Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

herself out of bed and reached for clothes that lay crumpled on the floor. “I gotta go.”

Cindie leaving now—like this—frightened him. Tortured him, nearly. He couldn’t stand the thought of it, but at the same time he couldn’t have her stay with an upper hand. Nor could he deal with her living with Kyle Lewis another minute. Not after this. One foot in the man’s bedroom was one step closer to his bed.

“We should think about getting our own place,” he said as she shoved her legs into her jeans and tugged at the zipper.

She stopped for a moment, then reached for her bra … her sweater. “What are you saying?”

“I’ll set you up in an apartment. A place just for us.”

Cindie didn’t speak until after she’d pulled her long hair from the back of the sweater. “You just don’t want me living with Kyle.”

He leapt from the bed—too quickly. She took frightened steps backward, her eyes darting toward the door as if she were looking for a means of escape. “Cindie,” he said, keeping his voice calm, wanting to regain control now more than he had even a moment before. He reached for his own clothes, draped across a chair. “Just think about it.”

She found her way to the door. “I gotta go,” she said again, then shot out before he could stop her.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d send her a dozen roses. Long-stemmed. Pink. He rarely did things like that, and he knew she’d melt at the gesture. Then he’d wait a few days—a week maybe—before bringing up the idea of her own apartment again. Yes, that should solve everything.

Piece of cake.

Chapter Thirty-three

The first week of December 1987

Allison

“Michelle wants to wear her hair like the girl in Full House,” I informed Westley after the final touches of putting our daughter to bed.

He raised his eyes from the boating magazine he had engrossed himself in. “What does that mean?”

I dropped into my favorite chair—one Westley had decided would be just mine after we moved into our new home three years earlier—a comfy armchair, complete with a thick bottom cushion and tufted back. “Like Candace Cameron’s. The oldest daughter on the show.”

Westley shook his head, his eyes filled with confusion. “I still don’t know what that means.”

I reached for the library book that rested on an occasional table and raised my brow. “That’s because you don’t watch Full House with Michelle and me. She is absolutely in love with DJ Tanner.” I grinned. “The Candace Cameron character.”

Westley’s attention returned to the magazine. “As long as she doesn’t want to look like Madonna, I’m good with it.”

I chuckled. “Well, it means a haircut. Are you okay with that?”

His gaze returned to my side of the room. “How short?”

“Below her shoulders, so about five or six inches.”

Westley frowned. “Is she dead set on it?”

I gave him a nod. “I’d say so. And, to tell you the truth, I could use some reprieve when it comes to what it takes to get her hair brushed every morning.” Michelle’s thick, waist-length hair had become a source of tears no detangler could rectify.

He glanced back at the magazine’s slick page. “If that’s what she wants.”

Of course. Westley had denied Michelle few things she wanted. Our new home stood as proof. We now lived in the same tree-dotted, lakefront neighborhood as her best friend, Sylvie, a precocious child with errant brunette curls and the largest brown eyes I’d seen on such a petite child.

Michelle and Sylvie did everything together—school, ballet, piano, Girl Scouts, church, hours of play. Anything two little girls could possibly do together, they did it. Their friendship was as deep and solid as the one I’d once had with Elaine, who had recently married a doctor who shared her love for Native Americans and their plight. Together, they ran a medical mission in northern Arizona, returning home only during the Christmas season, if then. With the holidays right around the corner, I hoped to see her during her stay. To date, we had come to rely mostly on letters and the occasional phone call.

Westley held up a photo spread of a boat and asked, “What do you think?”

I squinted across the semidark room. “About what?”

“This. I think we should get it.”

“A boat?”

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

“Affordable.”

“Do you need a boat?” I asked, though in all honesty I had expected Westley to purchase something to tie to our dock two minutes after we signed the papers for the house.

“Of course,” he said. “And Michelle will, too. Something for her friends to come over for.”

“The pool out back isn’t enough?”

Westley’s appreciative stare went back to the magazine. “You can’t ski in a pool, Ali.”

But you can lose a baby on a boat, I thought irrationally, even after all the years since my first miscarriage. “Wes,” I said, now wanting to change the subject. “Michelle also wants to know if we can pick out our Christmas tree this weekend. And,” I added, “she asked me to remind you that Sylvie’s family has theirs up and that it’s decorated trunk to star.”

“I’ll get off early on Saturday,” he said, looking up at me again. “We’ll head out to Samson’s Tree Farm as soon as I get home.”

“Miss Justine wants to come with us. Wants to pick out her tree and then have Mr. Samson haul it to her house in his truck.”

Westley chuckled. “All right. Let her know we’ll pick her up around three.”

I opened my book to where I’d last dog-eared it and found my place on the page as a smile crept into my heart. Westley and I were doing okay, I reminded myself. We had a spacious home—as lovely as Paul and DiAnn’s, although filled with half as many children—that rested on a lake as inviting as theirs. We both had jobs we enjoyed, good friends to complete us, and we stayed active in the social workings of our community and church. Our daughter was growing into a well-rounded young lady—socially, academically, and spiritually—only sometimes