Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

No. Michelle wasn’t the upper hand with a man like Westley. But something else was. All she had to do was figure out what.

Cindie took a long swallow of the coffee that warmed her clear through with a taste so perfect, she could almost believe that life could get better. “I got a shift this morning, Mama.”

“Then right after that. Don’t waste a second. See if she knows if he means it.”

“Means what?”

“About the lawyer. We can’t afford no lawyer, Cindie, so you’d best find out what’s what, like I said. We’ll plan what we need to do onc’t we know for sure.” She nodded toward the counter. “Bring me my cigarette, will ya? And pour me a bowl of cereal before you go get ready. Two scoops-a sugar like you know I like it.”

As soon as her shift was over, Cindie went to the restroom her boss set aside for his employees—not the better one for customers, but the one with the rust-stained sink and the toilet with a broken seat that pinched every time she sat on it, and the cheap paper towels they were ordered to use only one of per visit. There she washed off the smell of grease and coffee before changing into the best dress she owned, a new pair of nude pantyhose she popped out of an egg-shaped container, and the boots from her daddy. She swatted her lashes with another coat of Great Lash before applying a touch of lip gloss, and—for her final act—slid the posts of Westley’s earrings into the tiny holes in her earlobes.

Ten minutes later she was at DiAnn’s office and, this time, the receptionist recognized her. “Here to see Mrs. Houser?”

“Yeah. Tell her Cindie Campbell—”

“Yes, I know. She said if you ever returned, she’d see you.”

Cindie just bet she did. She waited while the woman punched numbers into a large office-style phone that would connect her to DiAnn’s office. She wondered fleetingly if DiAnn would offer her another Coke poured over chipped ice, and hoped so because, with everything at stake, her throat was as bone dry as she was bone weary. Dear God, she was still a teenager. Why then, did she feel seventy?

“Mrs. Houser said for you to come on back,” the receptionist said in her clipped tone. “Do you remember the way?”

“Yes.”

DiAnn Houser was standing behind her desk, dressed like the professional she was, when Cindie entered the sanctity of her office. “Close the door behind you,” she said, then smoothed the back of her wool skirt as she sat. She leaned back easily, crossing her legs and resting her elbows on the soft leather of the armrests with complete command. “Have a seat.”

Cindie kept her jaw firm as she tried to sit in the same relaxed manner, knowing the act wasn’t coming off the way she’d hoped. Would she ever have the grace and poise this woman possessed in her smallest finger? “I reckon you know why I’m here.”

“Westley called me this morning.”

Cindie leaned forward. “Look, DiAnn. I ain’t—I’m not trying to act like we’re some great friends or something, because we’re not. Even back in school you hardly paid attention to me—”

“I hardly knew you, Cindie. What’s the age difference here? Several years?”

“Probably. But we’re not in school anymore. We’re not kids.”

“No, we aren’t.”

“So you need to tell me right up front so I’ll know. Because like it or not, I’m the mother of your niece, and you owe me for that.”

DiAnn’s chin dipped. “I don’t owe you anything, Cindie, but I’m happy to try to help you if I can.”

“Is Westley really married?”

“He is.”

“Since when?”

“He and Allison married right before Christmas.” She pulled a drawer open and reached in, then held up an envelope marked by a logo of a leaping rabbit. “I have pictures here if you want to see them.”

She didn’t. But she did. She stood, snatched the envelope from DiAnn, then walked over to the window to allow for better lighting. One by one she sifted through the matte photographs with the rounded edges, gazing at the young woman in the white bridal gown—white—and the man Cindie loved standing beside her, dressed so uptown: black tuxedo, red sashy-thing around his waist, topped off with a red bow tie. Picture after picture … Westley looking into his new wife’s eyes. Adoring her. Kissing her. Dancing with her. Cutting a slice of cake with her. Laughing as they shared it  . . . his eyes teasing her as he pulled a blue-and-white garter from midway up her thigh, while she  . . . blushed.

The photos seemed to grow heavy; they depicted everything Cindie had always wanted—always dreamed of—Cinderella and her Prince Charming …

And nothing she would ever get. Not at this rate. Certainly not on this path. No fairy godmother for her. No pumpkin turning into a coach or mice becoming horsemen. Even Cinderella was a cut above Cindie Campbell and there wasn’t a doggone thing she could do about it. Nothing … nothing… would change her. Could change her. She was exactly what she was and she could never be more.

Cindie tossed the photos and their envelope back on DiAnn’s desk, then returned to her chair and attempted to breathe past the heaviness that had settled in her chest. “Did he tell you he’s going to see a lawyer?” she asked, using what little bit of oxygen remained in her lungs.

“He did.” DiAnn gathered up the photos and slid them neatly back into the envelope.

“Do you think he means it?”

“He already has an appointment.”

Cindie nodded, reached into her purse, and dug around until she located her pack of cigarettes. She pulled one out, then continued digging for her Bic. “You mind?” she asked, looking up.

Again, cool as a cuke, DiAnn reached into another drawer and brought out an ashtray, fancier than anything Cindie had ever seen.

“What if I give him good visitation?” she asked after blowing a long line of smoke from between her lips.

“You’ll have to talk to Westley, Cindie.