought several kinds of dressing.”
“How did you—”
“You owe Miss Justine twenty-three dollars and eighteen cents, by the way.”
He smiled again. “I see we’re having tuna casserole again.”
“Leftovers.”
“That’s fine.”
He’d best believe it was. Right then, I figured, he was lucky he wasn’t eating radish stew. “Will you say grace?”
He did, and after our nearly harmonized “amen,” I said, “So, tell me.” My insides quivering at the new Allison whom Miss Justine—and Grand—had introduced me to as I reached for the Thousand Island and he reached for the Bleu Cheese.
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know everything, Westley. I want to know about your relationship with Cindie—”
“There is no relationship.” He capped the bottle of dressing and placed it near his plate.
“There must have been at one time,” I said, forcing away the vision of my husband, naked and writhing all over another woman. Her beneath him … over him … blond hair spilling over …
He had the decency to blush. “Look, Ali, I don’t want to get into … that. Because you knew that … our first time wasn’t my first time.”
“Yes, but I never thought I’d have to come face to face with anyone you’d been with and—here I am—” I said, throwing my arms out, nearly knocking over my bottle of salad dressing in the process, “almost two weeks a bride and I already have.”
“I’m so—”
“Please don’t, Wes. Please don’t apologize. If you apologize, I’ll know this whole thing—dating, falling in love, marriage—all of it was a plot on your part. And, if that’s true, I don’t think I can handle that right now. Maybe later, but not now. So, just … talk to me.”
“All right. If it matters, I was drunk. She was drunk. And I was stupid. And I didn’t know you at the time or that anyone like you could ever be in my life.” He leaned toward me. “I love you. I swear I do. Us—you and me—was never a plot. And I never, ever loved her, Ali. Not even close to it. I’m not even sure I like her.”
“Then how could you …”
“Come on,” he said, frustration rising in his voice. “You’re not stupid, Ali. You’re bright as a bulb. I love you. That’s why I was always willing to wait. Why I never … pushed you.”
The thought of the night at Paul and DiAnn’s swept past me, knowing how close we could have come but … Westley had drawn a clear line for both of us, out of respect for me. Out of respect for Daddy. I hadn’t drawn the line. Westley had. Without his fortitude, I may have thrown myself on the wet grass and the crackling fire in front of Paul and DiAnn and God and anyone else who may have walked by. “I know.”
“Because I do love you. She was before I met you and she was just … there.”
“And then she was pregnant.”
He stabbed at his salad but didn’t eat from it. “Yes.”
“How long have your parents known?” I asked, quickly running through the questions my brain had calculated all afternoon.
“I told them before the wedding.”
That explained it. That explained everything. “And Paul and DiAnn?”
“They’ve always known.”
Oh. Oh … “It wasn’t about the job,” I whispered, feeling oddly as betrayed by my brother- and sister-in-law as my husband.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I shoved a bit of salad into my mouth and chewed on it, giving myself more time to think as he did the same. “Okay,” I said after swallowing. “I know she’s not from the best family.”
“No.”
“But is she a good mother?”
“I cannot say she is a bad mother. But she’s—she’s not living up to her potential, even for her. For one, she needs to get away from Lettie Mae. If she does, she can be a better mother. That’s why—that’s why I saw an attorney today.”
I set my fork down before I dropped it. “An attorney?”
“I plan to sue Cindie for custody of Michelle. And I can only pray you’ll be there with me.”
I blinked several times, understanding not yet complete. “With you?”
“Yes. With me. We have an appointment with an attorney next Wednesday afternoon.”
A new question rose up within me, one that demanded an answer—straightforward and without reservation. “Westley,” I began slowly. “Did you marry me for this? Because you need a woman in the house in order to get custody of your daughter?”
His eyes found mine without blinking, not even once. “No,” he said. “I told you, I married you because I love you.”
I wanted to believe him. To not believe would mean walking out on a marriage that had barely begun. Returning home. Facing questions. Ridicule. Shame.
I wanted to believe. And, perhaps, believing—for once—was the easiest route to take. “All right,” I said. “I guess we just have to begin again from here.”
Chapter Nineteen
Cindie
Westley had come over the day before as he always did on Wednesday afternoons to see Michelle, but she’d made sure their daughter wasn’t there. Cindie had some things to say, and she intended to say them without the baby there to draw his attention away. Because, no matter what he thought, she was in control. She was. Somehow, she would get him back—she would—and she would make him listen to reason. Whatever and whoever this sweet chick was sitting on his front porch like she owned the place … well, she would be toast. And, once again, Westley would be hers. Al
l according to the plan.
But the plans of one are not always the plans of another, she learned and learned quickly when he stepped up on the porch and knocked on the door. The second she opened the door and told him that Michelle was at Velma’s house, he turned and headed back to his car, sending her plans into the frigid January air. “Hey!” she called after him, panic rising in her chest, squeezing out all good sense and logic. “Don’t you dare walk away from me.” Because all she needed was the right amount of time … and the warm beer sitting out on the stained Formica countertop in the kitchen.
He made it close enough to the car—that fancy car he was so proud of—with her on his heels, until he spun around. “What?”
“You don’t have a right to be mean to me.” She took a step back. Forced the tears that threatened back to where they belonged. Back to righteous indignation. Back to the want of him. The need.
“I’m not being mean, Cindie, but I am not about to get into a war of words with you.” His tone came from a man as sure of himself as her daddy had been the night he and Lettie Mae got into their own war—Lettie Mae declaring rights as his wife and her daddy stating his love for another woman, pure and simple. “Your little tantrum at Mama Jean’s was enough for me to know right off where this is going,” Westley said, reminding her to stay focused. “If Michelle is not here, then there’s no reason for me to be.”
Cindie crossed her arms over her chest, her heart beating wildly beneath the flesh. And, suddenly now, not from the sight of him. “Who is she?”
He cocked his head, the afternoon sunlight calling out to the red undertones in his hair, drawing them to wink at life. “Who is who? The woman you saw sitting on my front porch?”
Heat rose in her, enough to ward off the chill in the air that begged her to go back inside for a coat before she could say all that was on her mind. Yet, from somewhere deep down, a shiver had begun. A shift in her life. She could feel it, even around the embarrassment. “How’d you—”
Dust Page 16
