Dust

by Eva Marie Everson

  She turned and looked at me, her red-rimmed eyes unblinking. Then she stood and extended her hand, silver bangles jangling at the wrist. “Come with me, darlin’. Let’s walk down to the lake.”

  I took her hand. She pulled me toward the back door, letting go to open it and step outside. Her arm linked through mine as she guided me down the gentle slope of the yard. The ground was soft beneath my canvas flats, the grass thick as carpet. Our footsteps kicked up the scent of water and grass and summer flowers as we trod toward one of the benches along the water’s edge, neither of us saying a word over the hum of insects until we sat, hip to hip.

  “He’s my son,” she said, her tone strong. “And, of course, I love him.”

  I looked at her, squinting against the harsh light overhead, saying nothing. It wasn’t my turn. Or my place.

  “But he’s been—how do I explain to someone so young—like this since he was a child.” She laughed then. A short chuckle to soften her words. “Sharon,” she said, patting my knee. “Sharon was born blond-haired and blue-eyed and happy as the day. And then, sometime later, here came Biff.” She looked at me, tears forming where typically only fortitude resided. “Dark hair. Brooding eyes that shift from blue to green. Even as a baby. His daddy was as proud as a peacock in a Sunday afternoon parade. Said we had to name the baby after him—which we did—but demanded he not be called Junior. Oh, no. According to Buford, we were going places and we had to make sure that our children’s names reflected that.”

  “Then … how did the name Biff come to be?”

  “Started in kindergarten.” She waved a hand to swat away a gnat who’d buzzed by to eavesdrop. “Grabbed hold and never let go.” Her laughter—painful and poignant—rose and, just as quickly, dissipated. “You should have heard folks talking.” She glanced at me again, then back to the water. “Sharon with her blond hair and her laughter—like her father’s—and Aaron with his red hair and spunk—I guess you know where he got that from—and then there was Biff, in the middle with his dark hair and those exquisite eyes.”

  “Were there milkman jokes?” I asked, hoping to ease the severity of her memory as I shooed away the gnats that sought refuge in the glistening moisture along the top of my arms.

  Miss Justine frowned. “Constantly.” She sighed. “I think it all made him very angry with me. There was always a—disconnect between us. As if he believed I held something back from him.” She turned toward me without blinking. “Like the name of his real father.”

  This was no laughing matter; I could see that now. Decades of hurt rose in the syntax of her voice and lay within the fine lines of her powdered face. “But surely he knew better. I mean, a woman such as you, Miss Justine.”

  She stood then, dismissing my words as she started back toward the house, me scuttling behind and then beside her, sad to be going back inside so soon. “He says he’s here for a week. Says he took some time off from his job—I may have mentioned, he’s the hospital administrator over in Dothan.”

  She hadn’t. “Alabama?”

  “Is there another one?”

  I shrugged, genuinely unsure.

  “Actually, there is. Or, so my son tells me. Six, he says, not that the others matter if he’s not in them.” Miss Justine stopped as her sarcasm lay like weights around us. She took my hands in hers, warm and soft. Fleshy in a bone-thin sort of way. “Now you listen to me, Allison. I have to leave to go to my junior league meeting. We have the charity art exhibit coming up and I’m the chairwoman, so I have to be there.” She squeezed my hands. “Biff hasn’t gotten up yet—as far as I know—but when he does, you make a wide arch around him, you hear me?”

  I shook my head. “No ma’am. I mean, yes ma’am, but why should I make—”

  “He’ll take one look at you and swarm like a bee to a marigold …”

  This time, it was I who laughed. “Miss Justine. First of all, isn’t he a little old for me? Or, should I say, aren’t I a little young for him? And secondly … no man—I promise you—could ever turn my head in any way.” I took a step toward her. “You know how I feel about Westley.”

  Her hands squeezed mine again. “Just mind me, you hear?”

  And with that, she let go and trod back into the house, leaving the glass-paned door open for me to follow after.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Biff found me in Miss Justine’s library, which doubled as the office where she and I—mostly I—did our work. At one time, it had been her husband’s, then masculine in color, design, and scents. But when he died—she once told me—she brought in a new floral sofa and a baroque vase she’d “spent entirely too much money” for, which she filled with flowers. Within weeks, she had replaced heavy draperies with chintz and window sheers and added a cluster of cranberry-scented candles that stood like soldiers on a gold-dusted charger in the center of an elegant coffee table. Candles she insisted stayed lit while we worked, poring over the financial reports and books from the small empire her husband had created from a single hometown apothecary.

  Miss Justine had been correct about her son—his eyes were brooding. Nearly mesmerizing, which—in all the years I would know him and no matter how close our faces came, one to the other—I could never pinpoint in color. His hair, so black it shone nearly blue, had been cut to wear stylishly long, but neat. He was tall and well-built. Bronzed and polished and much more appealing than any camera could ever capture. His nose, which was more Italian than English, only served to make him more handsome in a not-quite-perfect sort of way. But his shoulders were squared like those of a man who life had treated with smiles and favor. Respect, even if from a distance, but most definitely, up close. He stood in such a way to express the suave ease of being in his own presence. Years later, when I sat still long enough to look back on the story of my life, I could say with clarity that this was the first moment I ever remembered gasping at the sight and scent—fresh and moneyed—of someone. Even Westley—adorable and sexy as he was—hadn’t had that kind of effect on me. Not so all of a sudden. Until that very second, I’d not been aware that a human could hold that kind of power—to literally take one’s breath away. No wonder Miss Justine had warned me.

  He stood in the doorway, dressed in a pair of blue-and-white tennis shorts and a crisp white tee, matching socks and shoes, looking for all the world like a Sears and Roebuck catalog model, not that I could ever, as time went on, imagine Biff stooping to such a degree. His lips, exquisitely bowed and shaded, bore a slight curl and over those magnificent eyes ran an arched brow. “I hope I didn’t scare you.”

  His voice bore something between the genteel lilt of a refined Southern man and an aristocratic Brit. I had to bite my tongue to find my voice. “No. Why?”

  “You gasped.”

  “I just wasn’t expecting—” I looked down at the papers and ledgers scattered on the desk before me, then back up.

  “You must be the wonderful Allison I’ve heard so much about,” he said, now brandishing a smile that would well please those four out of five dentists that went about approving toothpaste and mouthwash and such.

  I stood. Closed the ledger as inconspicuously as I knew how, then walked around the desk and toward the door. “I don’t know about wonderful, but the Allison part is right.”

  Biff took the necessary steps to meet me, his hand extended for a shake, which I obliged. His cologne—rich and spicy—met the wafting scent of the candles, forming a most intoxicating aroma.

  Like Miss Justine’s, his hands were warm. Soft. Not the hands of a man who’d spent any time working in his mother’s garden.

  Or tending to his own.

  “Buford Henry Knight II,” he said. “Or so my parents named me. My friends call me Biff.” The smile broadened, which surprised me. I hadn’t thought it possible. “I hope you’ll be my friend.”

  When I didn’t answer, he roared with laughter at my expense, then sauntered into the library and plopped into one of the two old leather wingback chairs left over from his
father’s days of occupying the room. “My mother ...” He opened a small drawer of the table propped between the chairs, pulled out a box of Virginia Slims along with a silver-plated lighter. “... has told you to be wary of me.” He held up the cigarettes. “She also hides her ciggy-butts in here. Thinks I don’t know.” He extended the pack toward me, his brow raised again in the offering.

  “No. No, thank you,” I answered the unasked question. “I don’t smoke.”

  “Neither does my mother,” he said, then pulled a cigarette from the box as I found my way to the sofa. The candles flickered and, for once, I wished I could blow them out before leaving for the day. The light, the scent, the ambiance was too much, especially in the company of this man. “Yet, somehow, these little beauties …” He lit the cigarette, then placed the box and lighter back into the drawer and slid it shut. “… always manage to find their way into this drawer. There are twenty … then nineteen … eighteen … all the way down to one. If you were to ask her, which no one would ever dare, she’d tell you she has no idea how it happens. Or who they belong to.” He studied me then. Studied me through the veil of smoke that floated between us and added to my comfortable discomfort. “So, you married young Westley.”

  “You know my husband?” I asked, fingering my wedding band. An involuntary action he picked up on with a lazy blink and an even slower smile.

  “He and Paul and DiAnn used to come here to go skiing out on the lake when they were kids.” He took a long draw of his cigarette, then stood in search of an ashtray, which he found hidden behind a few books on one of the shelves. After thumping ashes into it, he returned to his seat. “Of course, I know Paul much better now.”

  “Oh, that’s right. He would be your nephew-in-law.”

  “Something like that,” he said, crossing one long leg over the other in a way that told me he owned the moment we both occupied.

  “Well, they still love to ski,” I said, “only now at Paul and DiAnn’s.”

  “I hear their spread is nice.”

  I sat back a little. “It is. Pretty impressive, actually.”

  “Well, it doesn’t hurt that her father and my mother gave them a leg up after they married. Or that they both landed sweet jobs.”

  “I guess not,” I said, because—really—what else was there to say. His confession was none of my business.

  “So, tell me, Allison, how it is that you started working for my mother?”

  I chuckled. “I’m not entirely sure. She wanted me to come over—right after Westley and I married—so she could show me how to balance a checkbook and Ro-Bay could teach me to cook.” I smiled at the thought of the awful tuna dishes I’d served Westley in the beginning. If there was a way to prepare and serve the canned meat, I’d found it. “Then, one thing led to another and she—she hired me.”

  “Does that make you happy?” He drew on the cigarette again.

  “It’s not bad as jobs go … I certainly couldn’t ask for a better employer.”

  He nodded in agreement. “And what about the other? Is it everything young girls dream it will be?”

  “What?”

  “Marriage.”

  “No,” I said, then blinked furiously at my own admission. “I mean,” I recovered while he chuckled. “Well … no. And I’m not complaining, it’s just that …” I couldn’t continue. Wouldn’t. Not with a stranger. I wouldn’t tell him that I thought there would have been—should have been—more time for just the two of us. Or, how we’d fallen into a pattern—sweet and familiar, but nevertheless, a pattern. I wouldn’t tell him of the ghosts that hovered in our home—Cindie, and unborn babies, and babies not yet conceived. Instead, I said, “I’m not complaining. I love my husband, and I really like working for your mother, and sometimes we go to Paul and DiAnn’s and that’s a lot of fun.”

  Biff leaned forward, snubbed out the half-smoked cigarette, and said, “Well, that was a mouthful.” He leaned back again. “Does she scare you?”

  “Miss Justine?”

  “Goodness, no. My mother has obviously taken you in like a stray kitten in a rainstorm.” He tilted forward again. “DiAnn. Does she scare you?”

  I couldn’t help but choke out a laugh. “A little. But, how did you—”

  He laughed with me. “She scares me and I’m her uncle. Should be the other way around. I should terrify the living daylights out of her.”

  “I remember when Westley and I were dating,” I confided as though I had made a new best friend. “He told me that she was smart, but she never makes anyone feel that they are beneath her.” I shrugged. “I think he can say that because he’s got a college degree and is about the smartest person I know. And she—she’s just so—so sure of herself.”

  “And you’re not.”

  “Not really.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  I frowned. “I don’t know …”

  Silence now hung between us, pushing the cigarette smoke aside, the tick-tick-tick of an antique cuckoo clock from one of the bookshelves its only interruption. I glanced toward it, this timepiece I imagined had belonged to Miss Justine’s husband. Biff’s father.

  Biff stood, returned the ashtray to its hiding place, then turned and rested his shoulders against the case. “But you, of all people, shouldn’t let her do that.” His words came in a half-whisper-half-command.

  “Why? Why not?”

  “Because you’re a beautiful young woman who my mother says is quite intelligent—despite the fact you didn’t go to college.” He took in a breath. “And not to mention your level of compassion.”

  I narrowed my eyes, teasing. “How do you know I’m compassionate? I might be as heartless as Cruella De Vil.”

  He smiled. Crossed his arms and legs at the same time. “That little urchin in there with Rose Beth for starters. My sister told me … about her mother. About you taking her in not two minutes after you became Westley’s bride.”

  I stood now, not liking the idea that he had brought Michelle into our conversation. Westley, yes. DiAnn, fine. Even his mother … but not my little girl. “She is my husband’s child.”

  Biff angled himself toward the door, then took a half step, dismissing my attempt at bravado. “I’m meeting an old high school friend for a game of tennis in a few. Care to join us, Cruella?” He winked, most probably at my choice of fictional antagonists.

  “No. I—” I looked at the desk. “I still have work to do,” I said as though I would consider a game of tennis with two strangers. Men, at that.

  “Ah, yes. Well, then. Would you do me a favor and tell Mother I’m taking her out for dinner tonight and to please be ready by seven.”

  “Of course.”

  He started for the door, then stopped and smiled at me a final time. “And, if you will, there’s some air freshener in the powder room down the hall. Maybe … spray the room for me. Those candles over there won’t fully erase my sins.”

  I offered a half-smile. “Your mother keeps a can of Glade in one of the desk drawers.”

  He laughed again, the voice booming. Commanding. “That funny thing. She’s so full of secrets and surprises.” He winked again. “Isn’t she?”

  Patterson

  The whole thing had gone easier than he ever expected it could. Especially considering that he’d never done anything quite like this before. Dani didn’t count. And Rita surely didn’t. His affair—or affairs—with them both had been consensual. He’d not had to plot or plan. But, desperate times. Desperate measures … and all that.

  Patterson Thacker needed both something in his life, oxymoronically, to take control of and, at the same time, be someone who would love him. Or, at the very least, to warm him. To make him feel alive again. Worth having around for more than a paycheck or a lifestyle or a pair of high-top leather and suede Adidas sneakers, which was the focus of his oldest daughter’s latest tantrum.

  And it had all come so easily.

  Then again, Cindie Campbell wasn’t the brightest bulb in
the box. Cute, yes. Absolutely adorable, quite frankly.

  Beautiful, really.

  But just not bright enough to recognize a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing.

  He’d orchestrated everything. First, contacting one of his old high school friends—one whom he’d gone off to college with … joined a fraternity with … graduated with honors alongside—one who’d kept his finger on the political pulse of Atlanta while living, mainly, just outside of DC. Leesburg, Virginia, he thought it was. Not that it mattered. What was important to Patterson was that his old buddy furnished a home in one city and kept a small apartment in another. An apartment he’d visited once or twice a few years back.

  And Patterson had been honest with his old friend. He’d give himself that much. He’d asked Ronald if they could possibly talk the next time he came into Georgia and, as luck would have it, his friend said that he was coming in that weekend. That they could meet for drinks at an Irish pub known as Connolly’s, located down the street from his Atlanta place.

  How did five o’clock sound?

  Patterson said it sounded perfect and he’d see him there.

  He was spot-on time. They shook hands, then embraced in that type of hug male friends do when they haven’t seen each other in a while. A clasp on the shoulder. A pat on the back. A chuckle for old time’s sake. Afterward, Patterson followed Ronald to a table near the back where a candle offered scant light in the dusky, smoke-filled room. Patterson couldn’t help but notice that Ronald was a favorite among the staff—they called him by name as he passed, one young lady dashing over to take his order. “Jameson Irish Whiskey” he said, then looked at Patterson, brow raised.

  “I’ll have the same,” Patterson said.

  They exchanged small talk as they waited for their order—but once the drinks had been placed on the table and the customary sláinte had been given, Patterson dove right in. “I’m going to be honest with you,” he said. “You remember Mary Helen, of course.”

  Ronald nodded. Yes, of course he did. He’d been one of the many guests at their wedding.