Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

that,” he said, crossing one long leg over the other in a way that told me he owned the moment we both occupied.

“Well, they still love to ski,” I said, “only now at Paul and DiAnn’s.”

“I hear their spread is nice.”

I sat back a little. “It is. Pretty impressive, actually.”

“Well, it doesn’t hurt that her father and my mother gave them a leg up after they married. Or that they both landed sweet jobs.”

“I guess not,” I said, because—really—what else was there to say. His confession was none of my business.

“So, tell me, Allison, how it is that you started working for my mother?”

I chuckled. “I’m not entirely sure. She wanted me to come over—right after Westley and I married—so she could show me how to balance a checkbook and Ro-Bay could teach me to cook.” I smiled at the thought of the awful tuna dishes I’d served Westley in the beginning. If there was a way to prepare and serve the canned meat, I’d found it. “Then, one thing led to another and she—she hired me.”

“Does that make you happy?” He drew on the cigarette again.

“It’s not bad as jobs go … I certainly couldn’t ask for a better employer.”

He nodded in agreement. “And what about the other? Is it everything young girls dream it will be?”

“What?”

“Marriage.”

“No,” I said, then blinked furiously at my own admission. “I mean,” I recovered while he chuckled. “Well … no. And I’m not complaining, it’s just that …” I couldn’t continue. Wouldn’t. Not with a stranger. I wouldn’t tell him that I thought there would have been—should have been—more time for just the two of us. Or, how we’d fallen into a pattern—sweet and familiar, but nevertheless, a pattern. I wouldn’t tell him of the ghosts that hovered in our home—Cindie, and unborn babies, and babies not yet conceived. Instead, I said, “I’m not complaining. I love my husband, and I really like working for your mother, and sometimes we go to Paul and DiAnn’s and that’s a lot of fun.”

Biff leaned forward, snubbed out the half-smoked cigarette, and said, “Well, that was a mouthful.” He leaned back again. “Does she scare you?”

“Miss Justine?”

“Goodness, no. My mother has obviously taken you in like a stray kitten in a rainstorm.” He tilted forward again. “DiAnn. Does she scare you?”

I couldn’t help but choke out a laugh. “A little. But, how did you—”

He laughed with me. “She scares me and I’m her uncle. Should be the other way around. I should terrify the living daylights out of her.”

“I remember when Westley and I were dating,” I confided as though I had made a new best friend. “He told me that she was smart, but she never makes anyone feel that they are beneath her.” I shrugged. “I think he can say that because he’s got a college degree and is about the smartest person I know. And she—she’s just so—so sure of herself.”

“And you’re not.”

“Not really.”

“Why do you think that is?”

I frowned. “I don’t know …”

Silence now hung between us, pushing the cigarette smoke aside, the tick-tick-tick of an antique cuckoo clock from one of the bookshelves its only interruption. I glanced toward it, this timepiece I imagined had belonged to Miss Justine’s husband. Biff’s father.

Biff stood, returned the ashtray to its hiding place, then turned and rested his shoulders against the case. “But you, of all people, shouldn’t let her do that.” His words came in a half-whisper-half-command.

“Why? Why not?”

“Because you’re a beautiful young woman who my mother says is quite intelligent—despite the fact you didn’t go to college.” He took in a breath. “And not to mention your level of compassion.”

I narrowed my eyes, teasing. “How do you know I’m compassionate? I might be as heartless as Cruella De Vil.”

He smiled. Crossed his arms and legs at the same time. “That little urchin in there with Rose Beth for starters. My sister told me … about her mother. About you taking her in not two minutes after you became Westley’s bride.”

I stood now, not liking the idea that he had brought Michelle into our conversation. Westley, yes. DiAnn, fine. Even his mother … but not my little girl. “She is my husband’s child.”

Biff angled himself toward the door, then took a half step, dismissing my attempt at bravado. “I’m meeting an old high school friend for a game of tennis in a few. Care to join us, Cruella?” He winked, most probably at my choice of fictional antagonists.

“No. I—” I looked at the desk. “I still have work to do,” I said as though I would consider a game of tennis with two strangers. Men, at that.

“Ah, yes. Well, then. Would you do me a favor and tell Mother I’m taking her out for dinner tonight and to please be ready by seven.”

“Of course.”

He started for the door, then stopped and smiled at me a final time. “And, if you will, there’s some air freshener in the powder room down the hall. Maybe … spray the room for me. Those candles over there won’t fully erase my sins.”

I offered a half-smile. “Your mother keeps a can of Glade in one of the desk drawers.”

He laughed again, the voice booming. Commanding. “That funny thing. She’s so full of secrets and surprises.” He winked again. “Isn’t she?”

Patterson

The whole thing had gone easier than he ever expected it could. Especially considering that he’d never done anything quite like this before. Dani didn’t count. And Rita surely didn’t. His affair—or affairs—with them both had been consensual. He’d not had to plot or plan. But, desperate times. Desperate measures … and all that.

Patterson Thacker needed both something in his life, oxymoronically, to take control of and, at the same time, be someone who would love him. Or, at the very least, to warm him. To make him feel alive again. Worth having around for more than a paycheck or a lifestyle or a pair of high-top leather and suede Adidas sneakers, which was the focus of his oldest