Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

Westley shrugged. “I don’t know. Paul’s never mentioned anything … I don’t even know if they’re trying.” He chuckled. “I mean other than … you know, the usual try.”

I slapped at him. “Now there’s a picture in my head I don’t need.”

Within minutes Westley parked the car in front of the large house—so much larger when I compared it to ours. Not that I cared. I loved every square foot of our home, especially since Michelle had come into it. I grabbed my beach bag and slung it over my shoulder.

Unlike our first trip when Paul and DiAnn practically waited at the door in anticipation of our arrival, the front porch stood quiet and empty. Now, with our frequent visitation—sometimes just for dinner, other times for the weekend—we were no longer guests at all. As Paul quipped, “You’re family, by golly, so act like it and just walk on in.”

DiAnn hadn’t seemed too charmed by that idea, so I insisted we knock upon arrival. Once we got inside, I did everything I knew to make DiAnn see me as her sister-in-law. I happily helped in the kitchen. On weekend excursions, I stripped the beds and put on fresh linens before we left to go back home. I even washed the sheets, threw them in the dryer, and folded them, placing them back in the tiny upstairs hall closet as my final act of “family” duty. Still, DiAnn remained somewhat distant to me. Accepting, but distant.

After knocking two or three times and getting no answer, we decided to walk around to the back of the house. Sure enough, Paul and DiAnn—both clad in their suits—were at the dock—Paul on his knees, appearing to tinker with the boat’s engine. “Hey there,” Westley called out, waving as if we’d just returned home from an extended trip at sea.

“Ahoy,” Paul called back as if he’d read my thoughts. “Got some issues down here.”

“Oh, no,” Westley muttered, leaving me to wonder if his disappointment was for what this may mean for his brother … or for him and his weekend plans.

We hurried toward the dock, my flipflops slapping against my heels. The grass—which needed a cut—licked at my ankles, while gnats, already up and pesky, fluttered around my face. I blew them away with the trained act of every southern child. Bottom lip out and whew. “What’s going on?” Westley asked as soon as we stepped onto the dock and over the skis that had been laid there half forgotten.

“Engine sounds funny …”

DiAnn shook her head as she pulled large sunglasses to the top of her head, pushing her blond hair back to reveal the elegant lines of her face. My shoulders sank. How could one woman be so put together without makeup? Not to mention so early in the morning? Even the humidity refused to torment her. She walked toward us as I ran my hand over my ponytail, hoping to slick some of the frizz out. “Wes,” she said in a commanding tone I hadn’t grown accustomed to, “your job is to convince him there is absolutely nothing wrong.” She nodded toward me. “Come on, Allison. Let’s go up to the house and get the picnic ready.”

I turned obediently and headed back up the slope of their backyard, this time with DiAnn by my side, asking her usual field of questions. How have I been … how was her grandmother … did she still insist on a proper tea at four o’clock … and that sort of thing. I’d often wondered if it bothered DiAnn that I spent so much time with Miss Justine, but she never mentioned it outright, so I figured not. After all, DiAnn, like her grandmother, wasn’t one to beat around the bush. Whatever she thought, she said. “So, how does it feel not to have Michelle in tow?” she asked when we reached the back door.

“Odd,” I admitted. “I have kinda gotten used to the little squirt.” We slipped inside where cold, manufactured air met us and I breathed out a sigh. “Already hot out there.”

“Too hot.” Most of the ingredients for making sandwiches had been placed on the bar between the breakfast nook and the kitchen. “Get the mayo for me, will you?” she asked as I dropped my beach bag onto a chair.

“Sure thing.”

DiAnn worked the twisty-tie free from a loaf of bread as I fished the mayo from a refrigerator that stood full to overflowing. Unlike ours. I only purchased what I knew we needed for the week, using nearly all of it before heading back to the store seven days later. Not because I worked economically as the housewife of our home but because I couldn’t think any further ahead than a one-week period. “Have you met her yet?” DiAnn asked as I brought the mayo to her.

“Who?”

“Cindie.” Her expression told me I should have anticipated the answer.

I shifted a little, then grabbed the packet of sandwich meat and pried it open. “No.”

“A piece of work, that one is.”

“That’s what Westley says. But he … he also says she is Michelle’s mother and …”

DiAnn slapped mayonnaise onto a slice of bread. “And how are you feeling about that?”

I shrugged, suddenly concerned as to where our conversation was headed. We’d never had anything close to this kind of moment. Not really. “I don’t know. He’s right. She is.” I started placing the meat on the prepared bread, then brought my attention back to her. “Do you want me to get the cheese?”

DiAnn gave me a half smile. “Sure.” Then, after I opened the refrigerator door again, she added, “Well, I’d watch out for that one.”

I peered over my shoulder, aware now that the room had grown darker, as if the sun had decided to find a cloud to hide behind. “Cindie?”

“Yes.”

I returned to the bar, a large package of sliced cheese in hand, my stomach suddenly revolting against any thoughts of Cindie. Or, perhaps morning sickness had