Dust

by Eva Marie Everson

  Westley’s attention returned to the magazine. “As long as she doesn’t want to look like Madonna, I’m good with it.”

  I chuckled. “Well, it means a haircut. Are you okay with that?”

  His gaze returned to my side of the room. “How short?”

  “Below her shoulders, so about five or six inches.”

  Westley frowned. “Is she dead set on it?”

  I gave him a nod. “I’d say so. And, to tell you the truth, I could use some reprieve when it comes to what it takes to get her hair brushed every morning.” Michelle’s thick, waist-length hair had become a source of tears no detangler could rectify.

  He glanced back at the magazine’s slick page. “If that’s what she wants.”

  Of course. Westley had denied Michelle few things she wanted. Our new home stood as proof. We now lived in the same tree-dotted, lakefront neighborhood as her best friend, Sylvie, a precocious child with errant brunette curls and the largest brown eyes I’d seen on such a petite child.

  Michelle and Sylvie did everything together—school, ballet, piano, Girl Scouts, church, hours of play. Anything two little girls could possibly do together, they did it. Their friendship was as deep and solid as the one I’d once had with Elaine, who had recently married a doctor who shared her love for Native Americans and their plight. Together, they ran a medical mission in northern Arizona, returning home only during the Christmas season, if then. With the holidays right around the corner, I hoped to see her during her stay. To date, we had come to rely mostly on letters and the occasional phone call.

  Westley held up a photo spread of a boat and asked, “What do you think?”

  I squinted across the semidark room. “About what?”

  “This. I think we should get it.”

  “A boat?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How much?”

  “Affordable.”

  “Do you need a boat?” I asked, though in all honesty I had expected Westley to purchase something to tie to our dock two minutes after we signed the papers for the house.

  “Of course,” he said. “And Michelle will, too. Something for her friends to come over for.”

  “The pool out back isn’t enough?”

  Westley’s appreciative stare went back to the magazine. “You can’t ski in a pool, Ali.”

  But you can lose a baby on a boat, I thought irrationally, even after all the years since my first miscarriage. “Wes,” I said, now wanting to change the subject. “Michelle also wants to know if we can pick out our Christmas tree this weekend. And,” I added, “she asked me to remind you that Sylvie’s family has theirs up and that it’s decorated trunk to star.”

  “I’ll get off early on Saturday,” he said, looking up at me again. “We’ll head out to Samson’s Tree Farm as soon as I get home.”

  “Miss Justine wants to come with us. Wants to pick out her tree and then have Mr. Samson haul it to her house in his truck.”

  Westley chuckled. “All right. Let her know we’ll pick her up around three.”

  I opened my book to where I’d last dog-eared it and found my place on the page as a smile crept into my heart. Westley and I were doing okay, I reminded myself. We had a spacious home—as lovely as Paul and DiAnn’s, although filled with half as many children—that rested on a lake as inviting as theirs. We both had jobs we enjoyed, good friends to complete us, and we stayed active in the social workings of our community and church. Our daughter was growing into a well-rounded young lady—socially, academically, and spiritually—only sometimes having her life interrupted by Cindie or Cindie’s family. Something Michelle always took in stride.

  Cindie—I thanked God every day—had remained in Atlanta after graduating five years before. My constant unraveling at the notion that she would return and demand her daughter had been for nothing. My fretting that she would want Michelle to spend every week of summer vacation in her new apartment—one she moved into shortly before her graduation—had also been for naught. Instead, Michelle spent two weeks of her summer with Cindie, a week of Christmas vacation, and every other spring break and every other Thanksgiving.

  I had finally met her. Had seen what pieces she’d lent to Michelle. Finally understood what had drawn Westley to her. She practically oozed sexuality I believed I’d never have. Even at Michelle’s kindergarten graduation, where I’d dressed in a simple wrap-around dress, Cindie had donned a long bohemian number that made her look part flower child and part love child. And although Westley seemed to give her no more than a passing glance after their initial hello, I found myself drawn to her. A moth to the flame. A fly to the spider’s web. My focus more on her and her reaction to Michelle receiving her diploma than to the five-year-old who pranced across the stage with a smile that showed off a missing front tooth.

  Westley had noticed—of course he had noticed. Later, while Michelle spent the night with Cindie at Velma’s, he chastised me, reminding me that I’d missed the whole point of the day because I had been so focused on Cindie.

  “I couldn’t help it,” I declared, slamming the bangle I’d worn all day into my jewelry box. “My gosh, Westley. She’s … she’s gorgeous. I mean, seriously, seriously gorgeous.”

  He flung his shirt onto the bed. “So what? So what, Ali? She’s pretty. Did I ever tell you she wasn’t?”

  Tears stung the back of my eyes, threatening to unleash years of wondering. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I said, then headed for the bathroom where I drowned my tears in a cascade of water from the shower.

  From what I knew—from what little Westley told me—Cindie had graduated from college and immediately gone to work for a county parks and recreation department, working as an assistant to the director. Her old roommate—the male one—had helped her secure the job, he and the director being long-time friends. “Still amazes me,” Westley told me one night, “that she and that Kyle fellow never … you know … got together.”

  “How do you know they didn’t?”

  He rolled his eyes and laughed lightly. “No. Cindie’s got someone, but it’s not her old roommate.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know. I know her … or women like her.” He pointed upward. “And she’s being quiet enough about it, I’d wager he’s married. With kids.”

  “Maybe she’s being quiet because she doesn’t have a man in her life right now,” I countered, though I hoped that wasn’t true. The idea of Cindie returning with a diploma and her sights set on Westley kept me up as many nights as the thought of her returning for Michelle.

  “Not possible. Women like Cindie need men in their lives. Someone to use.” He blew out a breath. “Or use up.”

  I blinked now at the words in the book in front of me, forcing the memory away. The last thing I needed to worry about tonight was Cindie Campbell. She lived her life in Atlanta; we lived ours in Odenville.

  Patterson

  His life had become complicated.

  For starters, Mary Helen had begun to demand more of his time, declaring that the children would be grown and gone soon, and they needed to spend as much time with them as possible. That much was true. Patricia had grown into an exquisite beauty, like her mother, but with a zeal for life, like him. She had also been granted an impressive scholarship at Boston’s New England Conservatory of Music and had been living there since midsummer. When she called home—typically on Thursday evenings, because she had nothing else to do then, she said—she spoke of classes and new friends, outings, and—too often—of her new job working as a teaching assistant for Dr. Bauder, who, she said, insisted she call him by his Christian name—her words—which was Lance.

  “Don’t neglect your studies, Patricia,” her mother had warned from their bedroom phone while he listened in on the office extension while wanting to shout, “And don’t sleep with this—this—Lance!”

  He also wanted to grill his daughter on everything she spoke of, especially when it came to her friends. How many of them
were male? Occasionally, when she brought up a young man’s name, Mary Helen fluttered about as mothers of young adult daughters do, wondering if Patricia was getting involved too soon. He, on the other hand, continued to conjure up a vision of her chastity being stolen by some slick professor. Or worse, given away.

  But when it came to her musical outings—the theater, concerts, jazz clubs—he wanted to drown in her excitement. For nearly her whole life, and despite him not being able to play an instrument, it had been the one thing he could connect with her on that Mary Helen could not. His wife could play a piano, but as with most things in life, she didn’t have the passion for it.

  No passion for much of anything until recently when she became friends with Nola and Eldon Edwards. Predominately Nola, a woman who seemed completely at ease in her role as a wife and mother. And, Patterson couldn’t help but note, a woman at ease in her own skin. The two women had met during one of Mary Pat’s lessons at Bryce Park Equestrian Center, which the Edwardses happened to own. Bryce Park and a slew of others. Mary Helen and Nola became fast friends as did their middle daughter, Mary Pat, who recently turned seventeen, and the Edwards’ oldest son who neared twenty at an alarming rate of speed. Which, of course, was another cause for concern, although Mary Helen didn’t seem to think so.

  But, she wouldn’t.

  Before Patterson could wrap his mind around his two oldest girls having lives with romantic interests, Mary Helen was scheduling nearly every free minute with Nola and Eldon. Dinners. Horse shows. Even jaunts to the North Georgia mountains where the Edwards had a “weekend home.”

  Making things more complicated was the fact that Mary Helen had warmed up since meeting them. Making herself available in ways she’d never done before. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why, unless Nola’s innate sensuality had somehow rubbed off on his wife. But, while he relished the newness of their relationship, it certainly made things more difficult where his mistress was concerned.

  Cindie had become just as demanding, but in a different way. Her new job had changed her. She’d grown into a savvy young woman with a head for business and had grown the program beyond her boss’s expectations. From the way she put it, Murray Kendricks couldn’t say enough good things about her. Indeed, to hear her tell it, Kendricks was ready to sign over the moon to her, were he to own it.

  The one thing he had not been able to accomplish where Cindie was concerned was completely getting rid of the old roommate. Cindie made certain Patterson knew she still saw Kyle often enough, despite the fight they’d had years before.

  Good Lord but that had cost him. The long-stem roses had been the easiest part of regaining her affections—and her trust. Cindie had used his slight upset to her full advantage.

  First, there had been the down payment on an apartment with plush white carpeting, gold-tone walls, oak furnishings, and all the amenities she could think up. Then, there had been the jewelry. She wanted a pair of diamond earrings large enough to “mean something.” He’d bought them for her and threw in a matching tennis bracelet for good measure.

  She’d rewarded him kindly that night. But tonight, Cindie was agitated, which wasn’t going along with his evening plans.

  She’d received a letter from Michelle, who had turned eleven the month before. Her “once a week” letter that came typically on Wednesdays helped soften the time between the Sunday evening phone calls mother and daughter enjoyed. And, usually, Cindie read the child’s letter to him with giggles and sighs and exclamations of adoration. But tonight ... tonight Cindie’s bare feet peeked out from beneath the too-long red satin pajamas he’d recently treated her to as she paced back and forth on the thick white carpet and shook the letter at the ceiling.

  “I don’t understand why you are so upset,” he told her. He’d kicked off his shoes and draped himself on the sofa in hopes that she would join him, but so far, she had not. “Come here. Let me hold you.”

  Cindie folded the letter and shoved it back into its envelope, then slammed the whole thing onto the end table, before plopping down beside him. “Don’t you understand?” she whined as he wrapped his arms around her, aware of what lay beneath the cool material shimmering in the glow from the fire that gave the room its only light. “All she seems to talk about these days is what she is doing with … her.”

  “Allison?”

  “Don’t say her name to me.”

  “What would you like me to call her then?”

  Cindie pondered the question before answering, “Witch.”

  “Is she?”

  “Yes.” She turned toward him. “She’s stealing my daughter,” she said, then muttered, “They’ve beaten me at my own game.”

  “You can go get her any time you want, Cindie.”

  “No. I can’t. Westley has things sewn up so tight, managing to keep me at arm’s length all these years, and she’s put a dadburn bow around the whole thing.”

  “Who has?”

  “Allison,” she shouted, then swatted him. “You did that on purpose.”

  He laughed as he slid a hand up the back of her pajama top, hopeful until she stood and walked across the room to peer out the window. To the parking lot where icy rain slicked the asphalt and turned the world into a Monet painting. “Girl Scouts. Piano. Dance. School. Her friends.” She turned and pointed toward the envelope. “That letter? All about the stupid tree in their stupid house and that she had bought a little fake one just for her room and they had decorated it with all pink and white ornaments.”

  Patterson glanced at his watch, mindful of the time they were wasting. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, dinner was good tonight,” he said.

  Cindie looked toward the kitchen where dirty dishes littered the countertops and filled the sink. One thing she never did—the dishes in front of him. Because she didn’t want to waste a single second of their time together, she’d once told him. “Glad you liked it,” she mumbled, then sighed as if she meant to expel all the air from inside her. “I’ve still got to get a tree before Michelle comes for Christmas break. I should have done it by now, but we’ve been so busy at work and—”

  “Why don’t you wait until the two of you can do that together,” he suggested. “We’re waiting until Patricia gets in …” He allowed the words to fade; best not to bring up the domestic life he had with Mary Helen and the girls. Especially since it had improved so greatly.

  “Why don’t you stick a knife in my heart and twist it,” she said. “First … a letter from my own kid telling me about … her and all she does … and now you want to paint me a pretty picture of Christmas warmth and love over at the Thackers’?”

  Patterson rose from the sofa and shoved his feet into his loafers. “I’m going to leave while the going is good,” he said. “You’re in a mood I cannot fix.” He walked over and kissed her forehead. “I’ve been around enough women in my life to know when I’m beat.”

  “No, wait,” she said, surprising him by throwing her arms around him. Kissing him. “Don’t go home tonight,” she whispered.

  His arms slid around her. “I have to go home tonight, sweetheart.”

  “Then let’s plan a getaway. We haven’t done that in a while. When is your next conference?”

  He nibbled at the lobe of her ear; the obtrusive earring nearly cut his top lip. “March.”

  “I can’t wait that long,” she breathed out. “Patterson, seriously, how much longer can we go on like—”

  He stopped her words by pressing his mouth on hers, deepening his kiss until her body went slack against his and he was forced to hold her up. “What’s say we make good use of the time we have left this evening,” he suggested when they broke apart. “May I have this moondance?”

  She nodded. Took him by the hand and guided him to the floor in front of a fire that had become a low flame emitting only the occasional crackle. Something she had never done before. Or, maybe in a long time. “Merry Christmas, baby,” she sighed with a smile.

  Months later,
when he looked back on that night—on that moment, that sigh, that smile, that letting her call the shots—he clearly saw his own undoing. And complicated didn’t begin to explain it.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  January 1988

  Allison

  The winter of my discontent began after our celebration on New Year’s Eve, on a Saturday to be exact. Michelle had returned from Cindie’s a few days before, her arms laden with gifts, her mouth running ninety to nothing about how fun it had been in Atlanta because, wonder of wonders, Christmas Eve brought snow and “we went outside and made snow angels.” My daughter was also bent on showing me every gift left for her under a tree she described as “skinny but loaded with lights”—a Caboodles filled with appropriate cosmetics and toiletries for an eleven-year-old, clothes that looked more Cindie’s style than Michelle’s, a 14k half-a-heart charm necklace (Cindie had the other half), and a glossy poster of Stevie Nicks.

  “Stevie Nicks?” I asked from the second twin bed in her room. “Not your hero DJ Tanner?”

  “I know, but don’t you think she looks like Mommy?” Michelle asked, startling me. For months she had only referred to Cindie by her given name, despite my protests but with Westley’s approval.

  “Giving her life and giving her a life are not the same thing,” he’d said, thereby ending our argument. I supposed it only made sense now that, after spending a week with Cindie, she would refer to her, again, as Mommy.

  “She does look like …” I swallowed. “Mommy. But … why did Santa leave you a poster of …” I looked back at the color-washed reproduction. “Stevie Nicks?”

  “Mama,” Michelle said with a chuckle from her bed. “Santa? This was one-hundred percent Cindie.” She shook her head. “She thinks you won’t let me have a picture of her in my bedroom, so she bought me this.”

  I glanced over at the framed five-by-seven of Cindie and Michelle taken at Six Flags Over Georgia the previous summer. “But you do have—”