Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

Westley stood, bringing me with him. “I know the way,” he told her, raising his hand to stop her from getting up.

We walked down a short, narrow hallway until we reached a room on the left, its door half open, the brass nameplate reflecting the blurred colors of our image as we approached. Trevor Donaldson, it read.

I relaxed as soon as we entered. Trevor Donaldson—Trev, he introduced himself—was barely older than Westley, reminding me more of a big brother than a stuffy lawyer. He wore suit pants without the coat, and he’d rolled the cuffs of his dress shirt up to his elbows, displaying naturally tanned arms and a nice gold watch. He chuckled as he shook my hand. “You expected some old fogey, didn’t you,” he said.

Heat penetrating my face betrayed any thoughts of lying. “Yes,” I admitted.

“Ah,” he said, sitting behind his desk and motioning for the two of us to take our seats across from him. “Westley and I go way back, don’t we, Wes?” He looked at me again. “Wes didn’t tell you?”

“No. He didn’t.” But, then again, there were so many things my husband had chosen not to tell me. “He just said we were seeing his attorney today.”

Westley turned toward me, a look of conspiracy washing over him that came with a desire to steer the conversation in another direction. “Don’t believe anything this boy tells you.”

Trev leaned back, the leather of his chair squeaking in protest at the motion. “Allison, I could tell you some things about this one.” He pointed to his friend. “Me and him and Marty Cone—the things we used to get into.”

“The things he’s still getting into,” I said before I’d had time to think about the impact of my words. I looked at Westley, waiting for his reaction, but he only looked at Trev and grinned.

“She’s got a point there, Trev.”

“That she do.” He leaned forward then, resting his arms on the edge of a massive desk topped with books and files and scattered papers. “Talk to me, son. What’s happened?”

“I want custody,” Westley said. “Plain and simple. Cindie’s more like a child herself and she’s got Lettie Mae Campbell’s influence all over her.”

Trev winced. “Wes, listen up. No court in this state is going to take a child away from its mother unless you can prove she’s mentally unstable—and I mean like Central State Hospital nuts. Or that she’s messing with drugs … or bringing men into her bedroom in such a way that the child witnesses what the law calls carnal acts.” His brows formed an attractive upside-down V at the bridge of his nose as he continued. “Cindie Campbell may not be the best choice of mothers but the first thing a judge is going to ask you about is the night Michelle was conceived, which brings your character into the equation. Not hers.”

Westley shook his head, defeat flickering in his eyes as hope managed to settle in my stomach. Maybe I wouldn’t have to make such a sacrifice so early on. Maybe there was another way. “There’s got to be something—” my husband’s voice pleaded.

“Not with a one-year-old, Wes. And not a little girl to boot.”

Westley sighed, the very essence of him deflating, filling the room now with heaviness and—I could see it then—heartbreak. He loved his daughter. He may not love her mother—or, as he said, even like her—but Michelle was his child, too. Flesh of his flesh. Bone of his bone. His blood running through her veins. “Isn’t there anything you can do?” I asked.

Westley looked at me then, startled by my question. Yes. Whatever he wanted … just like Mama and Miss Marabel and maybe even Hillie would tell me if the three of them were here. Because if his heart was broken, mine was broken … didn’t he know that? Hadn’t he begun to realize how much I loved him? How, without him, I was …

The song that played on the radio during our trip back from Paul and DiAnn’s skipped through the airwaves of a memory. The one we’d talked about. Philosophized about. Dust in the Wind. Without him, that was every bit of who I was. And without Michelle, the same could be said about him.

He reached for my hand and I gladly gave it.

Trev opened a manila file and scanned the pages of notes within. “You don’t have set visitation, do you?”

“No. And she wouldn’t let me see her last week.”

Trev glanced up. “Well, now … there’s something I can help with. Let me draft up a motion for the court asking for a modification on your child support order.” He smiled at me. “You’re married now. There’s a woman in the house—and, might I just add, one that makes a nice statement—so that’s good. What would you like me to ask for?” He reached for a pen and an absently tossed legal pad buried under a stack of loose papers. “Every other weekend?”

“Every weekend.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“All right then. Every other. Yes.”

“The norm is Friday at six until Sunday at six. Work for you?”

Westley scooted forward, stretching my arm to the point of discomfort. “Yes.”

Trev scribbled a few words onto the paper before continuing. “How about one night a week. Wednesday?”

Anticipation returned to his face and I slipped my hand from his. “Yeah … yeah.”

“All right. Let’s talk holidays … school vacations as she grows older … we may as well get all this in so you don’t have to keep coming back every couple of years.” He winked at me. “Not that I mind the business …”

Over the next half hour Trev went over everything we could expect. The questions we’d be asked in court. The fight we’d be sure to get from Cindie—mostly Lettie Mae—after the papers were served. The difficulties we might encounter along the way if and when she refused to comply with the judge’s orders.

“How long are we talking before she’s served?” Westley asked. He propped his elbows on the