Dust

by Eva Marie Everson

  “They’d never kissed?”

  “They’d not even held hands, Hillie told me.”

  I couldn’t begin to imagine. “Goodness.” Waiting to sleep together I could relate to. But holding hands? Kissing?

  “Of course, eventually they did more than hold hands or … because a year later—after getting the house set back to rights and working on the children’s educational needs—Hillie had her firstborn child, Bonnie.”

  “Bonnie is your mother.”

  “You met her at the wedding.”

  Yes, I had. An older, shorter version of Mrs. Houser, for sure. “She was nice.”

  “Mother always told me that Hillie never let on that the oldest five were not her own. In fact, Mother said that until she was old enough to calculate things, she’d had no idea.”

  Understanding settled over me. “Because Hillie loved them as her own.”

  Mom returned the photo, but her eyes didn’t quite meet mine as she said, “After Grandpa died, Hillie went to live with the youngest of the original five children. She had three of her own, but for some reason, her heart was tied closest to the first wife’s baby. And she lived with him and his family until she died.” Tearful eyes met mine. “She taught me a lot about … love. That it extends far beyond what you think it should. It can go straight from your heart to those who occupy an unexpected place there.”

  “I—”

  “Listen to me, Allison,” she said in such a way that I knew—I knew—our conversation had somehow left Hillie’s story and come to mine. “Every woman’s child is precious. Every child.”

  “Mom,” Westley said then from the same position his mother had occupied earlier. Both she and I turned suddenly, as though we’d been caught doing something we shouldn’t. I smiled at him instinctively, but his attention was focused solely on the woman who’d brought him into the world, not on the woman he’d married. “What are you doing?” he asked, his tone confused. Accusatory.

  But Mrs. Houser was not intimidated. She stepped away from the piano and to her son, whose chin she cupped in maternal tenderness. “I was telling her about Hillie,” she answered matter-of-factly.

  And, with that, she left the room … Westley right behind her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Westley

  They had promised each other no Christmas gifts—and they’d stuck to that—but, nevertheless, on Monday morning Westley’s car pulled a small U-Haul trailer full of gifts—both Christmas and wedding—toward their new home in Odenville. Including a hand-carved cedar hope chest, a gift from his parents. Unbeknownst to his new bride, her mother had sent over her wedding dress—already dry-cleaned and boxed—which Westley’s mother lovingly placed within its depths along with two family heirlooms from the Houser family—an antique soup tureen that had belonged to his father’s grandmother and, nestled for Allison to find later, the photo of Hillie.

  Westley’s brow furrowed at the heated, yet whispered, argument he’d had with his mother after she’d shared Hillie’s story with Allison.

  “I know what you’re doing, Mom,” he’d said to her.

  “Son,” she’d said, her voice as firm as it had been after the after-prom shenanigans he and his best pals had executed. “I love you more than I have words. But you have to tell her. In fact, she should already know.”

  “She will. I promise. Soon.” And he would. Right after the first of the year. Right after he sought out his attorney—an old friend from childhood—to discuss all the options.

  Now, nearing their new home, Allison swiveled to look behind them and he smiled inwardly, remembering how she’d made certain he’d wrapped her special gift in old army blankets her father kept in the attic before supervising its placement into the farthest corner of the trailer.

  “It’s still there,” he teased.

  “Just making sure,” she said before turning to face front again. Before readjusting the blue suede faux-fur-lined maxi coat her parents had given her the day before. A final time, he figured, that they’d make such a purchase. Winter coats were for husbands to purchase, not parents.

  They arrived back in Odenville around three thirty, Westley driving straight to their house, anxious to have her in it. To feel her presence there. To see how she’d supervise, this time, the unloading of the trailer … the placement of the gifts. Determining “this goes in the kitchen … the dining room … the living room … the bedroom.” The last room being the one he’d had on his mind most of the day, if not all.

  He’d honored her wishes the night before and stayed on his side of the bed. But tonight—if he survived until tonight—they’d finally be home. In their own bedroom. In their own bed. And, once again, she’d be his.

  He grinned at her as he reached behind the steering wheel to put the car in park, then said, “Welcome home, Mrs. Houser.”

  She clasped her hands as if in prayer. “Gosh, I love hearing that name,” she said before waggling her brow at him and saying, “Is this the part where you carry me over the threshold?”

  He opened his door. “If I can, after all that turkey and dressing you ate …”

  She waited for him to come to the passenger’s door. To open it and help her out. Because she was, first and foremost, a lady. Which was, after all, one of the reasons he’d married her. Had to have her. “Ho-ho-ho,” she said, her voice indicating that she’d understood the joke.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you to the door and then …” He stretched playfully. “I’ll see if my back holds out for this tradition you think so important.”

  Naturally, it did. She was light as a feather, as the old saying went. And she kissed him as soon as they’d stepped inside. Before he could send her feet to the floor. “I love you,” she said for the first time inside their new home.

  “I love you,” he repeated, as he always did. Always would. Because he did. He was sure of it.

  Allison looked around then. Inhaled. “It smells lemony fresh in here,” she said, her brow furrowed. “I figured with it being locked up for a few days …”

  Westley kissed her turned-up nose. “Miss Justine sent Rose Beth over this morning. Told me before I left for the wedding that she would so you wouldn’t be faced with what a house looks like after a man has been in it alone for a few weeks.” He blinked furiously in jest.

  The still-moist lips of his wife turned downward. She wasn’t pleased. “Oh.”

  “Something wrong?” he asked, his arms still circling her waist, still pulling her to him.

  She shrugged. “No … I just … I figured I’d …”

  “What?”

  Allison shrugged again. “Never mind. I’ll be sure to thank Miss Justine when we see her again.” She looked over her shoulder. “Well, then … let’s get that U-Haul unloaded.”

  Two hours later Allison had managed to have every piece of luggage unpacked and every gift put in its place, including the hope chest, which she positioned perfectly centered and at the foot of their bed, followed by one of her mother’s knitted afghans placed lovingly on top. “What do you think?” She stood away from it, hands on hips, hair tucked behind her ears then pulled over one shoulder.

  “I think it looks like we’re home.”

  She couldn’t have given him a brighter smile; his own heart leapt at the sight of it. “Home,” she breathed out. “Yes.” Then, as if reality struck, she added, “Are you hungry?”

  Westley patted the toned abs of his stomach. “I could eat. You?”

  “A little.”

  She walked past him and straight into the rest of the house without another word. On into the kitchen where he found her standing in the middle of it, looking at the stove as if it were a phenomenon of nature. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I’m not really sure what to cook.”

  Westley chuckled. “What can you cook?”

  Allison looked at him, her eyes wide. “Well, Grand has been working with me, but …” She sighed. “I can boil an egg …”

&nbs
p; “And do what with it?”

  She pressed her lips together. “I can make a tuna salad. A pretty good one actually. Grand taught me. And Mama taught me how to make tuna hash.”

  Westley grimaced. “How about we go out to dinner tonight and tomorrow you can stock the kitchen and then tomorrow night you can cook.”

  “But how will I—Julie and Dean aren’t bringing my car until this weekend, remember?”

  Yes, he remembered. His wife had been too afraid to drive all the way across the state alone, so her sister and brother-in-law had risen to the task. Which also meant they’d have another couple in their home within days of them being in it—something Westley wasn’t sure he was quite ready for yet. “Yes, but—”

  “How can I get groceries without a car?”

  Westley leaned against the frame of the back door. “Well …” he said, pondering their issue. “I suppose you’ll have to drive me to work. Pick me up afterward.”

  She stepped over to him and looked up. “Oh, Westley. I’m so sorry about the car. Really, I am. I’m just not ready for such an undertaking as driving all the way across the state—”

  He smiled down at her. How could he do anything else? “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. We can make do with one car for a few days.” He kissed her forehead, breathing in, already intoxicated by the floral scent of her shampoo. “Why, if I remember the story correctly, Hillie and Isaac only had the one horse and buggy.”

  Allison slipped into his arms without reservation. “Oh, Westley. I must have done something so wonderful when I was a child. So fantastic. But I cannot remember it to save my life.”

  He leaned back as best he could to tip her chin and her face toward him. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I don’t deserve you. I don’t.”

  “I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you.” And he didn’t. He knew he didn’t. She didn’t. Not yet, anyway. So, he hoped—no, he prayed—she would still love him … would forgive him after she learned the truth about Cindie. About Michelle.

  “Westley?”

  “Hmmm?”

  She smiled, all pre-bridal coyness gone from her. “I’m not hungry anymore …”

  Cindie

  Too much time had gone by since she’d last seen Westley. Since he’d seen his daughter. Yes, he’d said he was going to his parents’ for Christmas, but to her way of thinking, there hadn’t been much reason for him to have left over a week before.

  Her mother felt the same way. And she’d drilled it into Cindie’s head nonstop since the day after Westley left, the day after he’d stopped by with a few more holiday-wrapped boxes filled with what turned out to be Fisher Price toys suitable for a one-year-old. He’d also managed to hide two gifts for her under the tree. Gifts she’d found on Christmas Day, hidden, supposedly, when she’d gone to get Michelle from her crib. Waking her from her afternoon nap just so she could see her daddy and then him not even calling since.

  She looked at herself in the dresser mirror that had clouded with time, leaning in for a better look at the gifted dangling opal earrings, wishing he’d been around to put them on her for the first time. Hoping for so much more than a token of his feelings, but happy to get whatever portion of him he gave nonetheless.

  “You going on over there again today?” her mother asked from the open bedroom door, startling her.

  Cindie turned to look at the woman who had, once upon a time, been a pretty woman. Thin and shapely. But who now looked like a woman who’d had life beat out of her and all its joys with it. “Yeah. Will you watch Michelle?”

  “Course. Don’t I always?”

  Yes, she did. And she might as well. She didn’t do much of nothing else all day. “Mama. Don’t start.”

  Her mother crossed her arms over breasts that hung thick and large against her midsection. “I’m telling you, girl, something is up with that one. Him coming around like he did for a while there and then suddenly—poof—he’s gone? And right at Christmas? Don’t make no sense to me.”

  Cindie looked a final time in the mirror for an approval of the form-fitting ecru sweater, denim skirt, and the boots her father had mailed to her for Christmas. At least he still remembered his kids during the holidays. On birthdays. Not much any other time, but at least then, always leaving her to wonder if he’d had to sneak the presents out when his new wife wasn’t looking. “How do I look?” she asked.

  “Too pretty for your own good.”

  Cindie pulled at a tendril of hair, her mother’s answer sending a rush of fear through her. She looked so much like photos of Lettie Mae in her youth. Would she still look like her when her age had doubled? Would she act like her, holding on to the same bitterness? Or was it envy. Anger. “Well, as long as I look good enough for Westley Houser, that’s all that matters.” She turned again. “All right. I’m going to Odenville to see if he’s come back to work by now. The sign on the door yesterday said they’d be open today, so I reckon—”

  “Bring me back a box of Salem Lights while you’re over there, hear?”

  Cindie walked past her mother, the heels of her boots clomping on the hardwood floor that needed a good mopping. “All right.”

  “Two if they’re on sale.”

  Cindie reached for the strap of her purse she’d left in the living room and brought it over her shoulder. “Yes’m.”

  “And don’t stay gone too long,” she said as Cindie reached the front door, her mother’s car keys now jangling from her fingertips. “I got a life, too, you know.”

  Cindie rolled her eyes but not so she’d be seen. The last thing she needed was Lettie Mae’s palm print across her face when she saw Westley. Then again …

  She turned back into the room, caught her mother’s eyes with her own. “What life, Lettie Mae?” she said, daring the woman who’d given her life to end it.

  And, right on cue, a hand came across her cheek, stinging it soundly, snapping her head sideways, bringing tears to Cindie’s eyes without trying. “Don’t you sass me, little girl. I don’t deserve it.”

  Cindie blinked slowly as a smile spread across her soul. “No, Mama. You don’t. Sorry.”

  She found Westley behind the raised pharmacy counter, head down, lips moving slightly. Like he was counting or something. She stopped dead in front of him. Waited until he sensed her presence. Looked up.

  “Hey, there,” he said.

  She thought she saw a blush rush across his cheeks, like he was embarrassed for her to be there. Not that he should be. She’d dressed up nice. Done her hair like he liked it. Worn the earrings. Then again, maybe the sight of her did to him what the sight of him did to her. “Hey.”

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, but he came around the counter to where she stood, hands shoved loosely into his pants pockets, letting her know that her being there was okay. He wasn’t mad or nothing. “Is Michelle—hey … what happened to your face?” His right hand came up quickly; his fingertips brushed across her still-reddened cheek, sending shivers down her body.

  “It’s nothing,” she lied. Because it was surely something, mostly half-planned and purposeful. “Lettie Mae just didn’t like something I had to say about her life.”

  His brow furrowed. “She doesn’t hit Michelle, does she?”

  “Never. I’d never—”

  “Good, because—”

  “I waited until nearly lunch to come up here, Westley. Hoping maybe you and me could go somewhere and get a little something to eat. Because I—uh—well, you didn’t call or nothing on Christmas Day like I’d hoped you would and I—I wanted to show you the pictures I took of Michelle with that Instamatic camera you got me. I already got ’em developed.”

  Westley returned his right hand to the pocket, then looked over the counter toward the large-faced clock hanging on the wall. “Yeah … um … yeah. Okay. I’m about done here for the morning, but I—why don’t you—why don’t you go on down to Mama Jean’s Restaurant and grab a table for us there.” He smiled in that gentle w
ay that made her know everything between them was good. Better than good. Might even have a future to it. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  She smiled as the warmth continued to spread through her. Yes, yes. A future with the father of her child. “I can do that.”

  He started to walk away, then stopped. “Um—see if you can grab one near the back, okay?”

  “Sure,” she answered with a sigh that caught her off guard. Yes, yes. This just may go better than she’d hoped.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Westley

  After slipping out of his lab coat and hanging it on the brass hook near his desk, Westley picked up the phone and dialed a number he still had to look up—his own.

  Allison answered on the third ring, her voice sounding confused. “Hello?”

  “Hey, sweetheart. You okay?”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, Westley. I couldn’t imagine who’d be calling. I don’t know anyone here.”

  He tucked his chin and grinned. “You know me.”

  “I definitely know you,” she said, once again understanding his banter. Something she seemed to have gotten better at since their wedding.

  “Did you go to the grocery store?”

  “I did. Took me longer than I thought it would. I’m not used to shopping on my own.”

  “Did I give you enough cash?” He glanced up at the clock knowing he had to hurry. “We’ll go to the bank soon and get you added to the account. Get the checks printed with both our names.”

  “You gave me plenty. Came back with extra, actually.”

  The very soul of him smiled. Beautiful and thrifty, his wife. “And you had no trouble finding your way there and back?”

  “I did fine.” She giggled. “Okay. I got a little lost, but I figured it out.”