Dust

by Eva Marie Everson

  Cindie smiled as she nodded. “Kyle is Karen’s twin brother … He’s hardly ever home, either, which is fine by us as long as he pays his third of the rent. He’s a year ahead at DeKalb. Same program.” She grinned, loving the way talking about school—about higher education—made her feel. “Oh and one of the girls I work with has been helping me with Algebra I, which is great, but I’m already dreading next term’s calculus with Professor Thacker. I met him the other day and both Professor Miller and Kyle say he can be a real bear in class.”

  Westley pulled his hands from the pockets. Crossed his arms. “I thought you said the apartment was a two bedroom …”

  “It is,” she said, shifting Michelle to the other hip, delighting in her daughter’s hands on her face and even more that Westley didn’t want to talk about academics. Clearly, he was more focused on the fact she lived with a guy, even a guy like Kyle. Nice and all, but no Westley Houser. “We turned the dining room into a bedroom. It’s not perfect, but Kyle doesn’t seem to mind.” She took a step back. “By the way, we’re going out to my sister’s today … to Velma’s. We’ll spend the weekend there.”

  “Let me get her little suitcase,” he said before heading toward the pharmacy.

  Cindie followed behind. “I made pretty good grades this term, I think. Probably no As but some Bs. Maybe one C.”

  Westley nodded his approval as he reached behind the counter and brought out a small suitcase, one she’d never seen before. Pink with white hearts swept upward from the base to the top, as though they were leaves caught by the wind. “That’s cute …”

  “Miss Justine …”

  “How is your boss lady?”

  He nodded. “She’s good. Michelle spends a lot of time with her, don’t you, sweetheart?”

  Michelle squirmed toward her father’s question. “And Ro-Bay …”

  “Ro-Bay?”

  “Rose Beth. The housekeeper.”

  “Oh. What about—” Cindie faltered, not wanting to say his wife’s name out loud. Not now. What if Michelle heard and asked for her? Wanted her father’s wife more than her own mother? She squeezed her baby closer.

  “She’s there, too. Don’t worry.”

  “I wasn’t.” She looked toward the front of the store. “Do you want to walk us out?”

  “Sure thing,” Westley answered. He picked up the suitcase with one hand while the other came to rest against the small of Cindie’s back, sending an electrical current through her. “I gotta get you past ole eagle eyes, don’t I?”

  Cindie wrapped Michelle even more tightly in her arms. “That woman gives me the willies.”

  Westley chuckled. “Whatcha wanna bet that if we’d have sent her over to Vietnam, the war would have not only been won, it would have been over before it got started good.”

  “No doubt …”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Westley

  He missed her. Couldn’t stop thinking about her. Wondered what she was doing.

  Not that it wasn’t like that every day, but today was different. Today his daughter wasn’t with his wife. Or his “boss-lady,” as Cindie had so crudely called her. Or “Ro-Bay.” Today she was with her biological mother who—okay, he’d admit it—looked different somehow when she’d walked in earlier. Not altogether different … just … changed. And it wasn’t like she’d grown up much in the last few months or become smart enough to carry on an intelligent conversation past the general chitchat. But there was something about her clothes. A nice summer’s dress—white, trimmed in red with matching sandals—and the way she wore her hair. That Farrah Fawcett look, it was called. And, on her, it looked becoming.

  A few weeks earlier, Ali had mentioned doing the same to hers, and he’d balked, letting her know he preferred the sleek style of Jaclyn Smith to something that looked like it belonged on a Playboy bunny. “Jaclyn’s got class,” he’d said, pulling on Ali’s tresses before gathering her to himself. Feeling her body against his own. Driving him crazy in a way he believed only she could. And, because he knew himself well enough, prayed only she would.

  He glanced at his watch. Somehow, he’d made it to the middle of the afternoon. Two more hours and he could go home to Allison and, maybe, a cleaner house than they’d been living in lately. She tried. God knew she tried. But, having a toddler to run after all day—even at Miss Justine’s—didn’t allow for a lot of domestic tidiness. For one thing, if Westley had to guess, her mother hadn’t taught her a lot on the art of home economics. Not that Mrs. Middleton didn’t keep a tidy home. She did. A man could eat off the woman’s floors. But he recognized in his mother-in-law the tendency to do everything for her family … except prepare her daughters for life outside of their familial home.

  Westley counted twenty-eight capsules of erythromycin, careful now not to allow his thoughts to get in the way of his job. Whatever waited for him at home would be whatever waited for him at home. What with all the new expenses—Cindie’s initial demands, Michelle’s needs, and a new wife—his life had catapulted to a place where the notion of losing his job—not to mention his career—over a silly mistake was unthinkable. Still, his mind wandered, if only for a moment. He and Ali should use this week for more than the day to day. They needed to get away. He was off Sunday and Monday; they could ride over to Paul and DiAnn’s. Enjoy the lake. A little time on the boat. Maybe even stay over.

  It had been a while.

  He labeled the prescription bottle, slid it into a small white bag with Knight’s Pharmacy logo plastered across the front, then dropped it into the basket marked with a large “M” before picking up the phone and dialing a number scrawled on a nearby pad of paper. He waited through three rings before Naomi Morgan answered the phone. “Mrs. Morgan?”

  “Yes,” the thirty-something woman answered, her voice groggy with the infection her doctor had prescribed the antibiotic for.

  “This is Westley Houser over at Knight’s Pharmacy, Mrs. Morgan. Just wanting to let you know that we’ve got that prescription ready for you.”

  “Oh,” she said, and he briefly pictured her, lying in bed, hair sticking up on all sides, dark circles under eyes that typically sparkled with life. “I-um …”

  “Mrs. Morgan, do you have someone who can come by to pick it up or do you need it delivered?” She coughed. Hard, the phlegm breaking from her lungs. Westley held the phone from his ear and grimaced. “Tell you what,” Westley said then. “I’ll have our delivery boy run that on over to you. You don’t sound like you need to be outside.”

  She coughed again before agreeing and calling him “sweet for doing this.”

  “Not a problem, Mrs. Morgan,” he told her. Because, sweet as he could be, this wasn’t about his kindness. Home delivery was something Miss Justine prided herself in, reminding those who worked for her that if their customers were sick enough to need a prescription, they surely didn’t need to be out and about, getting worse while spreading their germs. “We’ll have it over there to you in about a half hour and we’ll bill you first of the month.”

  “Thank you, again,” she said, then hung up.

  Westley smiled. Morgan. The last name made him think of the author of that book Ali was reading. The one she didn’t know he knew about. The one she’d slid between the sofa cushions and he’d found one evening while she bathed Michelle. He’d flipped through it. Saw that the first part of it instructed women on being organized. Apparently, his lovely bride had skipped most of that part and headed straight to parts two and three, which were about adoring your husband and having playful sex with him. Westley shook his head as he flipped the pages and chuckled—Allison Houser could have written that part of the book.

  He glanced at the clock again; he was even more ready to go home.

  He pulled into the driveway a little after five thirty. Spied his wife’s face peering around the front window draperies. Wondered if she was going to meet him at the door wearing something crazy like the Morgan woman wrote about in her book. Decided he really d
idn’t care if she did or she didn’t. Besides, he had a surprise for her.

  She opened the door before he reached the front porch. She wasn’t wearing pink baby doll pajamas and go-go boots, but she looked stunning in a moss-green, one-piece jumpsuit that hugged all the places it should and flowed around the rest. Instead of the typical ponytail she’d found easier with a near-two-year-old, she wore her hair down. It lay upon her bare, tanned shoulders in thick waves. “Wow,” he said, stopping.

  Ali turned, slowly, allowing him to admire her in the way a husband should. And he did. God knew he did more than he could have ever imagined he would. “Wow,” he said again. “If I’d known this was waiting for me, I would have clocked out sooner.”

  She giggled. “Come in before the mosquitos do.”

  Westley crossed the threshold and stopped again, breathing in the scent of lemony furniture polish and a collection of vanilla-scented candles in various heights that flickered on the dining room table. He scratched his head, teasing. “Am I in the right house?”

  His wife slid her arms around his shoulder and kissed him soundly. Passionately. “Don’t get too excited,” she said, and he wondered exactly what she meant. About the house or over her?

  Westley grabbed her waist and squeezed. “Too late,” he muttered.

  Ali leaned back. “And don’t get any funny ideas,” she said. “Dinner is ready.”

  He pulled her back to him. Nuzzled at her ear. “What are we having?”

  “Your favorite—glazed pineapple chops with scalloped potatoes and green beans.”

  He looked at her. Raised a brow. “Ro-Bay has been here, hasn’t she?”

  She pouted, playfully. “All right, you found me out. She cleaned while I cooked.”

  Westley kissed the tip of her nose. “Does that mean I get to cuddle with Ro-Bay, too?”

  She snuggled up close. “I better be the only woman you ever cuddle up to, Westley Houser.”

  This time he kissed her, kissed her with as much passion as she had him. “I promise,” he told her. “You’re the only one for me.”

  And he meant it.

  Allison

  “I love you,” I whispered.

  Westley lay on the sofa with me up against him. Our dinner had been eaten—the dishes left on the table, the kitchen back to its old messy state—and the candles glowed from the next room. Only moments before, while Westley adjusted the sofa’s pillows and stretched along the full length of the old couch, I dropped The Carpenters: A Song for You—my old go-to album—onto the turntable of our stereo, then turned the volume high enough that the music filled the room, but low enough that we could talk. Now, as Karen Carpenter’s throaty and soothing voice cooed into a microphone, I did the same along the lobe of my husband’s ear. “I love you so much,” I said.

  He brushed my hair from my shoulder, the teasing of his fingertips sending chills down my arms. Up my legs. “You know you’re the only girl for me, right?” he asked.

  I nodded, wondering what made him say such a thing. He’d seen Cindie that morning. Handed their child over to her. Had she come on to him? Had he been intrigued by her? I’d only seen her in those veiled moments as she drove up and down our street all those months ago, so she seemed a mere shadow to me. A shadow that hovered over our house and sometimes crept into our rooms.

  “We have a good life here, don’t we, Ali?”

  I nodded again, trying to squash the molecules of trepidation that requested a ride on the coattails of my gooseflesh.

  “You, me, and Michelle?”

  Yes. Him, me, and Michelle. But not Cindie. Oh, thank God, not Cindie. The last person in the world I wanted in the mix of the news I’d waited nearly two days to share with my husband was her. It was enough that I had to deal with the shadow … enough that I looked at Michelle and wondered what part of her mother rested in her face … curled her hair … determined her mannerisms. I nodded, closing my eyes for a moment to gain control. Knowing I could not let Cindie Campbell be a part of this evening, not even in the slightest of ways. “What if …” I began, then laid my cheek against his shoulder and inhaled the honied muskiness of what was left of his cologne. “What if it could be even better than that?”

  Westley pressed his lips against my forehead. “Tell me how that’s even possible,” he murmured.

  I lifted my face to his, fearful from the sound of his voice that he was about to slip off to sleep. That he would miss my announcement. “Westley,” I whispered. “I’m pregnant.”

  Half-closed eyes grew full and dilated with surprise. He rose slightly, though not enough to disturb the pattern of our bodies. “What?”

  I grinned. Nodded.

  His hand slid up my hip and to the flat of my stomach where it rested. He shifted more fully, bringing me flat to my back, him hovering over me. Protectively. Seductively. “Are you sure?”

  I nodded again. “Miss Justine took me to the doctor.”

  His fingers stretched. Gripped. “So that’s why—”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  He kissed me. Lightly, then without reservation. “I love you,” he groaned, then sat up as if a revelation had come to him, bursting through the room on a flash of lightning. He blinked several times. Ran his fingers through his soft curls.

  I raised up on my elbows, stunned by the suddenness of his movement, needing him to return and yet wanting to know the source of his actions. “What is it?”

  My husband chuckled and his brow rose. “We’re gonna need a bigger house,” he said, reminding me of Brody in Jaws when he said, “You’re gonna need a bigger boat.”

  I laughed, more with relief than anything else. “I think we’ll be fine here for a while. I’ve already thought of how we can turn Michelle’s room into half nursery, half toddler’s room.”

  But he shook his head. “No. Michelle will need her own space. She’ll want to play with her toys and the baby will be sleeping and—a baby.” He looked at me, his expression wide with wonder, lips parted in the sweetest of smiles. “I simply cannot believe—a baby …”

  I wondered then, ridiculously, how Cindie had told him of her pregnancy. How he’d reacted. Obviously not with joy. Or expectation or wonder. “March,” I said then.

  “March?”

  “The baby is due in March. So, it’s still early. We have plenty of time to think about nurseries and new houses and all that.” I sat up, adjusted the material of the jumpsuit that had become twisted around me. “But whatever you want to decide, Westley. Stay here or find a bigger place … whatever you say is fine by me.”

  He slid closer. Kissed me again. “How did I ever find someone as wonderful as you?”

  I grinned at him, tilting my head to make myself look more cartoon than wife. “You didn’t,” I reminded him. “I found you … behind the pharmacy counter.” I pointed to my throat. “I was getting sick, remember?”

  My husband tweaked my nose. “Luckiest day of my life.”

  I sobered. “Mine, too. I’d take a hundred sore throats—the sorest—if it meant finding you.”

  We stared at each other for long moments, barely blinking, lips parted. From the next room the candles flickered, sending shadows dancing across the walls and into the living room. One song came to an end, fading into a musical measure of notes. The crackling of the album replaced it … and then another song began.

  I rested my head on Westley’s shoulder, awkwardly. Not that I cared. I didn’t. I only knew one thing—the words of the song were true. “I won’t,” I whispered.

  Westley moved us into a more comfortable position, then kissed my temple, his lips warm and moist. “You won’t what?”

  “Last a day without you …”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Westley and I rose early the next morning, assuring enough time for me to get over my morning sickness and for us to gather a few things together, throw them in the car, and head over to Paul and DiAnn’s. With the top down, August’s sun beat down on our bodies, already tanned by the s
ummer. With Westley anxious to hit the lake as soon as we arrived, we were in our swimsuits—me with a cover-up and Wes with a V-neck tee.

  “What do you think they’ll say when we tell them that I’m pregnant?” I asked, already excited.

  Westley grinned as he stared straight ahead. “They’ll be happy for us,” he said.

  I crossed my legs, looked out the window at the now-familiar roadside. We’d made this trip so many times since we’d married, usually with Michelle. She adored the water ... the boat ... delighted in watching her father ski. Paul and DiAnn doted on her, showered her with gifts every time we came. So much so that I’d asked Westley to talk to them about it, to tell them that she would become spoiled and learn to expect something every visit. “It’s fine,” he said, dismissing my concern. “Don’t worry so much. They love doing it and they can afford it.”

  I looked again at my husband—so amazingly handsome. Like an ad in a fashion magazine. “Do they know that Michelle is at her—is at Cindie’s?”

  He glanced at me then, catching my hesitation and knowing its source. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You can say it … Cindie is her mother.”

  “I know. I just—it had all felt so real and then, especially now …” I pressed my hand against my stomach. “I don’t know how to feel.”

  “Meaning?”

  I paused long enough to—for once—think before I answered. What had I meant? Did I want to be Michelle’s mother? Did I wish in some crazy way that it had been me who gave birth to her? Me, who she called her best spin on Ali—Adi. I had fallen in love with her; that much I knew. I knew and I now understood why Westley had been so determined to gain custody of her—not just because of whatever Cindie lacked, but because of all that Michelle gave from her tiny little self.

  “Ali?”

  I shook my head. “I’m hormonal. Ignore me.”

  But he reached for my hand just the same. Gave it a warm squeeze. “I think they’ll be thrilled.”

  “I think they’ll go broke if they keep up the gift giving once the baby comes.” I turned a little toward him, the seat belt pulling against me. “Wes, why do you think they haven’t had children yet? They’ve certainly been married long enough.”