Dust

by Eva Marie Everson

  When we came up for air, he said, “Had I known I’d get this kind of reaction, I would have brought you a pair every time I came over.”

  I slapped at his arm. “I think we’d better get back on the road. I really am excited about meeting Paul and DiAnn.”

  Westley pulled his shades up to expose his eyes, waggled his brow, and said, “I reckon.”

  We slid back onto the road, a two-lane blacktop, where little traffic met us. I rested my head against the car seat, closed my eyes behind the Foster Grants, and allowed the movement of the car, the warmth of the afternoon autumn sunshine tanning my arms and face, and the lulling effect of Carole King in the 8-track to send me back to my grandmother’s front porch … the joy of a good book … and the trill of insects and birds vying for God’s attention.

  Four and a half hours after we left my mother standing and waving in the driveway, Westley drove up a snakelike drive flanked by tall trees and thick bushes that seemed to only end at infinity. Eventually a clearing made way for a wide and lush lawn that carpeted the earth all the way to an imposing brick structure with white trim and shutters, and a dark-green door spotlighted by the front porch overhead light. “Is this your brother’s house?” I asked as if Westley would have driven more than four hours and stopped at anyone else’s.

  Westley slid the gearshift to park, then turned with a grin. “Yeah. Nice, huh?”

  “Nice? It’s like a mansion. What did you say he does for a living?”

  “He’s in pharmaceutical sales.” Westley opened his door and stuck one leg out. “He does all right by himself, but DiAnn works for her father who owns a finance company, and that helps.”

  “Oh,” I said, completely unsure whether I should open my door or let Westley come around and do the gentlemanly thing. He usually did, but here, in front of his brother’s home, I felt shy and awkward. The world we’d come from—the one we’d driven through—had been bright and sunny. We were now cloaked in near darkness, in a place I knew nothing of, about to walk into a home where I knew no one.

  Westley opened my door and extended a hand. “Come on, Ali. Don’t be scared.”

  “Do they have kids?” I asked as he all but pulled me from the Caprice.

  His warm hand gathered mine as we started down a sidewalk leading from the drive to the porch. I glanced up at his face as I waited for an answer, noting the sharp features in the glow of the front porch light and the scant bit of moonlight filtering through the tall pines that swayed in a breeze. “No,” he said, drawing out the answer with a smile. “Not yet anyway.”

  The door opened then, and I jerked to see a young man and woman bathed in light from the foyer and the front porch. “There you are,” Westley’s brother said as he strolled across the wide brick porch, then skipped down the four steps to the walkway. “I was beginning to worry.”

  Westley released my hand and the two brothers grabbed each other in a manly hug, backslapping and laughing like two old army buddies who’d made it through the war and finally found each other after years of separation. When they released, Westley turned to me and said, “Paul, this is Ali. Ali, my brother Paul.”

  I reached out my hand, then drew it back, and stuck it out again. “Hi, Paul,” I said.

  He took my hand in his before drawing me close. “Come here, you. We’re about to be family.” Strong arms wrapped around my shoulders and squeezed while the scent of English Leather and the faint hint of consumed wine teased my nostrils. When he let me go, he stepped back so I could get a good look at him. Like Westley, his features were sharp, but even more handsome. Where Westley’s hair held natural curl, Paul’s was straight and slick-black. Kohl-dark lashes lined eyes that were blue enough to be named and given their own place in a Crayola box. When he smiled, I was met by straight pearl-white teeth. Unlike Westley’s, which were not exactly crooked, but not exactly straight either. And, where Westley’s chin came to a slow point, Paul’s was square and held a deep cleft.

  “Hi,” I finally stammered, wondering how it was that, even with seeing photos of Paul and DiAnn, the matte one-dimensional illusions had done nothing to prepare me for the Greek-like reality of him. “Hi,” I said again only to have Westley come up beside me, slip his arm around my waist, and laugh.

  “She’s tired. She’s not used to all this,” he said as though I were a girl of sixteen.

  “Gracious, you two,” DiAnn said from the porch. She neither smiled nor frowned; she simply stood. I stared up at her. Her legs were dark and shapely, shown off by a short silky skirt. My eyes climbed up from there—the flat of her stomach, the round of her hips, the tiny waist and the ample breasts made prominent by a tight-fitting V-neck sweater. “Give the girl a break and y’all come on up here. We’re letting the mosquitos in, sure as I’m standing here.”

  I breathed out a sigh of relief, moved out of Westley’s grip and climbed the steps to her. “I’m Allison … Ali.”

  Bright eyes smiled while her lips stayed noncommittal. “Hello, Allison-Ali. I’m DiAnn. Come on in.” She jutted her chin toward the brothers still on the walkway. “Why don’t you two get the luggage so we can get these two settled and have some supper?”

  Supper was barbecue chicken, asparagus, and corn on the cob, all hot off the grill. DiAnn pulled garlic bread from the oven not two seconds after we stepped into the kitchen as if she’d somehow managed to time our arrival. “What can I do to help?” I asked, terrified she’d ask me to cook something. But Mama had insisted that I do exactly that—offer. “You know little about cooking, but you can at least offer,” she told me.

  DiAnn noted four glasses and a pitcher of tea on the counter as she tucked a strand of her blond chin-length hair behind one ear. “Just get the ice in the glasses, if you will.”

  We spent most of the meal listening to Paul and Westley playing catch-up; the bond between them such that I felt a pang of jealousy. I’d never had this kind of relationship with Julia, not even as children. Any hope of connecting to her had been pretty much ruined when she married. At least as far as I could tell. But, maybe one day …

  After we’d cleaned up the kitchen, while Westley and Paul sat in the living room and continued to jabber on, DiAnn asked if I’d like to see my room. I nodded, then followed her up a back staircase to a wide hallway with doors opening left and right. “Bathroom is right here,” she said pointing, “so I put you in the guest room across from it.”

  I followed behind her as she flipped on an overhead light revealing a small bedroom with light-pink painted walls, a twin bed located close to the nearest wall, an antique hope chest under the window and a bentwood rocker sitting diagonally in one corner. “I hope this is okay. We set this up for Heather when she visits.”

  I smiled. “I can see that,” I said, pointing to the pink floral and quilted spread with matching dust ruffle. “Pink is Heather’s favorite color.”

  “For such a tomboy, she can be such a girl.” DiAnn nodded toward the single-door closet. “Westley and Paul must have brought your luggage up.”

  I blew out a pent-up breath, feeling tired and ready for bed even though it wasn’t much after nine o’clock. “Do you mind,” I asked, “if I take a shower and get ready for bed?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I’ll head back downstairs and let Westley know.”

  She left the room and my brow furrowed. DiAnn, who had one of the most beautiful peaches-and-cream complexions and the largest sea-green eyes I’d ever seen, seemed nice enough, but almost as if she had reservations about me. Or, perhaps, Westley and me. The two of us. Together. Then again, I told myself as I lifted my small suitcase and laid it across the arms of the rocker, I had only just met her. Perhaps, with time, I would get to know her better …

  Paul on the other hand was talkative and inclusive and had made me feel welcomed from the moment we met. I breathed in, still aware of the scent of wine and cologne.

  “Hey.” Westley’s voice came from the doorway and I jumped, bringing my hand to my chest. “You
okay?”

  I nodded. “Just tired,” I said.

  “We were going to have a glass of wine and play some cards but …”

  I didn’t want to miss out. I didn’t. And I wanted to make a good impression on Paul and DiAnn. Be a part of the family. Their family. Because I knew how much Paul meant to Westley. But my body felt heavy and older than its years and I couldn’t … I just couldn’t stay awake another minute. Hoping I had not made some faux pas, I asked, “Tomorrow night?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Promise? It’s okay?”

  Westley smiled slowly, then winked lazily, the rush of it sending me places I knew better than to go. “Promise.”

  I crossed my arms against a new shyness. “Um—where is your room?”

  He grinned at me. “There’s a bedroom and bath downstairs.” Westley’s brow cocked. “See? I told your dad you would be safe here.”

  “Yes, you did. I’m glad to note you’re a man of your word,” I teased.

  Westley didn’t move from the door but crooked his finger, silently telling me to come closer, which I did. He kissed me sweetly, his lips the only part of his body touching mine. “Sleep well, princess. Tomorrow’s a big day and I want you well rested.”

  “I will,” I whispered. “I love you.”

  “And I love you.”

  Patterson

  Patterson reached for the phone on his office desk, the corner one situated at the end of a hallway in the mathematics department of Dekalb College. The room had become a favorite place of his. He kept the furnishings simple—an oversized desk, a mid-century sofa with matching chairs, bookshelves lined perfectly. The paneled walls were devoid of art, despite Mary Helen’s insistence that she bring in a piece by some local artist whose work she’d fallen prey to.

  The corner office meant windows and natural light, except on rainy days such as this one. Torrential, almost. Still, no one else had an office quite like his. No one.

  “Hey there,” a smoky voice said, and he looked up from the papers he pored over at his desk.

  An easy smile crossed his face before he could stop it. “Hey, yourself,” he said to the woman leaning against the doorframe, her curves accentuated by material that clung deliciously to her frame. “What brings you here so late on a Friday night?”

  Rita Maledon pushed herself away from the doorway and into the room where she dropped onto the forest-green leather of one of the chairs. “What keeps you here?” She crossed one long leg over the other, the swish of stockings stirring him, the avoidance of his question riling him.

  He pointed to the papers with the mechanical pencil dangling between two fingers. “Work. Just trying to finish up some things before the weekend.”

  Rita’s lips—glossy and full—pursed and she pushed silky brown curls over her shoulder. “Because Mary Helen may have a million little things for you to do?” Her tiger-like eyes narrowed. “How is she, by the way?”

  “Cool as always, Rita. Why?”

  She stood then, high-heeled boots clipping to the opposite side of the desk, braced her palms on the wood, and leaned forward enough to bring her sweet scent to his nostrils and her intent into focus. “Look,” she said. “I’m just going to say it. You and I have had a good thing since I started working here …”

  Patterson dropped the pencil and leaned back to rest his elbows on the arms of his chair. He pushed as far from the desk as he could, then crossed his legs. “Sure, as long as it suits your timetable.” Outside the window, a flash of lightning brought brief revelation to the room.

  She stood straight. “Are we going there again?”

  “You know what I want.”

  Now she found her way around to his side of the desk where she perched against the edge. A roll of thunder rumbled through the room. “You want me exclusively, which I completely understand, Patterson. I do. But you’re a married man and I’m a single woman. You cannot expect me to be true to you.”

  “Why can’t I?”

  She crossed her arms. “Be reasonable.”

  “I think I am. I’m telling you what I want, Rita. From you. From me. For us.”

  Rain slashed against the window now, the storm growing. Rita walked back to the chair. Sat again. Crossed her legs again, the swish stirring him further. “And Mary Helen? What do you want for her?”

  “I told you how it is. I’ve never lied to you about that. She’s my wife, but we don’t—jive—in that department.”

  She took in a deep breath. Exhaled. “And yet …” she said, her head tilting to the right, “you have three daughters. Somebody’s been doing something at some point.”

  He refused to answer. To rise to the bait. Finally, he pulled himself back to the desk, reached for the pencil, and said, “I need to finish this work. It’s been a long day.” But she didn’t move. He looked up without raising his head. “Anything else?”

  She smiled, slow and catlike. “All right, Patterson. We’ll play it your way.”

  Now his head came up, his chin rose. He looked at the woman who’d been his friend, his mistress, his confidante, and—yes—his nemesis, then to the open doorway, before his eyes slid back to hers. “But how long this time? A week? A month?”

  “Patterson,” she breathed out. “Quit making it a math problem and just go with it. Take life by the horns and have a little fun without trying to complicate matters.”

  He laughed then; he couldn’t help it. “Tell you what, Rita …”

  “What?”

  “Why don’t you get up … prance yourself right back to that door over there …”

  One brow arched and a half smile crept toward her high cheekbone. “And then?”

  “Shut the door.”

  She slid to the end of her seat, both feet now on the floor. “And should I lock it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Chapter Six

  Allison

  In spite of being in a strange house and not sleeping in the width of my own double bed, once I slipped between the cool of the sheets and comforter, rubbed my feet together for a moment of warmth, I fell asleep and didn’t wake until the morning sun burst around the shades and draperies. I stretched my arms from beneath the cover, felt the chill in the air slap my arms, then sat up and blinked hard. I’d taken my watch off the night before and placed it on the bedside table. Now, checking it, I saw that I’d slept till nearly half past eight. “Gracious,” I said. So much for getting up before Westley.

  I scurried to the door, opened it, and peeked out. Indistinguishable voices came from downstairs; I hoped at least one of them belonged to my fiancé. I didn’t cherish the thought of him seeing me first thing in the morning … not yet, anyway. A quick dash into the bathroom, a shower, some makeup, a pair of jeans with a striped long-sleeved sweater, and I was ready to face the day.

  And my fiancé …

  The mouth-watering aromas of bacon, eggs, and coffee reached me as I took quiet steps down the stairs, hoping not to interrupt what sounded to be an intense conversation between Westley, his brother, and DiAnn.

  “I can’t believe you haven’t told her,” DiAnn was saying. “You’re going to have to sooner or later. Putting it off won’t change facts, Wes.”

  “I will,” Westley said as my breath caught in my throat and I held it there. “Just not—not right yet.”

  “DiAnn’s right,” Paul added. “This isn’t the kind of thing you can hide forever.”

  “Nor do I want to. I just—I can’t take a chance on her bailing on me. Not now.” He paused. “I love her, Paul. I swear to—”

  “And I don’t doubt that. But you’ve got to come clean with the real reason behind this trip.”

  Air sank into my lungs as a thud indicated something had come down hard onto the table. A coffee mug, perhaps. Or a plate. “Will you just stop?” Westley interjected, anger inching its way up in his voice in a tone I’d never heard. “I’ll handle it. If it’s one thing I can do, it’s handle things like—”

  “I�
�d hardly call Allison a thing, big brother.”

  I couldn’t breathe, but I forced air in by swallowing gulps of it, hoping my struggle wouldn’t give away my eavesdropping.

  “I’m not talking about Allison, Paul. And I need the two of you to stop talking about this. The shower shut off a good twenty minutes ago … she’ll be down any second.”

  I blinked then took a few soundless steps back up the stairs. Okay. Okay. Westley hadn’t been talking about me. He’d been speaking of—who knew what. But it was something. Something that would affect me. Something he didn’t want me to know. Something Paul and DiAnn knew about.

  But Westley would tell me. In his own time and in his own way, he would. He loved me, after all. He had just declared it in his “I mean it” voice. And he was going to be my husband. Wives and husbands didn’t keep secrets and we’d be married soon enough and then all the secrets he felt he had to protect me from would disappear. Yes, yes. That was it. Westley loved me enough to protect me …

  I took one more intake of breath before bounding down the stairs.

  “There she is,” Westley said as I rounded the corner to see the three of them sitting at the kitchen table made of thick, blond pine. Beyond them, French doors had been pushed open to reveal a screened-in porch, which looked over a lawn sloping toward a lake that sparkled under the morning sunlight.

  Westley stood, walked to me as if tense words had not been exchanged between him and his family, placed his hands on my waist, then leaned down to kiss me. “You must have really been tired.”

  Heat rushed to my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I said, my eyes searching his, wanting desperately to know what he felt he could not tell me while, at the same time, feeling strangely embarrassed by what I’d overheard—and the fact that I’d been eavesdropping—more than by my sleepiness. But if that’s what he thought … they thought. These three who were obviously in on something I couldn’t know about. Yet.

  He kissed me again. “Think nothing of it. Coffee?”