Dust

by Eva Marie Everson

  Miss Justine had already declared the day after Christmas to be a holiday, so they’d finally return to Odenville and their new home sometime Monday. And nothing, or no one—not even his adorable Michelle—would alter those plans.

  Now, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror at his parents’ home the day before his wedding, he arched a brow as he slid a chrome razor over his jaw. “For a man who likes to live by the seat of your pants, young man,” he said to himself as he shook the cloud of lather from the double-edge razor in the sink half-filled with murky water, “you sure have planned this one out.”

  With one caveat. He had to tell his parents about Michelle. Had to do it today, in fact. Cindie had pitched a little teenage hissy fit when he told her he’d be spending Christmas with his family, not hers. Or theirs, in fact. She’d gone on and on about him not loving Michelle as much as he loved himself.

  “That’s not true,” he’d told her, fury rising in him at the very suggestion. Of course he loved his daughter more than himself. In fact, he’d hardly known that he could love someone as much until recently. But in the few weeks of afternoons that he’d had with her—the chubby-armed hugs and the bright green eyes that looked at him with heart-palpitating trust and adoration—he’d come to realize what true love meant. And that gaining custody of her at any cost was at the forefront of necessity.

  “It is true,” Cindie pouted, making the most of her immaturity while reaching for the child they shared, a child snuggled in her father’s arms, sleeping like the angel she was. “We are your family now. Me and Michelle. You should be with us.”

  Westley slid over on the sofa. “She’s fine with me,” he said, his voice firm. “I mean it.”

  Cindie had taken the hint and backed away, her face pinking at his admonishment. Two rooms back, Lettie Mae banged around in the kitchen, while Jacko sat cross-legged in front of the television not eight feet away, his attention captured by an episode of Good Times. Across town, Leticia put in a shift at the café—the same restaurant where one burger and an order of fries had changed his life. The thought of it brought his lips to the crown of his daughter’s head. He inhaled the sweet scent of baby shampoo and talcum powder and the scent that comes simply from being a toddler, then snuggled her heart closer to his own. “I bet you haven’t even told your parents yet,” Cindie’s tirade continued, her voice rising in hopes of getting Lettie Mae’s attention. Of having her mother come in and help fight this battle for her. God knew he and the older Campbell had gone around and around enough in the last few weeks over money and responsibility, the irony of the arguments never skipping past him.

  “I’m telling them over the holidays,” he told Cindie then. “Kind of an early Christmas present.”

  And at that, Cindie’s face brightened. “Really?”

  “Really.” Not because he necessarily wanted to, but because he needed to. He had to tell his parents before he told Allison. Had to somehow have them on his side in case things went south with his new wife. Not that they would. They couldn’t.

  Cindie slid closer. Placed her hand on his arm, her fingertips playing with him. One more attempt … “And then Michelle and I can go with you to their home for weekends. She can get to know them, and they can get to know her.” Her eyes brightened at the thought.

  Westley had only smiled. Kissed Michelle one more time before handing her over to her mother. “Here you go, little one,” he cooed. “Here’s your mama.”

  With that, the suggestion defused.

  But that was then. This was now …

  He finished shaving, then dressed. He strolled through the house in search of his mother, not locating her, then into his father’s study where he found him standing at his desk, flipping through pages of a book. “Hey, Dad,” he said.

  Benjamin Houser turned to look at his son, his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He removed them before smiling. Before laying them on top of the book that had held his attention. Whatever thoughts had occupied his mind before this minute, Westley knew, were about to take a backstage to what he had to tell his father now.

  “By this time tomorrow,” his dad said, “you’ll be a nearly married man.”

  Westley chuckled. “And by this time two days from now …”

  His father crossed his arms. “What’s up? You look like you have something on your mind.”

  Westley glanced over his shoulder. “Where’s Mom?”

  “Beauty shop. Tonight’s the rehearsal and tomorrow’s the wedding and if her hair isn’t absolutely perfect, you and Miss Allison are going to have to cancel the whole shebang.”

  Westley nodded, a smile breaking across his face and easing the tension that twisted between his shoulder blades. “I’m not so sure Ali will be okay with that. Um—” He glanced over his shoulder again. “Hey, Dad. Can we go into the family room? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

  “Sounds ominous.”

  Westley rested his hands on his hips. “Ah, no. No. Not ominous exactly.”

  “Don’t tell me I’ve got to have the talk with you,” his father teased. “I distinctly remember going over all that when you and Paul were kids.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, then what is it, son?”

  Westley took a step back. “Can we—ah—can we just go sit down?”

  “We can. But let’s go into the kitchen. Mom made a fresh pot of coffee before she left, and I have a feeling this conversation will call for it.”

  It would call for it, all right. In fact, if they had something stronger in the house—not that his teetotaling parents would—he’d suggest adding that to the cups. Especially since he’d quit smoking. Cold turkey, of course. Instead, they prepared their coffee with milk and sugar, then sat across from each other at the Formica table that stood center stage in the room. “Dad,” Westley began. “I’ve got an issue—and I need you to just hear me out before you say anything—I made a mistake—not a mistake. No.” He shook his head. “An error in judgment.”

  Concern registered on his father’s face. “Are you wanting to call off the wedding? Because—”

  “No.” Westley gripped the coffee cup, then relaxed his fingers and brought it up to his lips for a slow sip. “Gosh, no. I love Allison. I do. I can’t wait to make her my wife.” He gave his father a knowing smile “And not for the obvious reasons.”

  “She’s been a good girl, then,” his father confirmed.

  “Yeah. She has. But your son …” How would he say this? How could he possibly tell his father what he should have told him months before. A year before, if truth be told.

  “Has sowed some wild oats? Son, I think that’s natural.” He raised his coffee cup toward his lips. “Most young men these days have—”

  “I have a daughter, Dad.”

  The cup came down, its contents sloshing over the rim, pooling onto the saucer. “What did you say?” his father asked, ignoring the mess.

  Westley rose from the table and walked to where a roll of paper towels hung over the counter. He tore off two, then handed them to his father who only wadded them into his fist. “Say that again.”

  “I have a daughter, Dad,” Westley said, returning to his seat. “Her name is Michelle. She’s a year old and, Dad, the cutest thing.” He attempted a smile, one that went unanswered.

  “Who is the mother?”

  Westley took in a deep breath, letting it go slowly enough to buy him the time he needed to say the name. “Dad—it’s—it’s Cindie Campbell.”

  His father’s ears turned bright red, the color spilling down his neck and throat, until the shading crawled back up his face. “Lettie Mae’s girl?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Which one? The oldest one? I’d heard she married a—”

  “Middle girl.”

  His father paused, his natural color returning to him as his brow furrowed and dates and timeframes calculated through his brain. “How old is she?”

  “She’s almost eighteen.”


  More calculations. “She was what, then? Seventeen?”

  “Sixteen … but, almost seventeen.”

  His father’s hand came down on the table, rattling the dishes, sending more coffee into the saucers.

  “Dad.”

  “You’re lucky you’re not in jail.”

  “Well, I’m not, Dad,” Westley said, his voice on edge. “It was one night, and we were drunk and now I’ve got a little girl. Bottom line.” He took a breath, which caught in his chest. “Michelle Elise. And she’s—she’s beyond amazing.” He stood, walked to his room where he retrieved the cheaply framed photo he’d hidden between the mattresses, then returned to the kitchen where his father busied himself cleaning up the mess, his jaw as tense as Westley had ever seen it. “Here,” Westley said. “This is your granddaughter.”

  With that, his father’s face softened, and he reached for the photo.

  “Dad,” Westley said, keeping his voice soft. Calm. “I know I’ve done some things over the years that have aged you and Mom ten years or more with each event. And I know I was reckless having sex with a girl I didn’t really know and, yes, I should have used protection, but that’s water under the bridge, quite frankly. What’s important now is—”

  “Have you told Allison? Because if you haven’t—” His father’s admonition was interrupted as the kitchen’s storm door opened and both men turned to see a thoroughly coiffed Olive Houser standing at the threshold, her eyes wide.

  “What is it?” she asked, her face a canvas of concern. “What’s wrong?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Allison

  Finally, everyone and most especially Mama had left the bride’s room—a secluded chamber within the church decorated in antiques and chintz—leaving me alone with Elaine. I turned from the floor-length gilded mirror where my reflection revealed a bride about to lose her breakfast, had she bothered to eat one. Despite my mother’s plea to “at least swallow down a piece of toast, Allison.”

  “Elaine,” I said to a young woman I feared may show the bride up in her beauty. One good look at her and Westley may grab her by the hand and take off running. I shook away the notion. “Let me ask you something. Last night, did you notice anything? Anything at all? Like something going on between Westley and his parents?”

  Elaine bent over a Queen Anne coffee table where my bouquet—a cascade of miniature red and white roses with green ivy spun between the petals—lay protected within a large box filled with white tissue paper. She picked it up, then straightened it and handed it to me with a serious shrug. “I don’t really know them, so I can’t say. But you insisted all last night that something was going on and you know them better than I do. So … okay.”

  I took the bouquet and turned back to the mirror for a glimpse at the results of weeks of planning and choosing and picking over. “Something’s up,” I breathed out. “Do you think they think that maybe Wes shouldn’t marry me?”

  Elaine came to stand behind me, looking resplendent in the red, white-dotted swiss maid of honor gown I’d chosen for her. “Stop that. This is just nerves talking. They’re lucky to have you in their family. In spite of the fact I think you’re getting married too soon, it’s obvious Westley loves you. One look at his face and I knew.”

  Before I could ask her to pinky swear it to me as we’d done so many times over the years about so many childish things, the door behind us opened and we both turned. Julie stepped in and I smiled at the sight of her. The white, red-dotted swiss gown I’d chosen for her (and Heather) gave a shimmering glow to her always-bronzed complexion. “Are you about ready?” she asked, then stepped over and ran her long fingers through my hair, fluffing it enough that it lay over my shoulders like a shawl. “You’re gorgeous,” she whispered.

  Tears stung my pupils. We’d never been much on deep conversations, but for once the situation warranted being open and vulnerable. “Julie, did you notice anything with Wes and his parents last night? Did they seem to you like they wished Westley would marry someone else?”

  She kissed the air around my cheek, careful not to mess up her lipstick or the tiny bit of makeup I’d carefully applied earlier in the day. “Don’t be silly.”

  “That what I say,” Elaine chimed in.

  “They’re lucky to have you in their family.”

  “That’s what I said,” Elaine concurred. She had stepped in front of me, close to the mirror. Leaned in to check her reflection as my shoulders sagged, their words of assurance not quite hitting the mark of good intentions.

  “If you think something like that, Allison,” Julie began, “then you should have asked him about it last night.”

  “Well, I did. Right after the rehearsal dinner …”

  “And what did he say?” Elaine asked. She turned, then stood on tiptoe to bring the veil over my face. “That’s perfect.” She stepped to the coffee table for her own bouquet.

  I shook my head and peered through the veil at the mirror, not fully seeing the picture it reflected. A beautiful bride was supposed to look back at me. Instead an anxious inner voice clouded the view. “He said everything was fine and that I was being a nervous bride,” I answered her.

  Julie smiled at me, one side of her mouth rising higher than the other. “And are you?”

  I coughed a tiny giggle, which caused the veil to poof. “I’m scared out of my mind.”

  Julie’s brow rose. “About tonight?”

  Heat rose in me. “A little … but …” No. Not really. Whatever was in store for me as a young bride, I knew enough about my groom to sense that he’d take his time … allow me to take mine.

  She grinned. “Don’t be. I can’t say the first time is the best time, but I promise you it will get better.” She threw up her hands then and air-quoted, “Did Mom have the talk with you?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Are you kidding me? You’re talking about our mother, right? Whatever I learned, I learned from Elaine.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Elaine laughed, knowing full well she’d managed to study up and share more on the subject than Masters and Johnson ever dreamed of.

  “Yeah, she didn’t tell me anything either. Then again, I ran off and got married so I guess she decided that—by the time we got back from our honeymoon, such as it was—I had it all figured out.”

  “Did you?” Elaine asked, her grin showing a side to her I knew all too well.

  Julie shook her head. “No, but I’m working hard to. Maybe that’s what we do,” she said, her expression oddly contemplative. “Maybe we spend our whole lives just trying to figure it out.” She stood straight, all notions gone. “All right, little sister. The mothers have been seated. The grandmothers and grandfathers are getting older by the second and they’re probably restless for cake. Your future sister-in-law is out in the vestibule waiting and our father is pulling at his collar as if it’s a noose. It looks like we’ve done all the damage here we can do.” She threw her arms wide. “What’s say we go get you married?”

  “And when you return from your honeymoon,” Elaine threw in, “you can tell us if you figured it out or not.”

  I shook my head with a sigh. “Elaine,” I said. “You simply will not do.”

  “Whatever you do,” Julie said as she opened the door to lead the way, “don’t bring this other stuff up again with Westley tonight. It’s not the time. Just … wait.”

  “Okay.”

  Then she added, “Now … go.”

  The afternoon went by in a blur of tears and stomach knots. Of vows and directions and camera bulb flashes. Of punch and cake and grinning so much my jaws ached. Of holding on to Daddy’s arm as he guided me toward Westley and then my new husband’s arm whenever I needed support to get through the next moment. Later, when Mama helped me into a wrap-around, long-sleeved dress, she fretted long enough to make her final point to me. At least for the day. “Westley is a good man,” she told me as we stood almost exactly where Elaine and Julie and I had stood mere hours before.

&nb
sp; “I know, Mama.”

  She grabbed a shoe box from the floor. Opened it. “Here, put these on.”

  I did, slipping them over feet kept in line by nude-colored pantyhose while holding onto the side of a wingback chair for support.

  “And he comes from a good family.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s going places.”

  I straightened, then pressed my hands over the front of my skirt. “I need my bouquet.”

  “Not like your sister’s husband.”

  “Dean.”

  She frowned at me. “I know his name.”

  “Then you should say it from time to time.”

  “Don’t get smart. Just because you’re a married woman now …”

  “Mama …”

  “Whatever he wants, Allison Grace.”

  My breath caught. “Is this the talk? Here? Now? Because if it is—”

  Mama stood straight. Raised a thick and perfectly arched brow. “Impertinence. I won’t have it.”

  I attempted to laugh. “I’m teasing you—”

  Her index finger found my nose. “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—”

  I reached for her then, drawing her close, feeling the frailness of a woman who spent too much time cooking and not enough time eating. “Mama,” I whispered. “I love you so much and I love him so much and I promise you—I promise you—I won’t do anything to embarrass you or Daddy.”