Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

with such attention and passion she could hardly believe that what was happening between them was happening between them. To her.

She took a step back, pressed herself against her car, mostly to keep any semblance of fear at bay. “Patterson,” she said. “Go.”

For whatever reason—whether he’d heard some command in her voice or whether he had grown weary of playing with the victim—he did. Not that it stopped him from calling her. At least three times a week, always at work. “Just checking up,” he’d say. Which meant he wanted to know if she’d aborted their child. But the calls stopped the day she told him that she’d gotten married and that he needed to leave her alone. “No one’s the wiser,” she said. “You can go on with your life as if I never entered it.”

He didn’t speak at first. Maybe she’d shocked him, though she couldn’t imagine Patterson without retort. “I hope you’ll be very happy,” he finally muttered. And, with that, he disappeared from her life. Not once in the five years since had she heard from or seen him … except in the features of the child they’d made together.

She drove now, free of the choking traffic, down the street she called home, an avenue lined with azaleas and dogwoods in full blossom of white and varying shades of pinks and reds and purples. She smiled broadly at the sight of her husband and son standing outside on the driveway, looking down to study something of such vital importance it required mutual concentration. Then, as if on cue, they turned toward her. Karson leapt in place until Kyle scooped him up and deposited him on his broad shoulders. Their son wrapped pudgy hands over his father’s high forehead and held on as they made their way onto the grass, sprouting green after the harsh recent winter. Cindie straightened to see what held their attention, then saw the chalked outline of a heart with her name scrawled in its center. She smiled as warmth slid over her. Gosh, how she loved them. Loved them both. Whatever sins she’d committed had been worth the torment of living with the fear of her deceit.

As she stepped out of the car, Kyle returned to the driveway where he leaned forward to release Karson into her arms. She cuddled their son, kissing the warm folds of his neck, then raised her face for a welcome from her husband. He obliged willingly. “Traffic bad?” he asked.

“What do you think?” she asked, nearly wrung out from it. “But I’m home now and ready for pizza.”

“Pizza!” Karson exclaimed, throwing himself backward. Cindie nearly stumbled to keep from dropping him.

Kyle moved closer, slipped his hands under Karson’s armpits, and drew him away from her before she fell. “I have a surprise for you,” he said. “There’s a new place that opened up a few weeks ago. A couple of the guys at work say it’s some of the best New York-style pizza they’ve ever had.” His eyes widened. Sparkled. “And one of the guys at work is actually from New York.”

Cindie laughed. “Sounds good.” She pointed toward the house. “Just let me get out of these work clothes and into something less professional. I can be ready in fifteen minutes.”

Patterson

One of the best things about Friday nights was coming home from the university, traffic as horrid as it was, to the squeals of his young grandson when he opened the door. “Papa!” The four-year-old boy—usually in his grandmother’s arms—pushed against Mary Helen to be released. She’d set his feet to the floor and he’d run with every bit of energy given a toddler, straight to his grandfather’s extended arms.

“Monty, my boy,” he’d tease as he tickled and nuzzled.

“I’m not your boy,” the child—smarter than any four-year-old he’d ever met—would say. “I’m Mommy and Daddy’s boy. I’m your grandboy!”

“You are indeed. Every inch my grandboy. And I love you … oh, let me see if I can remember … how much do I love you?”

“Forever and ever amen,” came the answer Patterson had taught him.

A boy. Finally, a boy. Of course, he knew about his biological son, the one with Cindie. She called him the day after she gave birth to inform him of the details. Eight pounds, two ounces. All toes and fingers accounted for. A wisp of blond curls crowning his head. Then she hung up, not waiting for his reply. Not wanting, he surmised, to hear his dismissal or acceptance of a child he’d always hoped to have—a son. Nor had she waited for him to give his own news—that within a few weeks of finding out about Cindie’s pregnancy, his oldest daughter Patricia had come home from college with her boyfriend of eight months—or had it been nine—and announced that, having been to a justice of the peace the day before, they were now Mr. and Mrs. Montague Travers Stallard. Mary Helen had burst into tears; she’d already been consumed with hopes of an extravagant wedding. One that would take place in the same downtown Atlanta church where they’d married. Mary Helen would fuss over their daughter in the same bride’s room where she had—slightly over two decades before—been fussed over herself.

His wife’s plans for their oldest child were not to be thwarted, however. She quickly recovered and declared that they could still have a formal wedding. One that would take a few months to plan, but it would be lovely. “We may,” she said after a quick moment’s thought, her hands fluttering, “have to forego the teas and showers, but—then again—maybe not. Maybe a few—”

“Mom,” Patricia said, interrupting her mother’s train of thought as she slipped her slender hand into her new husband’s. “Stop.” She looked, first to Monty, as everyone called him, then to her father and then, back to her mother. “We’re pregnant.”

And just like that—once the shock had worn off, which took a good thirty seconds—Mary Helen went from planning bridal showers to baby showers while Patterson stood