Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

“Of course, eventually they did more than hold hands or … because a year later—after getting the house set back to rights and working on the children’s educational needs—Hillie had her firstborn child, Bonnie.”

“Bonnie is your mother.”

“You met her at the wedding.”

Yes, I had. An older, shorter version of Mrs. Houser, for sure. “She was nice.”

“Mother always told me that Hillie never let on that the oldest five were not her own. In fact, Mother said that until she was old enough to calculate things, she’d had no idea.”

Understanding settled over me. “Because Hillie loved them as her own.”

Mom returned the photo, but her eyes didn’t quite meet mine as she said, “After Grandpa died, Hillie went to live with the youngest of the original five children. She had three of her own, but for some reason, her heart was tied closest to the first wife’s baby. And she lived with him and his family until she died.” Tearful eyes met mine. “She taught me a lot about … love. That it extends far beyond what you think it should. It can go straight from your heart to those who occupy an unexpected place there.”

“I—”

“Listen to me, Allison,” she said in such a way that I knew—I knew—our conversation had somehow left Hillie’s story and come to mine. “Every woman’s child is precious. Every child.”

“Mom,” Westley said then from the same position his mother had occupied earlier. Both she and I turned suddenly, as though we’d been caught doing something we shouldn’t. I smiled at him instinctively, but his attention was focused solely on the woman who’d brought him into the world, not on the woman he’d married. “What are you doing?” he asked, his tone confused. Accusatory.

But Mrs. Houser was not intimidated. She stepped away from the piano and to her son, whose chin she cupped in maternal tenderness. “I was telling her about Hillie,” she answered matter-of-factly.

And, with that, she left the room … Westley right behind her.

Chapter Sixteen

Westley

They had promised each other no Christmas gifts—and they’d stuck to that—but, nevertheless, on Monday morning Westley’s car pulled a small U-Haul trailer full of gifts—both Christmas and wedding—toward their new home in Odenville. Including a hand-carved cedar hope chest, a gift from his parents. Unbeknownst to his new bride, her mother had sent over her wedding dress—already dry-cleaned and boxed—which Westley’s mother lovingly placed within its depths along with two family heirlooms from the Houser family—an antique soup tureen that had belonged to his father’s grandmother and, nestled for Allison to find later, the photo of Hillie.

Westley’s brow furrowed at the heated, yet whispered, argument he’d had with his mother after she’d shared Hillie’s story with Allison.

“I know what you’re doing, Mom,” he’d said to her.

“Son,” she’d said, her voice as firm as it had been after the after-prom shenanigans he and his best pals had executed. “I love you more than I have words. But you have to tell her. In fact, she should already know.”

“She will. I promise. Soon.” And he would. Right after the first of the year. Right after he sought out his attorney—an old friend from childhood—to discuss all the options.

Now, nearing their new home, Allison swiveled to look behind them and he smiled inwardly, remembering how she’d made certain he’d wrapped her special gift in old army blankets her father kept in the attic before supervising its placement into the farthest corner of the trailer.

“It’s still there,” he teased.

“Just making sure,” she said before turning to face front again. Before readjusting the blue suede faux-fur-lined maxi coat her parents had given her the day before. A final time, he figured, that they’d make such a purchase. Winter coats were for husbands to purchase, not parents.

They arrived back in Odenville around three thirty, Westley driving straight to their house, anxious to have her in it. To feel her presence there. To see how she’d supervise, this time, the unloading of the trailer … the placement of the gifts. Determining “this goes in the kitchen … the dining room … the living room … the bedroom.” The last room being the one he’d had on his mind most of the day, if not all.

He’d honored her wishes the night before and stayed on his side of the bed. But tonight—if he survived until tonight—they’d finally be home. In their own bedroom. In their own bed. And, once again, she’d be his.

He grinned at her as he reached behind the steering wheel to put the car in park, then said, “Welcome home, Mrs. Houser.”

She clasped her hands as if in prayer. “Gosh, I love hearing that name,” she said before waggling her brow at him and saying, “Is this the part where you carry me over the threshold?”

He opened his door. “If I can, after all that turkey and dressing you ate …”

She waited for him to come to the passenger’s door. To open it and help her out. Because she was, first and foremost, a lady. Which was, after all, one of the reasons he’d married her. Had to have her. “Ho-ho-ho,” she said, her voice indicating that she’d understood the joke.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you to the door and then …” He stretched playfully. “I’ll see if my back holds out for this tradition you think so important.”

Naturally, it did. She was light as a feather, as the old saying went. And she kissed him as soon as they’d stepped inside. Before he could send her feet to the floor. “I love you,” she said for the first time inside their new home.

“I love you,” he repeated, as he always did. Always would. Because he did. He was sure of it.

Allison looked around then. Inhaled. “It smells lemony fresh in here,” she said, her brow furrowed. “I figured with it being locked up for a few days …”

Westley kissed her turned-up nose. “Miss Justine sent Rose Beth over this morning. Told me before I left for the wedding