Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

his intent. “Look,” he said again. “I know what you’re hoping for and it’s not—”

“Why not?”

“Because, sweetheart, I don’t feel that way about you.” He brought his hands up, then placed them on the table. “I’m sorry. I’m probably the biggest cad in the world—”

“What’s a cad?”

“A—a cad is a—a scoundrel.” Right there. Right there was another reason … Not knowing a simple word like cad. “Cindie, I want you to fulfill your potential. I told you that.” He popped a fry in his mouth; if he was going to eat at all, he’d have to work it in between the beginning and ending of her undoing. And, perhaps, his own.

“I can, Westley. As your wife I can.”

“No,” he said around a swallow.

“Why not?” Her eyes widened. Her lips pursed. Understanding dawned. “Is there someone—someone else?”

Here it was. His chance. Or, at least, half a chance. “Yes.”

Cindie pushed at her plate, which hit the mug of coffee she’d yet to drink from, sending the contents over the edge to form a small waterfall, its tiny pool lying around the base like a mud pond. Somewhat like, he had to admit, his father’s reaction to finding out about Michelle. And now, this …

Westley grabbed a napkin from the dispenser and handed it to her, but she slapped his hand away. “Is it serious?”

“It is,” he answered, now mopping up the spill himself.

She stood so quickly he had to grab at his plate to keep from wearing the contents. “Don’t bother coming tomorrow,” she said. Loudly. Too loudly.

“Sit down,” he told her, the tips of his ears growing warm. Cindie causing a scene was the last thing he needed.

“No. I won’t. And I don’t have to let you see her. I don’t,” she all but screamed before throwing the Santa at his chest, then stomping toward the café’s front door like the near-child she was.

“Cin—” he called after her, half turning in his seat to see that—seemingly—every diner now focused on the argument in the back. He raised his hand in apology, then turned back to the unconsumed meals that grew cold.

“Is everything okay?”

He looked up. The waitress had returned. “Yeah,” he conceded, then pointed to his plate. “Can I have both of these in a couple of to-gos?”

He’d eat back in the break room . . . and take Cindie’s meal to Miss Ramona as a token.

Of what, he wasn’t quite sure.

Cindie

By the time she reached her mother’s car, the tears that threatened to spill over did exactly that. She jammed the key into the lock, twisted it with such force she surprised herself that it didn’t break off, then scrambled into the car as quickly as she could. Within seconds she gasped, her hands gripping the cold, cracking vinyl of the steering wheel. They flexed. Once. Twice until she held onto it as though holding onto a life raft in the middle of a tumultuous ocean. She brought her forehead down hard on the wheel. Moments later, she raised up, then slammed her hands down on the dashboard as a primal growl rose from inside her. Against Westley. Against this girl, whoever she was. Against herself. Against Lettie Mae and her father and everything that life had sucked out of her.

“I hate him!” she shrieked, then looked around to see if she had brought any attention to herself.

She hadn’t . . . for such a busy little town, nothing stirred right then. But she noticed a phone booth nearby and, as if she were an actor in some movie playing at the Mahoney Theater in downtown Baxter, she knew her next move.

First, wipe her nose and dry her face, which she did with an old McDonald’s napkin she found on the floorboard. She opened the car door, then stepped out. One foot on the pavement. Then another. She hoisted herself up and out. Slammed the door behind her with little effort, mainly because that was all that was left inside. She then made her way to the phone booth that smelled like old beer and perspiration. Stuck her finger into the 0 of the rotary dial and waited.

“Operator.”

“Operator,” Cindie said, keeping her voice as steady as she knew how. “Do you have a listing for a Westley—W-E-S-T-L-E-Y—Westley Houser in—um—Odenville?”

“Hold please,” a soft voice replied, then: “I have a new listing—”

“That would be it.”

“On Rosemary Street.”

She wasn’t sure, but … “That’s it.”

The operator gave the number. “Oh,” Cindie said. “Wait …” She dug into her purse until she found a pen and an old receipt for baby powder, then scribbled the number down and repeated it back. “Thank you.”

Within a minute she was back in the car, unsure what to do next. Another minute and she was back out on the sidewalk, waiting for someone to walk by. And when they did, she asked, “Do you know how to get to Rosemary Street?” A minute after that, her car was pointed in the right direction, her eyes scanning the houses—little cookie cutters standing between pretty trees and edged lawns—until she found exactly what she was looking for: Westley’s hot new car.

Cindie slowed Lettie Mae’s to a crawl, her heart racing, her breath coming in rapid beats. Was that her? The young woman sitting on the front porch, legs crossed, dark hair falling over her face, nose pointed toward a book opened on her lap—was that her? And what was she doing there? Cooking? Cleaning? Waiting for Westley? Had to be because she seemed to have possession of his car.

She kept going until she was at a safe distance, then pulled into a random driveway, backed up and drove past the house again. Yes. That was definitely Westley’s car and, this time, the woman looked up. She was—okay—she was pretty in a Seventeen Magazine cover sort of way. Fresh-faced. Almost … nearly … perfect. But Cindie had one thing that chick didn’t—Westley’s baby girl.

A few minutes later Cindie turned the car back in the direction of the house for one more look. To assure herself. Or maybe