Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

one thing I know about Westley Houser it’s this—if you ask him a direct question, he will not lie. He may hold some things back—and believe me, that boy’s untold shenanigans could fill a book, but he won’t lie.” She cupped my chin, her long nails lightly scraping the tender flesh of my throat. “He’s not a bad boy, he just made a bad decision.”

“Marrying me?” I asked, wondering what a woman like Miss Justine really thought. Shouldn’t he have married the mother of his child? Shouldn’t he have done better than keeping Michelle a secret, all the while dating me? Proposing to me? Meeting me at the altar? How could she possibly justify such behavior? How could I?

She released me, her pearls clunking against each other. “Heavens no. That was the best decision of his life, if you want my opinion. No … going out with that Cindie Campbell is what I mean. Honey, listen. That family—you don’t know—they’re a mess. White trash, some people would call them.” She waved a hand laden with gemstone rings. “Not me, mind you. I’d never call anyone that. But even over here in Odenville we’ve heard tell of Lettie Mae Campbell and her lot. And I’ll tell you another thing: if I know women like her—and I do—she thought her daughter giving birth to Westley’s child was her meal ticket.” Her shoulders squared. “I’m surprised she didn’t have him in a court of law, but for whatever reason … maybe she thinks she’ll get more out of him this way.”

I looked toward the spare bedroom. “My sister and her husband are coming on Friday night,” I said, mainly because I didn’t know how to respond to the information. I’d been sheltered most of my life, but I knew white trash. I understood … I thought. And this new piece of information made me more confused than sure. How could Westley—Westley—date a girl like Cindie Campbell? I couldn’t picture it. Couldn’t bear it. Not another word of it. “They’re driving my car in.”

Miss Justine blinked. “Well, I don’t know what that has to do with anything, but if I had to guess, I’d say Mister Westley spent last night in one bedroom and you in another.”

Shame washed through me. Maybe my actions had been no way for a bride to behave. I didn’t know. I hadn’t been at it long enough. “Yes, ma’am.”

Again, her laughter filled the house like a dog’s bark. “Good for you, princess. Good for you.” She scooted closer, gathering my hands in hers. “Want my advice?”

“Yes, please.” Because I surely couldn’t ask my mother for any right then. Or my grandmother. Maybe my sister when she arrived.

“Keep him in the guest bedroom another night. Make him sweat just the teeniest weeniest bit. But, tonight, make a meal he won’t forget and then listen to what he has to say about that little girl. And about his plans.”

“His plans?” My heart hammered. Westley had plans? Plans he could have and should have told me about before now, certainly.

“He’s got some,” she said, drawing me back from the angst that wanted to simmer below the surface. “He told me all about them and I support him 100 percent.” Her hands squeezed mine. “If need be, with my money. And if you knew the Campbells you would too.”

I sighed. Westley. Had. Plans. Plans Miss Justine knew about and I didn’t. Not that I’d given him a chance the night before to tell me anything. And not like he hadn’t had months to do so previously. “I only know how to make tuna casserole.” I nodded toward the back of the house. “Decently, I mean. In spite of my grandmother’s attempts to teach me.” I pointed toward the kitchen. “The one I made last night is in the fridge.”

“Good land of the living,” Miss Justine said as she stood and reached for her coat and gloves. “Then let’s get going. Go change into something presentable, child. Can’t have you out and about in jeans and a sweatshirt. Then, you and I will run to the Piggly Wiggly, get what we need for a nice, big salad to go with that tuna casserole, and first thing tomorrow you’ll come over and Rose Beth will start your cooking lessons.”

I stood. Took a deep breath and forced a smile I didn’t quite feel yet.

Raise your radish, Allison…

All right, Grand. All right. If you could keep going with all your tragedy, then so can I … “Miss Justine?”

She shoved her arms into her coat. “Yes, lamb?”

“How’d you get so wise?”

Again, she laughed. “Honey, when you get to be as ancient as me, you’ll be wise, too. It’s the gift the good Lord gave us—a reward for putting up with our men for as long as can be.”

The table was set when Westley came home, the house dimly lit and inviting. I didn’t dress up—I wore the same slacks and top I’d worn to the grocery store—and I didn’t put on makeup or spritz on body spray. But I stood in the dining room behind my chair, hands gripping it, waiting as he walked in, a sense of relief etching away at the look of concern. “Hi,” he said.

“I’m still upset,” I told him right away, just as Miss Justine instructed. “But we have to eat and I—I want to hear what your plans … are.”

He hung his coat over the back of his chair, then leaned against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. “You talked to Miss Justine?” he asked, his face declaring that he was, indeed, a man with both everything to lose and everything to gain by our conversation.

“She talked to me.” I pulled out my chair and sat. “Sit, Wes.”

He smiled as he complied. “Ali …”

“Salad?” I asked, tossing it again before scooping it into a bowl for him. “And I bought several kinds of dressing.”

“How did you—”

“You owe Miss Justine twenty-three dollars and eighteen cents, by the way.”

He smiled again. “I see