Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

Of course he loved his daughter more than himself. In fact, he’d hardly known that he could love someone as much until recently. But in the few weeks of afternoons that he’d had with her—the chubby-armed hugs and the bright green eyes that looked at him with heart-palpitating trust and adoration—he’d come to realize what true love meant. And that gaining custody of her at any cost was at the forefront of necessity.

“It is true,” Cindie pouted, making the most of her immaturity while reaching for the child they shared, a child snuggled in her father’s arms, sleeping like the angel she was. “We are your family now. Me and Michelle. You should be with us.”

Westley slid over on the sofa. “She’s fine with me,” he said, his voice firm. “I mean it.”

Cindie had taken the hint and backed away, her face pinking at his admonishment. Two rooms back, Lettie Mae banged around in the kitchen, while Jacko sat cross-legged in front of the television not eight feet away, his attention captured by an episode of Good Times. Across town, Leticia put in a shift at the café—the same restaurant where one burger and an order of fries had changed his life. The thought of it brought his lips to the crown of his daughter’s head. He inhaled the sweet scent of baby shampoo and talcum powder and the scent that comes simply from being a toddler, then snuggled her heart closer to his own. “I bet you haven’t even told your parents yet,” Cindie’s tirade continued, her voice rising in hopes of getting Lettie Mae’s attention. Of having her mother come in and help fight this battle for her. God knew he and the older Campbell had gone around and around enough in the last few weeks over money and responsibility, the irony of the arguments never skipping past him.

“I’m telling them over the holidays,” he told Cindie then. “Kind of an early Christmas present.”

And at that, Cindie’s face brightened. “Really?”

“Really.” Not because he necessarily wanted to, but because he needed to. He had to tell his parents before he told Allison. Had to somehow have them on his side in case things went south with his new wife. Not that they would. They couldn’t.

Cindie slid closer. Placed her hand on his arm, her fingertips playing with him. One more attempt … “And then Michelle and I can go with you to their home for weekends. She can get to know them, and they can get to know her.” Her eyes brightened at the thought.

Westley had only smiled. Kissed Michelle one more time before handing her over to her mother. “Here you go, little one,” he cooed. “Here’s your mama.”

With that, the suggestion defused.

But that was then. This was now …

He finished shaving, then dressed. He strolled through the house in search of his mother, not locating her, then into his father’s study where he found him standing at his desk, flipping through pages of a book. “Hey, Dad,” he said.

Benjamin Houser turned to look at his son, his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He removed them before smiling. Before laying them on top of the book that had held his attention. Whatever thoughts had occupied his mind before this minute, Westley knew, were about to take a backstage to what he had to tell his father now.

“By this time tomorrow,” his dad said, “you’ll be a nearly married man.”

Westley chuckled. “And by this time two days from now …”

His father crossed his arms. “What’s up? You look like you have something on your mind.”

Westley glanced over his shoulder. “Where’s Mom?”

“Beauty shop. Tonight’s the rehearsal and tomorrow’s the wedding and if her hair isn’t absolutely perfect, you and Miss Allison are going to have to cancel the whole shebang.”

Westley nodded, a smile breaking across his face and easing the tension that twisted between his shoulder blades. “I’m not so sure Ali will be okay with that. Um—” He glanced over his shoulder again. “Hey, Dad. Can we go into the family room? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Sounds ominous.”

Westley rested his hands on his hips. “Ah, no. No. Not ominous exactly.”

“Don’t tell me I’ve got to have the talk with you,” his father teased. “I distinctly remember going over all that when you and Paul were kids.”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then what is it, son?”

Westley took a step back. “Can we—ah—can we just go sit down?”

“We can. But let’s go into the kitchen. Mom made a fresh pot of coffee before she left, and I have a feeling this conversation will call for it.”

It would call for it, all right. In fact, if they had something stronger in the house—not that his teetotaling parents would—he’d suggest adding that to the cups. Especially since he’d quit smoking. Cold turkey, of course. Instead, they prepared their coffee with milk and sugar, then sat across from each other at the Formica table that stood center stage in the room. “Dad,” Westley began. “I’ve got an issue—and I need you to just hear me out before you say anything—I made a mistake—not a mistake. No.” He shook his head. “An error in judgment.”

Concern registered on his father’s face. “Are you wanting to call off the wedding? Because—”

“No.” Westley gripped the coffee cup, then relaxed his fingers and brought it up to his lips for a slow sip. “Gosh, no. I love Allison. I do. I can’t wait to make her my wife.” He gave his father a knowing smile “And not for the obvious reasons.”

“She’s been a good girl, then,” his father confirmed.

“Yeah. She has. But your son …” How would he say this? How could he possibly tell his father what he should have told him months before. A year before, if truth be told.

“Has sowed some wild oats? Son, I think that’s natural.” He raised his coffee cup toward his lips. “Most young men these days have—”

“I have a daughter, Dad.”

The cup came down, its contents sloshing