Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) đ
- Author: Eva Everson
Book online «Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) đ». Author Eva Everson
But sheâd slapped his hand away, whichâwith all their years togetherâhadnât surprised him. Sheâd pretty much been slapping his hand away since the night seven years ago when a high school football game slated them for the state championship. A night when heâd noticed herâreally noticed herâfor the first time, cheering from the stands for the team. From that night on, theyâd been an itemââPatterson Thacker and Mary Helen Robinsonââthe golden couple, the couple most likely to âŠ
But sheâd kept him on a tight physical leash from night one. Sticking to group dating and closed-mouth kisses and hands kept at safe distances. A fact, he convinced himself, in keeping with the standards of her being âthe kind of girl a man brings home to Mother.â
âThe ones you bring to your bed,â his father had informed him in one of the rare moments when they spoke of such things, âand the ones you bring home to Mother are not the same girls.â
Time had proven his fatherâs sage wordsâadvice, perhapsâto be true. There had been a girl during his first three years at Princetonâa flower-child-hippie-type named Daniâwhoâd fit the first bill just fine. He would have never brought Dani home to Mother. Or to Atlanta for that matter.
Fun while it lasted, but once heâd proposed to Mary Helen, he kissed Dani goodbye.
So to speak.
He sighed deeply now, thinking of her ⊠wondering where she was and how she was and if she ever thought of him fondly. The heat through the windowâor was it the memory of Dani tangled in threadbare sheetsâwarmed him enough that he tugged again at the collar of the overly starched tuxedo shirt. And, again, the blindingly white bow tie resisted the insert of his index finger as though its ulterior motiveâand perhaps Mary Helenâsâwas more to strangle him than to make him look debonair.
âA sign of things to come,â his best friendâand best manâsaid from behind. Patterson turned to smile at Dexter Holloway, who stood peeling his tux jacket off. âGoodness, man. Could Mary Helen have picked a hotter day? Even the air conditioner canât keep up.â
âDonât start,â he answered. âShe got so emotional after the weather report the other night, I thought she was going to have a meltdown that would make every Southern woman worth her salt stand up and take notice.â He stepped away from the window. âI mean it, Dex, if it werenât for all those gifts at her mama and daddyâs house, she probably would have cancelled the whole thing.â He grinned to lighten the notion. âYou know Mary Helen canât resist a good china pattern. And the thought of returning all that Limoges âŠâ
Dexter slid the cuff of his shirt over his watch. âSon, youâve got about ten minutes before the reverend comes in here to get us.â He looked up with a grin. âRun now and Iâll provide cover.â
âCome on. After seven years, you think Iâm about to run off now?â
Dexter nodded, bringing his hands to rest on his narrow hips. âSeven years and counting. Son, I cannot believe you two held out this long.â
âWasnât my idea.â
âBut tonightâs the night.â
Heatâdifferent than beforeâslid over Patterson, and he smiled. âLetâs certainly hope so.â He looked at Dexter then, a man whoâd been married two years now. A man whose wife was about to pop, ready to bring his baby into the world. âEver hear of a woman balking on her wedding night?â
âIâm sure some woman somewhere âŠâ
Patterson raised his brow in jest. âBut Mary Helen will be worth the wait.â
Dexter laughed. âOh, Iâm sure âŠâ
Patterson paced the room then, the thick red carpet soft beneath shoes that had been polished to such a shine he could see his reflection in them. When he stopped at the window again, he tapped the toe of one to the beat of a rhythm only he could hear. One that came out of nowhere. One with lyrics he whispered under his breath.
âWhatâs that?â Dexter asked.
Patterson looked up. âNothing,â he said with a shrug. âFor some reason Iâm singing âSubterranean Homesick Blues.â I got the album last week andâother than when Mary Helenâs had me at this function or thatâIâve listened to it nonstop.â
âI read somewhere that Dylanâs recording another one soon.â
âOh, yeah? That would be cool.â He paused, thinking. âMan, I love Dylan âŠâ
Dexter plopped down onto a charcoal-gray sculptural sofa that appeared to have been dropped onto one too many times by one too many groomsmen. âThis waiting âŠâ
Patterson found the nearest chair, unbuttoned the tux jacket, and eased down. âYou think youâre anxious. What about me?â
âDifferent reasons,â Dexter teased, which made Patterson chuckle.
âThis time tomorrow âŠâ
â. . . the wait will be over.â
The door slid open bringing both men to their feet, turning to see Reverend Pinkerton peering around it. âPatterson,â he said, entering with his hand extended. âYou ready, my boy?â
Patterson looked at Dexter and winked. The reverend meant one thing, but the two of them were thinking another. âYes, sir,â he answered, taking the pastorâs hand and giving it a firm shake.
âWell, then,â Reverend Pinkerton drawled. âJust to let you know, I stopped by the Brideâs Room a moment ago, and Mary Helen is as pretty a picture as you could ever imagine.â
Pattersonâs smile grew, his cheeks growing taut at the thought of her both in and out of her wedding gown. Sheâd told him all about it, but of course heâd yet to see it. Tradition prohibited and, God knew, Mary Helen was a woman of tradition. But sheâd talked about the lace and the satin and the fullness of the skirt brought about by layers of netting and the veil and her shoes and her bouquet and even the bridesmaidsâ gowns and shoes and bouquets until he wondered if she were marrying him because she loved him to the ends of the earth the way he loved her or because
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