Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

the chocolate ice cream that came in the little tub like those we’d had in school. The ones served with a stick-spoon. Done, I pushed the tray to the edge of the bedtable and reached for the second card, this one from Julie who had recently moved to Nashville after Dean was offered a new job. The job he’d always wanted, Julie had told me in a previous letter. This one at an impressive publishing house—the kind that puts out Bibles and such—working as an editor. Financially they’d hit pay dirt. In fact, everything for them seemed almost too good to be true. Two children. Another on the way.

I opened the card, hoping Julie would not have included a new photo of my niece and nephew. As much as I loved them … as much as I loved seeing their cherub faces grinning up at the camera … I didn’t think I could bear their latest moments of life captured on film.

Patterson

He didn’t like what he was hearing.

Not three days ago when he and Cindie had finally been able to meet up for a stolen hour, she had been all over him. Doted on him. Smothered him with kisses and hugs and everything that followed. Afterward, she’d sat in his lap, her head against his shoulder, and told him about her weekend with Michelle. About how she’d been late getting out of town due to the traffic—due to the late start, thanks to him she added with a giggle—but that she and her daughter had more than made up for lost time. She’d told him about her brother’s baby and mentioned, casually, how she wished—just once—she could take him to her family’s house way out in the sticks. He’d get a kick out of it, she’d said. Especially on Sundays.

“And I’d love it if you could meet Michelle,” she’d added.

“One day,” he said with a pat to her hip, cuddling her as if she, too, were a child. Knowing that the chances of his ever being in the same room with Cindie and her daughter were slim to nonexistent.

She’d not once mentioned the father of the child, not even in passing. She rarely did anymore. But she had spoken of someone new to him, although not altogether unfamiliar. He knew Kyle Lewis, of course. He’d had the young man in a few of his classes. He was also aware that Kyle and his sister shared a place with Cindie. But Cindie had never spoken much about the young man. In fact, she’d made a point that the three of them rarely encountered each other.

“Ships passing in the night,” she’d said, borrowing from the old metaphor.

And then, today, as they lay burrowed under the bedcovers to ward off a late spring chill that had descended upon Atlanta, she nuzzled her nose into the curve of his neck and said, “Didn’t you tell me once that you like Fleetwood Mac?”

He had nearly fallen asleep, but at the name of the band, his eyes opened. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

“Kyle just got their new album. Have you heard it?”

He prickled. Of course he’d heard it. He’d purchased it the moment it had become available. “Mirage. Yes.”

“Kyle bought it last night and played it in his room. I couldn’t help but hear it from mine.” She flipped to her side and ran a hand up his stomach to his chest, then slipped her fingers through her tresses. “Do you think I look like Stevie Nicks?”

His eyes caught hers and narrowed. “There’s a resemblance.”

Her lips pursed. “Do you think she’s beautiful?”

Patterson smiled. “Yes, I think she’s beautiful,” he said, which brought a sigh from her. “Why do you ask?”

“Kyle said I look like her.”

“Did he now? And when was this?”

Cindie’s eyes widened. “Last night,” she said. “I just told you. When we were in Kyle’s room listening to the album.”

“In his room?”

“I told you.”

Patterson pushed back enough to let her know of his displeasure. “No. You said that he played the album in his room and that you heard it from yours.”

“Yeah … and then I went into his room and asked him if it was Fleetwood Mac.” She ran her fingers through her hair again, bringing it to rest along her shoulder until it cascaded over her breast. Blood rushed to his head, pooling there. “I’ve always liked their music and I remembered you saying that you—”

He captured her then, bringing her close to him, pushing her back against the mattress.

“Patterson, you’re hurting me—”

His fingers clamped hold of her chin. “Listen to me, Cindie. I don’t want you in another man’s bedroom, you hear?” The tears that sprang into her eyes did little to soften his mood. The very idea of her … in a bedroom … with another man. A younger man. A single, younger man. “Do you?”

“Patterson …”

“I’m asking you a question,” he said, squeezing tighter.

“Yes,” she whispered, her eyes filled with something he’d never seen before. Something he’d not meant to place there, so, as the blood began to dissipate, he wrapped her in his arms. Buried his face in the hair she had tempted him with a moment before.

“Cindie, Cindie,” he moaned. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Words he half meant brought a torrent of tears from her. He shushed her, rocking her, kissing her until he thought she understood. “I just cannot bear the thought of you with another man.”

She slid away from him then, sitting straight up, drawing the sheet to her chin. “That’s not fair, Professor.”

He sat up, too. “What does that mean?”

“I mean, it’s not fair. You are in another woman’s bed, every single night. But I’m not supposed to even listen to an album with my roommate?”

“You knew about Mary Helen when we first—”

“Yes, but … don’t you see? I was just listening to an album with Kyle. That’s all. But you and Mary Helen—I mean, you do it sometimes, don’t you?”

Rarely. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time. “Leave my wife out of this.”

She flung