Dust

by Eva Marie Everson

  “I just don’t want Cindie to find out about … all this.”

  DiAnn took a long swallow of her coffee. “Not bad for a hospital cafeteria,” she said, then added, “Paul and I will handle everything where Cindie is concerned. Do not give it another thought.”

  I nodded at the woman whom I’d been so unsure of the first time I met her. Of course, she’d put a wall up back then; she hadn’t wanted to see me hurt. Even now, with her strong personality, I felt intimidated, all the while knowing she only had my best interest in mind. “All right,” I said, but I couldn’t help but give it a thought. More than one. A million and one. What would I do without Westley and Michelle? What would I do with the little bit of happiness I called mine?

  Westley returned home in fine spirits eight days after he’d entered the hospital. Release orders stated that he was to make a cardiologist appointment in one week, not to return to work for at least six, and to forego any strenuous activities for at least three months. The first order was easy to adhere to; the next two were problematic.

  Westley found it nearly impossible to stay home and relax. Never mind nearly impossible. Within days he managed to talk me into taking him to the drugstore where he promised to walk in only long enough to make sure his fill-in didn’t need anything or that he had all of his questions answered. “Five minutes,” he pleaded after I had given him several exasperated “nos.” But when I put my foot down with a firm “absolutely not,” he simply retorted, “Fine. I’ll drive myself.”

  Knowing he meant business, I relented and drove him to the store where he stayed for more than an hour. And when he returned to the car and to my horrified if not furious expression, he looked at me as if I should not have expected anything less.

  Within two weeks, he returned to work part time, and no amount of arguing on my part or Miss Justine’s mattered. He did what he wanted to do, in true Westley style, defying fate and logic. His prescribed half-mile walk began at a mile. The later prescribed two miles became four. By the time six weeks passed, he was out riding bikes with Michelle, had returned to work full time, and was planning a ski trip to Boone, North Carolina “before the snow melts.”

  The only thing he hadn’t done by his typical standards was reach for me at night, a circumstance he blamed on his medication.

  “Are you sure?” I asked him one night. I knelt beside him in our bed, him on his stomach with me massaging his back. “You promise it’s the meds and not me?”

  He craned his neck to look at me. “How could it possibly be you?” he asked with a smile. “You’re beautiful, you’re sexy, and I love you like mad. Always have. Always will.”

  I returned the smile as I continued to knead his warm flesh, wishing I could feel his muscles move and stretch above me rather than beneath, the warmth of his breath sighing onto my skin. But he returned his face to the crook of his arm, leaving me unsure as to whether he’d placated me or told me the truth. I leaned over and kissed the line where neck and shoulders meet, slid my tongue upward toward his earlobe. “What about now?” I teased, hopeful.

  “Ali,” he mumbled. “Stop.” He rolled onto his back, drew me into his arms and kissed my temple. “You’ll have to trust me on this one, okay? I know the side effects and I’ve talked with the doctor about it. As soon as I can wean off, Mother Nature will take over and I’ll be back in the saddle.”

  “Back in the saddle?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “It’s just,” I whispered around the knot that threatened to choke out the words, “that I love you and I miss … that.”

  “Me, too,” he said. “Now let’s get some sleep.”

  Cindie

  Everything had to be perfect.

  Everything. From the meal to the music. From the words to the timing in which she spoke them.

  Patterson had been on a Kenny G kick lately, so she went out and purchased the latest. Had it playing loud enough that he’d hear it when he slid his key into the front door lock.

  A bottle of his preferred wine was open and breathing on the bar. She’d timed his favorite meal from her kitchen—smothered pork chops with asparagus and seasoned baby red potatoes—to the minute. And, of course, she had taken great pains in choosing what she’d wear. Had gone shopping for the right outfit, settling on a white knit too-short skirt with matching sweater accentuated by a wide red knit belt. More sash than belt, really.

  She nearly broke her budget with the purchase of gold mesh earrings that dripped seductively from her earlobes toward her shoulders, then decided to go all the way and purchased the complementary necklace. Then, keeping with what made Patterson happy, she met him at the door barefoot, despite the chill in the air. The fire in the fireplace would take care of that.

  And, hopefully, her news.

  He smiled as soon as he saw her, and she hurried over to him. Locked her arms around his neck and kissed him. When he pulled back, his eyes narrowed, but his grin grew broader. “Do I smell smothered pork chops?” he asked.

  Cindie pretended to pout. “Really?” She stepped back. Turned slowly. Seductively. “Is that all you’re interested in?”

  “Well,” he said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek, “No, but I am hungry, and you know how much I love your smothered pork chops.” He took a step toward the dining room, stopping short at the view of linen and crystal and gleaming china. “You brought out the good stuff,” he said. “Did I forget something? I know it’s not your birthday.”

  She wrapped her arm around his and guided him toward the table set for two. “No, silly. Have we been together so long that I can’t treat you to a special dinner? Light the candles, will you?” She released him, picked up the plates, and started toward the kitchen. “I’ll serve the food.”

  “Kenny G,” he called out as she spooned a generous helping of potatoes onto his plate.

  “You like?” she answered back.

  “Yes, I do. When’d you get it?”

  Cindie returned to the dining room carrying two plates of steaming hot food, one with noticeably larger portions. “Today,” she answered as he took the plates from her. She looked down; he’d kicked off his shoes, his black socks a stark contrast to the carpet. When Patterson took their plates, she turned back toward the kitchen. “I’ll get the wine.”

  She returned less than a minute later to hand him the dark-green bottle. “Do the honors?”

  “You’re beginning to make me nervous,” he said with a chuckle that failed him.

  “Sit,” she said, then slid onto her chair. “Why’s that?”

  Patterson sat across from her. “Muted lights. Kenny G.” He leaned back. “Is that a new outfit?”

  “It is,” she answered, picking up her fork. “Eat before it gets cold.”

  “And new jewelry?” he asked, reaching for his knife and fork.

  “You like? The light, the music, the outfit, the jewelry?”

  “Very much so.” He took a bite of pork chop. “Dear Lord in heaven, this is … so … good.” He swallowed then. “Cindie.”

  “Yes?”

  He pointed the fork at her. “Tell me the truth right now. And no funny business. What is this about? Is your checking account in the red again? Do you need money?”

  “I’m doing fine, Patterson.” And she was. More than fine. That was the one and only good deal in her allowing Michelle to continue to live with Westley. No “child expenses” and no “child support.” Her money was hers to make and hers to spend. “When was the last time I asked you for money?”

  “It’s been a while.”

  “See? A little education and a good job go a long way.”

  “Indeed, they do.” He took another bite, swallowed. “But you and I both know this isn’t our typical evening at home.”

  That much was true. Then again, they had no typical evenings at home. Nor did they have typical evenings anywhere else. Every “night out” was in secret. Every trip a rendezvous.

  Patterson started for his wine, then stop
ped. “Seriously,” he said. “Is there something you need to tell me? You weren’t fired today or anything?”

  “Of course not. You know how much they depend on me at work.”

  His face brightened. “A promotion then?”

  She gripped her fork, then set it down. “That would be nice, but … no.”

  “Cindie …”

  “Drink your wine,” she said, because clearly this wasn’t going as she’d hoped. Her plan had been dinner. Wine. A half glass for her, at least three for him. Her plan had been snuggling on the sofa. Making out. Making love. Then … then when he was half drunk and completely spent and relaxed in her arms she’d ask if he loved her. He would assure her that he did. The way he always assured her. And then, she’d tell him her secret. Beyond that, she had no clue.

  But, as always, Patterson was running the show. Whatever Patterson wanted … whenever he wanted … wherever he wanted …

  Cindie took a sip of her own and said, “It’s the good stuff in case you didn’t notice.”

  “I noticed.”

  She forced a smile. “Then drink up,” she said, reaching for the bottle to add a small portion to the half-filled goblet.

  “Not until you come clean,” he answered, but his fork speared one of the potatoes.

  She had to gain control. She had to … “Patterson,” she said, her voice strong. “Seriously. Take a sip of your wine. It’s delicious and I spent a great deal on it.”

  Then, for reasons she’d never fully understand, he did. “Now,” he said. “What’s this about? Because I can tell when something’s up. If you are having a problem—with your job, with your bank account, whatever—tell me now so we can get it out of the way, and I can enjoy this evening with you. We don’t get nearly enough time, so—”

  All right then. She’d have to skip ahead. No snuggling. No making love. “Do you love me?”

  He rested his knife and fork on the edge of the plate, and she did the same. “How long have we been together now? You know I do.”

  “Good, then we don’t have a problem.”

  “Then it stands to reason that if I didn’t love you, we would.”

  “Yes.” She picked up the utensils again, holding them the way he’d taught her. The way she made sure Michelle held them when they ate together—the one thing Westley had apparently failed to teach her properly. “You’re right. It stands to reason.”

  “And why is that?” Patterson pressed.

  “Because,” she stated, bringing her eyes to his. “I’m pregnant.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Nothing had gone as planned.

  Patterson hadn’t swept her into his arms. He hadn’t caressed her. Told her that he loved her and that, “Somehow, sweetheart, we’ll work through this. I’ll leave Mary Helen tomorrow, I’ll file for divorce, and you and I will marry, and our baby will grow up in a loving home, happy with his sisters who will come every weekend and Michelle who will come when she can.” Instead, he became demanding. Ordering her about. Blaming her. She’d done this on purpose, he ranted. She’d not taken her pill at just the right time. She was a woman, he said. “You know the way these things work.”

  She’d assured him otherwise, but he didn’t believe her—the worst sting of all.

  “So then? What do you expect of me?” he asked, his hands splayed on his hips as he paced in front of her on the living room floor. “What do you want me to do about this? Because if you think I’m leaving my wife … my girls … my career … you’re sadly mistaken, Cindie.”

  She sat on the sofa, feet tucked under her. They were freezing now; no amount of heat from the fireplace could warm them. In fact, her bones hurt, the whole of her was so chilled. She’d known he wouldn’t necessarily be thrilled, but she’d not expected this.

  And, of course, she cried. Tears, unrelenting and uninvited, slipped down her cheeks in a cascade, which only riled Patterson more. He pointed at her, face red, eyes blazing. “Crying isn’t going to help.”

  Even worse than being called a liar was the fact that she had somehow, inexplicably, found herself here again. In such a position. Telling a man she loved—or thought she loved—that she now carried his child, only to have him become angry. Unsympathetic to her needs. Her emotions. Her desires.

  Always what they wanted. Always.

  Well, she didn’t need him. She could have a baby on her own—she’d proven that—but this time she’d figure out a way to raise the child. Over her dead body would Patterson and Mary Helen bring her child up. It was bad enough that Westley’s wife had sunk her teeth into Michelle. Molding her into what she wanted her to be—like her. But not this time … no. And she sure as sunshine on a July afternoon wasn’t going to let her family know she’d gotten pregnant by another man—a married man—anytime soon. Velma would call hellfire down on her. Leticia, who flitted from one bad relationship to the next, would try to figure a way to make her older sister’s situation work to her benefit, and Jacko—who drank too much but still managed to marry a sweet girl and raise his kids halfway decent—Jacko and Jasmine would probably offer to make her child one of theirs. Then there was Lettie Mae who would, as she’d done the first time, call her a slut. Tell her she was only getting what she deserved, and then, in the next breath, try to find a way to extort money from Patterson much as she’d tried from Westley.

  Patterson. A man she could kill right now as good as look at, but at the same time had to protect. The irony struck her, seeped into the soul of her. Somehow … somehow … she had to stop being a victim. Had to be on top and remain there. If only once in her life, she had to.

  She stood. Faced him, her lips taut as a rope holding a rabid dog. “Get out,” she said.

  “Don’t tell me—”

  She pointed to the door. “Get. Out.”

  His face softened and his eyes became tender again. “Cindie,” he whispered, reaching for her. She took a step back. If this was going where she thought it was going, he’d best know right up front that she wasn’t the stupid teenager she’d been when she’d faced Westley with this news. Oh, no … No man was going to sweet-talk her again. Talk her into something she didn’t want to do so he could get what he wanted … again. “Sweetheart … I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting … this. I know you didn’t do this on purpose.” He raised his hands as if he were addressing a jury about to sequester and reach a verdict. “What we have to do now is figure out what we will do from here.”

  “I know what I’m going to do, Patterson.”

  His shoulders sank, the idea of losing it all—wife, daughters, career, and a mistress—weighing them down. “Look. I know a good doctor. He can take care of this, discreetly, and we’ll get back to what we had—what we have.”

  She blinked. “I’m not aborting this baby, Patterson.” She laughed then. A light chuckle that came from the saddest place inside her. “You and Westley,” she said, breathing out their names as though they were poison. “I sure know how to pick ’em.” At least Westley hadn’t asked her to abort the child.

  “Them. Pick them.”

  “Shut up, Patterson. I know how to speak. And I’m not as stupid as you seem to believe.”

  “I never—”

  “Then shut up. You …” She took a step toward him. “You were never, ever, going to marry me, were you? You were never going to leave Mary Helen. It wouldn’t have mattered how old your girls got to be.” She laughed again. “I can hear it now… I can’t leave, Cindie, because the girls are too young … in school … getting married … having their own babies. Well, Patterson, I hope you enjoyed what you had since the day I walked into your classroom with a ‘yes’ practically tattooed across my chest because you’ll never have it again. You’ll never touch me. Kiss me. Love me.” She shook her head. “You sure saw me coming, didn’t you? And for some reason you thought you could use me … for how long? For another few years?”

  “Stop it.”

  “No.” She took another step. “You stop it. Get your shoes.
Get whatever you think you have here that is yours … and get. Out.” She turned away from him, but his hand came around her arm, gripping.

  “You will not walk out on me,” he told her. “And you will not threaten me, do you hear? I’ll ruin you from one end of this globe to the next.”

  A moment of fear ran through her, a moment of remembering the time he’d hurt her. But what else could he do, really? How much worse could life get? She raised her chin and brought her eyes directly to his. “You will ruin me?” Cindie jerked her arm from his hold. “I suggest, Professor, that you go home tonight, snuggle up to your cold little wife, and pray to God that I don’t ruin you.”

  His slap came fast, leaving a trail of heat. But she didn’t collapse, nor did she clutch her cheek in distress. Instead, she turned, somehow made her way toward the bedroom door, and then tossed over her shoulder, “Leave your keys on the table. You won’t be needing them again.”

  She entered the dark of her bedroom and closed the door behind her, locking it with fingers that quivered so much they were nearly useless. Then, with her forehead pressed against the jamb, she waited. Listening … first to the slow shuffle of feet, the sitting on the sofa—was he putting on his shoes?—to the sigh of fabric as he stood, the drop of a single key to the table... She listened... until the front door opened and clicked shut.

  It was over. How long had it been now? How long had they been together? How long had she been such a stupid little fool? How much time had she wasted? Or nearly wasted, since one thing she had learned had been that nothing in life is ever wasted. The good, the bad. Nothing. If you learn from it, it becomes useful and worthwhile.

  Who’d said that to her? Westley? Sounded like something he’d say, but... no. Surely not Lettie Mae and certainly not her father. Vernon? No. Vernon was all about doing the right things all the time and not having to learn from the bad.

  Then who?

  Cindie flipped on the light switch—the one connected to the bedside lamp. A soft glow filled the corner of the room, dimming as it neared her, giving her just enough light to step over to her dresser and, without a glance in the mirror, remove first the earrings, then the necklace, followed by her clothes, which she left discarded on the floor. Like a puddle.