Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

to the other hip, delighting in her daughter’s hands on her face and even more that Westley didn’t want to talk about academics. Clearly, he was more focused on the fact she lived with a guy, even a guy like Kyle. Nice and all, but no Westley Houser. “We turned the dining room into a bedroom. It’s not perfect, but Kyle doesn’t seem to mind.” She took a step back. “By the way, we’re going out to my sister’s today … to Velma’s. We’ll spend the weekend there.”

“Let me get her little suitcase,” he said before heading toward the pharmacy.

Cindie followed behind. “I made pretty good grades this term, I think. Probably no As but some Bs. Maybe one C.”

Westley nodded his approval as he reached behind the counter and brought out a small suitcase, one she’d never seen before. Pink with white hearts swept upward from the base to the top, as though they were leaves caught by the wind. “That’s cute …”

“Miss Justine …”

“How is your boss lady?”

He nodded. “She’s good. Michelle spends a lot of time with her, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Michelle squirmed toward her father’s question. “And Ro-Bay …”

“Ro-Bay?”

“Rose Beth. The housekeeper.”

“Oh. What about—” Cindie faltered, not wanting to say his wife’s name out loud. Not now. What if Michelle heard and asked for her? Wanted her father’s wife more than her own mother? She squeezed her baby closer.

“She’s there, too. Don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t.” She looked toward the front of the store. “Do you want to walk us out?”

“Sure thing,” Westley answered. He picked up the suitcase with one hand while the other came to rest against the small of Cindie’s back, sending an electrical current through her. “I gotta get you past ole eagle eyes, don’t I?”

Cindie wrapped Michelle even more tightly in her arms. “That woman gives me the willies.”

Westley chuckled. “Whatcha wanna bet that if we’d have sent her over to Vietnam, the war would have not only been won, it would have been over before it got started good.”

“No doubt …”

Chapter Twenty-four

Westley

He missed her. Couldn’t stop thinking about her. Wondered what she was doing.

Not that it wasn’t like that every day, but today was different. Today his daughter wasn’t with his wife. Or his “boss-lady,” as Cindie had so crudely called her. Or “Ro-Bay.” Today she was with her biological mother who—okay, he’d admit it—looked different somehow when she’d walked in earlier. Not altogether different … just … changed. And it wasn’t like she’d grown up much in the last few months or become smart enough to carry on an intelligent conversation past the general chitchat. But there was something about her clothes. A nice summer’s dress—white, trimmed in red with matching sandals—and the way she wore her hair. That Farrah Fawcett look, it was called. And, on her, it looked becoming.

A few weeks earlier, Ali had mentioned doing the same to hers, and he’d balked, letting her know he preferred the sleek style of Jaclyn Smith to something that looked like it belonged on a Playboy bunny. “Jaclyn’s got class,” he’d said, pulling on Ali’s tresses before gathering her to himself. Feeling her body against his own. Driving him crazy in a way he believed only she could. And, because he knew himself well enough, prayed only she would.

He glanced at his watch. Somehow, he’d made it to the middle of the afternoon. Two more hours and he could go home to Allison and, maybe, a cleaner house than they’d been living in lately. She tried. God knew she tried. But, having a toddler to run after all day—even at Miss Justine’s—didn’t allow for a lot of domestic tidiness. For one thing, if Westley had to guess, her mother hadn’t taught her a lot on the art of home economics. Not that Mrs. Middleton didn’t keep a tidy home. She did. A man could eat off the woman’s floors. But he recognized in his mother-in-law the tendency to do everything for her family … except prepare her daughters for life outside of their familial home.

Westley counted twenty-eight capsules of erythromycin, careful now not to allow his thoughts to get in the way of his job. Whatever waited for him at home would be whatever waited for him at home. What with all the new expenses—Cindie’s initial demands, Michelle’s needs, and a new wife—his life had catapulted to a place where the notion of losing his job—not to mention his career—over a silly mistake was unthinkable. Still, his mind wandered, if only for a moment. He and Ali should use this week for more than the day to day. They needed to get away. He was off Sunday and Monday; they could ride over to Paul and DiAnn’s. Enjoy the lake. A little time on the boat. Maybe even stay over.

It had been a while.

He labeled the prescription bottle, slid it into a small white bag with Knight’s Pharmacy logo plastered across the front, then dropped it into the basket marked with a large “M” before picking up the phone and dialing a number scrawled on a nearby pad of paper. He waited through three rings before Naomi Morgan answered the phone. “Mrs. Morgan?”

“Yes,” the thirty-something woman answered, her voice groggy with the infection her doctor had prescribed the antibiotic for.

“This is Westley Houser over at Knight’s Pharmacy, Mrs. Morgan. Just wanting to let you know that we’ve got that prescription ready for you.”

“Oh,” she said, and he briefly pictured her, lying in bed, hair sticking up on all sides, dark circles under eyes that typically sparkled with life. “I-um …”

“Mrs. Morgan, do you have someone who can come by to pick it up or do you need it delivered?” She coughed. Hard, the phlegm breaking from her lungs. Westley held the phone from his ear and grimaced. “Tell you what,” Westley said then. “I’ll have our delivery boy run that on over to you. You don’t sound like you need to be outside.”

She coughed again before agreeing and