Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

DiAnn shook her head; the overhead light reflected in the dark lenses of her sunglasses. “Cindie isn’t the brightest bulb in the box, but she’s cunning. Trust me. She grew up under the leading of Lettie Mae Campbell.”

“I’ve heard some things …”

My sister-in-law reached for the mustard and unscrewed the top. “Whatever you’ve heard, multiply it by about a hundred.” She opened a drawer near her hip, grabbed a knife from the silverware tray, then dipped it into the jar. “The only decent one—in my estimation—is the oldest sister, Velma. But if you ask me, she would have done better to have left town instead of just moving out in the country.”

I found that a strange thing for her to say considering she and Paul lived out in the country. “Westley told me about her. She’s married to a preacher, right?” I tore the protective covering over the cheese, then pulled six of the wrapped slices from the stack.

“How she turned out so well, I’ll never—” She stopped as the back door opened and our husbands walked through. I looked at her. Studied her. Wanting to see some telltale sign of being caught talking about Cindie. About her mother and her sister. Wondering if she’d feel the need to explain herself to Westley as though she’d breached a confidence I’d yet been made privy to.

But there was none of that. Not from DiAnn Houser, at least. “Well?” she asked. “Are we going or is the boat out of commission?”

“I think we’ll be fine,” Paul answered, “if the weather behaves.”

Westley ambled in, sliding his arm around me, his hand gripping my waist. “You feel all right?” he said, low and in my ear.

I stared up at my husband in wonder that he had sensed my sudden queasiness and hoping he couldn’t guess why as Paul explained the complexities of the engine and how he and Westley had master-mechaniced it back to rights.

“What’s wrong?” Paul asked, abandoning his tale. “Have you been sick, Ali?”

I shook my head. “Just a little …”

“Pregnant,” Westley blurted, not waiting for the perfect time to announce our news.

A flurry of activity broke out around us—DiAnn reaching for me with a firm but quick hug. Paul patting Westley on the back, quipping, “You don’t wait long, do you?”

“It was a—not planned,” I stammered, heat rising in me, hoping they were not picturing Westley and me in bed, making this tiny person who grew inside me.

“You look like you could use some fresh air,” DiAnn now said. But she stole a look out the storm door and said, “Dark clouds are gathering,” as though the weather had some nerve.

“Nah,” Westley answered. “It wouldn’t dare rain. Not today. Not on us.” He walked around the bar and began to insert the sandwiches into small bags. “I say let’s get this party started. I’m ready to feel the water beneath my feet.”

By the time we made it back to the boat, which the tempestuous water rocked and bumped against the frame of the dock, my knees had gone to butter. My stomach to jelly. “Westley,” I said, turning toward him and away from the motion. “I think maybe I should go back inside. Lay down a while.”

“Don’t be silly, sweetheart. You’ll be fine once you get out there.”

I looked over my shoulder to where DiAnn and Paul yanked knots from the ropes that tethered the boat to the dock’s security … on out to the lapping water against the shorelines of the narrow canal that, if we followed the snaky path, would lead us to the Flint River. On the other side of Paul and DiAnn’s property, trees stretched upward from a tangle of shrub, their leaves dancing, the pine needles shimmering in the dim sunlight of a morning that wanted to retreat as badly as I did. “Westley …”

“Come on,” he said, turning me toward the boat and Paul’s extended hand. “You’ll sit up front with Paul and help him navigate and watch DiAnn and me do our tricks. What with all the fresh air you’ll breathe in, you’ll feel fine in no time.”

“I’m not so sure,” I protested, my voice sounding more like a whimper than a roar.

His eyes found mine, pleading. “Would I ever lie to you?”

“No,” I answered, wondering if his lie by omission fell into the same category.

I stepped toward the boat. Toward Paul, who took my hand and guided me until the fiberglass flooring rocked beneath me without provocation. I breathed in and out, found the cushy seat that swiveled from front to back, and lowered myself onto it. I closed my eyes as the boat continued to sway and attempted to absorb the sounds around me. The rhythm of DiAnn and Westley gently tossing skis into the back of the boat, then slipping into their life vests. Paul donning his.

“Sweetheart.” Westley’s voice came from overhead. I looked up. He held another vest—mine—wide for me to slide into. I held out my arms and he placed it on me as though I were a child. As though I were Michelle and it was time to go to school or church …

… something Westley had become strangely adamant about in the time since we’d gained custody of his daughter. Our daughter.

“Here you go,” he said. He knelt before me and clasped the sides of the vest together, locking them to keep me safe. “Can’t have you going overboard and drowning,” he added with a wink, which made me smile. “That’s my girl.” He kissed me. “You’re looking better already.”

“I feel … strange …” I said to him. “Hot.”

“It’s just the rocking of the boat with a touch of morning sickness and a soaring temp of about ninety. Once we get it out, it’ll get better.” He kissed me again, then stood and joined DiAnn at the back of the boat.

Paul turned the key and the engine came to life. He backed the boat out, glanced upward and said, “The sun’s making a