Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

spoke from the head of the classroom—wah-wah-wah-wah. Or a record playing at the wrong speed. I stood, pushing his hand away, and retreated to the bathroom where I threw up the three bites of tuna casserole I’d managed to eat before he’d lowered the boom, then went into our bedroom and slid between the cool sheets to bury my face.

Westley had the good sense to leave me alone, sleeping in the spare bedroom. The guest bedroom—the one where my sister and her husband would sleep come the weekend. Dear God, where will Westley sleep then?

The only words spoken between us came early in the morning when he’d walked into the bedroom to get his clothes. “Sweetheart,” he whispered from beside the bed, his fingertips brushing my hair from my face.

“Go away,” I told him.

And he had. Which was, truly, the worst part. Because it was and wasn’t what I wanted. What I needed. No, I needed him to tell me that the whole thing had been a joke. A horribly bad joke. Or a dream. A nightmare. Something every new bride dreams on the second night in her new home. Instead, he pulled clothes off hangers, went into the bathroom, showered, and several minutes later, left the house, taking the car and leaving me alone.

I stayed in bed until nature forced me out. I took a shower. Brushed my hair, pulling it into a ponytail, and then my teeth because, God knew, I didn’t want morning breath. Westley didn’t. He’d made that clear, hadn’t he? And I stupidly wondered if this Cindie Campbell person had morning breath after . . .

I slid into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, then made both beds, before shuffling into the dining room, surprised to find the table cleared. And, in the kitchen, everything had been left spick-and-span. The percolator stood in the center of the stove with a note taped to it: JUST PLUG ME IN. I’LL PERK THE BEST CUP OF COFFEE YOU EVER HAD.

I tried to smile. In fact, I may have, especially after I took the first cinnamon-laced sip from where I sat in the living room. From where I stared out the wide window onto the street outside, thinking about that long brown car and hearing the words Mama said to me after the wedding.

“I won’t get a chance to say this again, so listen up. I’m telling you that Westley Houser is the kind of man who needs to run his own household. Whatever he wants, Allison, you just follow his lead. Don’t mess this up. Don’t shame me and your daddy. We’ve done good by you and—”

“Mama,” I had whispered. “I love you so much and I love him so much and I promise you—Ipromise you—I won’t do anything to embarrass you or Daddy.”

I sighed into my coffee, my vow choking out any thoughts I had of calling Mama … of asking her what I should do … of asking her if I could come home. If I could pretend none of this—meeting Westley, dating him, marrying him, becoming his wife in every sense of the word—had ever happened. But what kind of shame would I bring on her and Daddy—or Grand—if I left Westley after less than two weeks of marriage? They’d never be able to hold their heads up again, especially not in a town like Bynum.

Movement from the driveway jerked me from my melancholy long enough that I was able to walk over to the window and peer out. To see Miss Justine bounding out of her car as though she were no more than a twenty-one-year-old. The much-needed smile broke across my face at the sight of her—such a petite woman dressed in the middle of the morning as if she were heading for a late-night downtown dinner. Black boots . . . a full-length mink coat … hair teased high. A rope of pearls wrapped around her black-gloved wrist.

I opened the door, setting my coffee on the console TV simultaneously, to find her already on the porch, arms opened wide.

“Come here, darlin’,” she said before I had a chance to greet her.

And I did. Even though I towered over her, I folded into the maternal warmth of her, remaining there until she said, “Let’s go inside before rumors start.”

I offered a cup of coffee, which she took, then complimented me on the flavor. “Rose Beth couldn’t have made a better cup,” she declared after we’d returned to the sofa and she’d removed her gloves and coat to show off a sporty suede skirt and coordinating sweater. Thick gold chains hung around her neck, low enough to lie askew over her breasts and her makeup was, as before, a tad too much for my taste, but seemed to represent who Miss Justine was at the very core of herself.

“Westley made the coffee,” I admitted. “A peace token, I guess.” I looked up at her. “How did you know, Miss Justine?”

She took a sip of coffee before answering. “Westley called me the minute he got to work. Confused as I’ve ever heard him. Told me in that little-boy-with-his-hand-in-the-cookie-jar voice that he’d messed up everything. He thinks you’ll never forgive him.” She cocked a penciled-in brow. “Will you?”

“Should I?”

“Of course, you should. He didn’t have the child while the two of you were married, did he?”

“No, but—”

“And he hasn’t slept with the girl since the two of you met, has he?”

“I don’t think so—”

“He hasn’t,” she clipped. “I know, because I asked him. And he swore he hadn’t.” She pointed at me. “When you’ve been married a whole lot longer, you’ll learn to ask the right questions right up front. You’ll also learn how to put Westley in his place and keep him there. Which, by the way, is in knowing yours.”

I placed my cup on the low, oval coffee table. “But, Miss Justine, how can I believe that? That he hasn’t been with her since … the baby … was conceived?”

She laughed. Actually laughed. “Oh, child. If there is