Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

he often wished he’d never met her mother. Or, if he’d met her, that he hadn’t been so stinking intoxicated the night she’d wooed him away from the slightest measure of any decent level of sense.

Even with the age difference, he’d known Cindie Campbell for years—her and her family. You couldn’t grow up in a town like Baxter and not know who the Campbells were. Years ago—gosh, how many had it been—Horace Campbell left his wife and their four kids for another woman—a nurse from another town, he’d heard his mother say. Naturally, the good women of the church had rallied to the cause, his mother included. They’d done their collective best to help Lettie Mae Campbell, despite her social standing. They’d found her an affordable house, helped her fill out paperwork for government assistance that would suffice until she could get on her feet, and even drove her to the legal appointments that concluded with her divorce. Which, of course, not a single one of them approved of but, as one woman said, “What else was there to do but divorce the man?”

Westley slowed his car as a traffic light changed from yellow to red. He checked his watch, which seemed to tick faster than what was best for him. Keep napping, Ali. Keep napping.

He glanced over at the photo of his daughter lying face-up in the seat beside him, the one in the thin brass frame. Well, one thing was for certain—drunk or not—he and Cindie had made a pretty child. Not that he could remember much about the night she’d been conceived. Only that while on a weekend visit to Paul and DiAnn’s to celebrate his twenty-sixth birthday, he’d gone into the café where Cindie worked, hoping for the best, greasiest burger he could find, and that at some point he and Cindie ended up on the outskirts of town, stretched out and shivering on a blanket, two empty bottles of Boone’s Farm tossed into the thick, moist grass—their clothes right along with them. The following afternoon, after nursing the first and worst hangover of his life, he returned to Athens, still unsure as to how he’d gotten the girl or himself back to their respective homes, but more than a little certain of what had occurred between them and hoping she wouldn’t read anything more into it than it was. A one-night stand. Done and forgotten.

Six weeks later, DiAnn called him. Cindie had spotted her in the Piggly Wiggly, she said. “She gave me a piece of news I think you may want to sit down for.” Later that evening, as expected, Paul called him. “Really, brother? Cindie Campbell?”

Westley had groaned appropriately. “Never mind she’s a Campbell, she’s cute and I was drunk,” he said by way of excuse.

“Yeah, but she’s also only—what—fifteen years old? You’ll be lucky if Lettie Mae doesn’t—”

“She’s older than that.” He remembered that much. “But her mother is the least of my worries,” he said. Because she was. And then, to deflate the situation, he added, “Don’t you think she’s cute?”

“Well, she’s not my type, not that it matters. The Campbells are only after one thing, Wes, and you should know that. A way out of working. Lettie Mae has figured out a way to live without ever hitting a lick at a snake and she’ll make sure her kids do, too. Other than the oldest girl, they’re all headed for the same kind of life as their mother.”

Oh, yes. The oldest. Velma. Sweet girl. Married a country preacher and, according to what he’d heard, made a fine wife and mother. But the rest of them … Lord God, help.

Lettie Mae had put Cindie to work in the café at thirteen. Her younger sister right there with her. Both expected to bring half their pay to the household accounts, he now knew better than he should. And the only boy in the family, Jacko, had made a reputation for himself when it came to petty crime before he hit his twelfth birthday.

Only after one thing … well, Cindie had proven that. Standing there in her mother’s boxed-off living room, demanding more money from him. Barely at legal age—if that—and she already had that much down to a science. No doubt in his mind she’d nickel-and-dime him the rest of Michelle’s childhood. Unless …

The light turned green and Westley pushed the accelerator a tad harder than he should, then pulled back. No need in getting a ticket. That would only make things worse. He had only a short period of time now to think things through. Somehow he’d managed, so far, to keep Michelle’s existence away from his parents. For sure, he’d tell them. But first he had to marry Allison Middleton. Make everyone think he was ready to settle down. Build a life with her and, eventually, have their own children. Plus Michelle. Because instinctively he knew Michelle would be more than a child who visited every other weekend, a week at Christmas, and a week or two during summer vacation.

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Only a few more weeks and Ali would be his wife. He’d take her on a honeymoon she’d never forget and then, once they got home, he’d tell her the truth. Make it as matter-of-fact as possible. Michelle was a reality and—he’d say—living with a woman not fit to raise her. Somehow, they’d need to think about whatever it took to lead to full custody. Because that was what he wanted when he got right down to it. Because he’d be darned if he’d let Michelle grow up like the rest of her mother’s family.

Westley made the turn toward his brother’s house. Good ole Paul. He’d played life right down the line—clean and safe. No heavy drinking. No drugs. No wild women. He and DiAnn had started dating their senior year in high school. They’d remained faithful to each other all through college and, four-year diplomas in hand, they’d married and gone right to