Dust

by Eva Marie Everson

  “Are you working?”

  “I’m taking care of your baby, Westley. That’s work enough.”

  “What about school?”

  “When am I supposed to do that?”

  He rubbed the lobe of his ear between two fingers. “You’ll never get ahead like this. And I want you to get ahead, Cindie. I really do.”

  She cocked her hip and crossed her arms. “Oh, really?”

  He patted the seat beside him. “Come here.”

  “What for?”

  His chin went up a fraction. “Come here. Sit next to me. I don’t have a lot of time and I want to talk to you, not argue with you.”

  She walked over and sat, keeping enough distance to hold on to her wits.

  Westley pulled one of her tendrils. “Always so pretty. But you can be more than that, Cindie. You can. And I want you to be. You’re the mother of my child and I want the best for her and for you. Go back to school. Get a good education. A good job.”

  She lost it then. She threw her arms around him, pushed up against him, and kissed his neck over and over until he forcefully pulled her away. “Marry me, then,” she said, her voice practically begging. “I’ll make you a good wife. I promise. I’ll cook and clean and you’ll see Michelle all the time.”

  Westley’s eyes found hers. “That’s not the answer and you know it. Besides, like I told you before Michelle was born, if you want me, you’ll have to do better than that.”

  She pulled away. Oh, he’d told her all right. Let her know right off that she wasn’t good enough and this was the way it was going to be. His way or no way. But she knew—one day she’d have the biggest bargaining chip of all. His child. “I want a hundred and fifty a month,” she said firmly. “Plus other things like insurance.”

  “She’s already on my insurance and you know it.” He stood, reaching for his jacket.

  “You leaving?” she asked, panic growing inside her. “Already?”

  “I’ve got dinner plans with my brother and his wife. I need to head on back.”

  She couldn’t let him go. Not like this. She had to get things back in her favor. “Wait,” she said, standing and reaching for his hand. “Wait. I got something for you.” Cindie hurried into her bedroom, opened the small drawer of her bedside table and pulled out a framed photograph of their daughter, dressed in the baby-pink sun dress he’d sent early in the summer. Within a moment, she returned. “I got this for you. It’s not much of a frame—I got it at Kessler’s—but I thought the picture came out nice.”

  Westley took the proffered peace treaty and studied it. Smiled at the locks of dark-blond curls framing his daughter’s cherub face. The china-doll expression made even more enticing by round green eyes—his eyes—one more almond shaped than the other. “Look at her,” he said. “She’s something.” Then he sighed. “I really do want to see her. If I can manage it, I’ll swing by tomorrow.”

  Cindie smiled. “Really? Will you?”

  He kissed her cheek again, lingering once more. “Don’t hold me to it, okay? But I’ll try. If not this trip … I’ll be back real soon. And we’ll do something as a family. Together.”

  Her smile broadened. “She’d like that. I’ve been trying to get her to say daddy and she’s already pretty good with mama.”

  Westley glanced at his watch. “I gotta go. Call you later.” He stopped at the door and turned to face her. “Promise.”

  Chapter Eight

  Westley

  Westley slid behind the wheel of his car, started the engine and backed out of Cindie’s driveway as quickly as he could without hitting the light pole on one side and the beat-up paper box on the other. A quick check of his watch told him he would make it back to Paul and DiAnn’s right on time. Hopefully, before Ali woke up or came back downstairs looking for him. He stopped at the stop sign a few yards from the driveway, lowered the top of the car, and breathed in the crisp autumn air.

  Ali. His hope and his salvation wrapped up in a young woman not quite twenty. How he’d gotten so lucky to find her, or for her to find him, he’d never know. The girl was beautiful. More so than she knew. Which was a good thing. If she had so much as a clue as to how gorgeous she really was—the creaminess of her complexion, the light-honey tan her skin bore after a day in the sun, the warmth of her eyes, the upturn of her nose. And her smile. Dear Lord, did the girl have a clue how much she lit up a room when she smiled?

  Ali also had more potential than any woman he’d ever met. The absolute second he saw her approaching his window at the pharmacy, he knew. She was the one … the woman who would take care of the pressing issues in his life. She’d make the right kind of wife and, as quickly as he could arrange it, the right kind of mother for Michelle. She was the kind of girl his parents would approve of—the kind you brought home to Mother, as the old saying went—because the good Lord knew both Mom and Dad would have had a conniption fit if he’d ever brought Cindie to dinner.

  Yep, Allison Middleton was the kind of girl who fit in with his family—again, unlike Cindie. But, even better for Westley, she wasn’t one of those women who’d ask too many questions. It didn’t take a genius to know she practically worshiped the ground he walked on, which meant that, even after marriage, she would let him live his life by his own rules and standards. She was moldable to what he wanted and needed. Especially now … him with a child and the child with a mother who’d probably never amount to a hill of beans.

  Okay, okay. So in spite of the shock of her, he didn’t regret Michelle. But he often wished he’d never met her mother. Or, if he’d met her, that he hadn’t been so stinking intoxicated the night she’d wooed him away from the slightest measure of any decent level of sense.

  Even with the age difference, he’d known Cindie Campbell for years—her and her family. You couldn’t grow up in a town like Baxter and not know who the Campbells were. Years ago—gosh, how many had it been—Horace Campbell left his wife and their four kids for another woman—a nurse from another town, he’d heard his mother say. Naturally, the good women of the church had rallied to the cause, his mother included. They’d done their collective best to help Lettie Mae Campbell, despite her social standing. They’d found her an affordable house, helped her fill out paperwork for government assistance that would suffice until she could get on her feet, and even drove her to the legal appointments that concluded with her divorce. Which, of course, not a single one of them approved of but, as one woman said, “What else was there to do but divorce the man?”

  Westley slowed his car as a traffic light changed from yellow to red. He checked his watch, which seemed to tick faster than what was best for him. Keep napping, Ali. Keep napping.

  He glanced over at the photo of his daughter lying face-up in the seat beside him, the one in the thin brass frame. Well, one thing was for certain—drunk or not—he and Cindie had made a pretty child. Not that he could remember much about the night she’d been conceived. Only that while on a weekend visit to Paul and DiAnn’s to celebrate his twenty-sixth birthday, he’d gone into the café where Cindie worked, hoping for the best, greasiest burger he could find, and that at some point he and Cindie ended up on the outskirts of town, stretched out and shivering on a blanket, two empty bottles of Boone’s Farm tossed into the thick, moist grass—their clothes right along with them. The following afternoon, after nursing the first and worst hangover of his life, he returned to Athens, still unsure as to how he’d gotten the girl or himself back to their respective homes, but more than a little certain of what had occurred between them and hoping she wouldn’t read anything more into it than it was. A one-night stand. Done and forgotten.

  Six weeks later, DiAnn called him. Cindie had spotted her in the Piggly Wiggly, she said. “She gave me a piece of news I think you may want to sit down for.” Later that evening, as expected, Paul called him. “Really, brother? Cindie Campbell?”

  Westley had groaned appropriately. “Never mind she’s a Campbell, she’s cute and I was drunk,” he said by way
of excuse.

  “Yeah, but she’s also only—what—fifteen years old? You’ll be lucky if Lettie Mae doesn’t—”

  “She’s older than that.” He remembered that much. “But her mother is the least of my worries,” he said. Because she was. And then, to deflate the situation, he added, “Don’t you think she’s cute?”

  “Well, she’s not my type, not that it matters. The Campbells are only after one thing, Wes, and you should know that. A way out of working. Lettie Mae has figured out a way to live without ever hitting a lick at a snake and she’ll make sure her kids do, too. Other than the oldest girl, they’re all headed for the same kind of life as their mother.”

  Oh, yes. The oldest. Velma. Sweet girl. Married a country preacher and, according to what he’d heard, made a fine wife and mother. But the rest of them … Lord God, help.

  Lettie Mae had put Cindie to work in the café at thirteen. Her younger sister right there with her. Both expected to bring half their pay to the household accounts, he now knew better than he should. And the only boy in the family, Jacko, had made a reputation for himself when it came to petty crime before he hit his twelfth birthday.

  Only after one thing … well, Cindie had proven that. Standing there in her mother’s boxed-off living room, demanding more money from him. Barely at legal age—if that—and she already had that much down to a science. No doubt in his mind she’d nickel-and-dime him the rest of Michelle’s childhood. Unless …

  The light turned green and Westley pushed the accelerator a tad harder than he should, then pulled back. No need in getting a ticket. That would only make things worse. He had only a short period of time now to think things through. Somehow he’d managed, so far, to keep Michelle’s existence away from his parents. For sure, he’d tell them. But first he had to marry Allison Middleton. Make everyone think he was ready to settle down. Build a life with her and, eventually, have their own children. Plus Michelle. Because instinctively he knew Michelle would be more than a child who visited every other weekend, a week at Christmas, and a week or two during summer vacation.

  His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Only a few more weeks and Ali would be his wife. He’d take her on a honeymoon she’d never forget and then, once they got home, he’d tell her the truth. Make it as matter-of-fact as possible. Michelle was a reality and—he’d say—living with a woman not fit to raise her. Somehow, they’d need to think about whatever it took to lead to full custody. Because that was what he wanted when he got right down to it. Because he’d be darned if he’d let Michelle grow up like the rest of her mother’s family.

  Westley made the turn toward his brother’s house. Good ole Paul. He’d played life right down the line—clean and safe. No heavy drinking. No drugs. No wild women. He and DiAnn had started dating their senior year in high school. They’d remained faithful to each other all through college and, four-year diplomas in hand, they’d married and gone right to work. DiAnn’s daddy had set them up right fine in the house, but Paul managed to make the payments without help from anyone else.

  Westley brought the car to rest under a tall pine in the front yard, raised the top as he craned his neck to look up at the window where, he prayed, Ali still napped, then stepped out of the car. But not before slipping the framed photo of his child under the driver’s seat. And not before remembering the other thing he had to tell his fiancée. The one thing he could tell her. In fact, had to tell her.

  He’d not gotten six strides across toward the front door when it opened and Ali stepped out. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Westley stopped. “Yeah. Why?” He pulled the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one before she could reach him, hoping there were no lingering evidences of his meeting with Cindie on his clothes. That girl and her overuse of perfume. That was another thing about Allison—she smelled like a light wash of powdery-scented body spray. Nothing more. What was it? Love’s Baby Soft … Cindie always smelled like his grandmother’s garden.

  Ali stopped in front of him. She had dressed for the evening—burgundy slacks that fit her like a glove with a matching multitoned sweater that hugged her in ways that nearly drove him crazy. A hint of vanilla and rose reached him and he smiled in appreciation. Yep. Cindie Campbell had nothing on Allison Middleton. Sexy without class could only be sensual and nothing more. Allison was the complete package. A woman he could have a conversation with even when she wasn’t in his bed.

  “Why are you smiling?” she asked.

  “You,” he answered. “You make me smile. And you smell good.”

  Her lips formed a slight frown, which was not what he’d hoped for. “I was worried about your headache.”

  He touched her button nose with the tip of his finger. “Yeah …” he said, stalling. “I thought maybe a drive would make me feel better. The fresh air blowing, you know?”

  Her brow rose. “Oh. I thought … maybe … that you’d gone to the drugstore or something. I never thought about just driving around for a while.”

  A low chuckle rose in him and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, turning her back toward the house. “You are adorable, you know that? Did you manage to sleep any?”

  She nodded, then looked up at him, her eyes adoring him. “Yes, but I missed you not being here when I woke up.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “I wasn’t gone that long. Must not have been much of a nap.” They reached the front porch. Ascended the steps to the door, left half open. “Hey,” he said, stopping. Her eyes met his. “I love you, you know that?”

  Ali’s arms slid around his waist as her head came to rest on his chest. “Oh, Westley. I can’t wait to be your wife.”

  He took another draw from his cigarette. Exhaled the smoke toward the yard, then untangled her so he could toss the remainder into the shrubs. But his hand found hers. Held it. Because he loved her. He did. No doubt about that. And he’d make her as happy as a man like him—a man not always focused on what his actions could mean to anyone other them himself—knew how.

  “I was thinking,” Paul said during dinner that evening, “that we’d go home tonight, build a bonfire, and make s’mores.”

  DiAnn raised her wine glass in a toast to the idea, then asked, “Do we have the ingredients?”

  “Piggly Wiggly …”

  “Which is closed,” Westley interjected.

  “Hmmm,” Paul said.

  “What about a convenience store?” Allison spoke up from beside Westley.

  Westley pointed to her, brows raised and smiling. “See? That’s why I’m marrying this one. She’s smart.”

  “She is that,” DiAnn agreed. This time she took a sip of her wine.

  They left the restaurant where they’d enjoyed a fine meal, each of them sipping on a glass of sweet dinner wine—Westley more than one—until he felt good about the rest of his life. Most especially about the conversation he planned to have with Ali later on. They stopped at a nearby 7-Eleven, purchased overpriced graham crackers, marshmallows, and Hershey’s chocolate bars, then hurried back to Paul and DiAnn’s.

  While Allison and DiAnn set up a tray of everything they’d need, he and Paul worked to dig a pit and gather firewood. “Great idea,” Westley said once the flames licked upward, the smoke curling into the dark night air. “You’re all right for a little brother,” he added with a laugh.

  “Let’s grab some chairs off the porch,” Paul said, then turned toward the back of the house.

  The brothers trudged the slight incline, Westley keeping his eyes on the kitchen window where Allison passed back and forth. He stopped, rested his hands on his hips, and grinned. “Look at her,” he said. “Look at her, Paul.”

  Paul stopped beside him. “Have you told her yet?”

  “About Michelle or about … tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tonight.” Westley looked at his brother. “Tonight, after we have some s’mores and, afterward, you and DiAnn go back inside. Leave us out here alone, okay? I’ll tell her
then.”

  Paul slapped him on the back. “Maybe I should tell DiAnn to bring another bottle of wine out with the s’mores ingredients.”

  “May-be.”

  “It’s your funeral, big brother, but I believe I would have—”

  “Never mind what you would have …” Westley said, then continued toward the chairs.

  Chapter Nine

  Allison

  I stretched my legs in the low-sitting Adirondack chair and smiled, the flavor of chocolate and marshmallow and graham crackers and wine still lingering on my tongue. “This was fun,” I said, turning so that my chin brushed against the thick, soft fabric of my coat’s collar. I blinked toward my fiancé who sat no more than a foot away. “The whole night was wonderful, but …” I grinned at him. “I’m kinda glad Paul and DiAnn left us alone for a while.”

  Westley pulled a cigarette from the front pocket of his jacket, lit it, then blew a thin line of smoke from between his lips where it joined the shredded cloud hovering over a dying fire. “Are you cold?” he asked.

  My gaze went from him to the glowing embers. “No,” I said. “I don’t think I could ever be cold when I’m this close to you.”

  He reached over, took my hand in his. “Your hand is cold.”

  Cold hands, warm heart, I thought, then closed my eyes. “Westley,” I breathed out. “I wish …”

  His fingers tightened around mine. “What?”

  I shook my head so slowly I wondered if he perceived it. How could I answer him? I wished so much that we were married already … that we were alone, in our own home … that there were no premarital barriers standing in our way. I wished—oh, how I wished—that whatever I’d overheard that morning had already been made clear to me. That his trust in me was enough to tell me what Paul and DiAnn already knew. I wished …

  I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. The embers crackled and glowed, showing off the darkest outline of the few trees between us and the lake where the water rippled under a quarter moon. “I wish …” I turned to him again, my mind as clear and as foggy as I’d ever known it to be. “. . . that we could live this day all over again. I wish we didn’t have to go home tomorrow.” This time, my smile was slow. Catlike.