Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

having her life interrupted by Cindie or Cindie’s family. Something Michelle always took in stride.

Cindie—I thanked God every day—had remained in Atlanta after graduating five years before. My constant unraveling at the notion that she would return and demand her daughter had been for nothing. My fretting that she would want Michelle to spend every week of summer vacation in her new apartment—one she moved into shortly before her graduation—had also been for naught. Instead, Michelle spent two weeks of her summer with Cindie, a week of Christmas vacation, and every other spring break and every other Thanksgiving.

I had finally met her. Had seen what pieces she’d lent to Michelle. Finally understood what had drawn Westley to her. She practically oozed sexuality I believed I’d never have. Even at Michelle’s kindergarten graduation, where I’d dressed in a simple wrap-around dress, Cindie had donned a long bohemian number that made her look part flower child and part love child. And although Westley seemed to give her no more than a passing glance after their initial hello, I found myself drawn to her. A moth to the flame. A fly to the spider’s web. My focus more on her and her reaction to Michelle receiving her diploma than to the five-year-old who pranced across the stage with a smile that showed off a missing front tooth.

Westley had noticed—of course he had noticed. Later, while Michelle spent the night with Cindie at Velma’s, he chastised me, reminding me that I’d missed the whole point of the day because I had been so focused on Cindie.

“I couldn’t help it,” I declared, slamming the bangle I’d worn all day into my jewelry box. “My gosh, Westley. She’s … she’s gorgeous. I mean, seriously, seriously gorgeous.”

He flung his shirt onto the bed. “So what? So what, Ali? She’s pretty. Did I ever tell you she wasn’t?”

Tears stung the back of my eyes, threatening to unleash years of wondering. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I said, then headed for the bathroom where I drowned my tears in a cascade of water from the shower.

From what I knew—from what little Westley told me—Cindie had graduated from college and immediately gone to work for a county parks and recreation department, working as an assistant to the director. Her old roommate—the male one—had helped her secure the job, he and the director being long-time friends. “Still amazes me,” Westley told me one night, “that she and that Kyle fellow never … you know … got together.”

“How do you know they didn’t?”

He rolled his eyes and laughed lightly. “No. Cindie’s got someone, but it’s not her old roommate.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know. I know her … or women like her.” He pointed upward. “And she’s being quiet enough about it, I’d wager he’s married. With kids.”

“Maybe she’s being quiet because she doesn’t have a man in her life right now,” I countered, though I hoped that wasn’t true. The idea of Cindie returning with a diploma and her sights set on Westley kept me up as many nights as the thought of her returning for Michelle.

“Not possible. Women like Cindie need men in their lives. Someone to use.” He blew out a breath. “Or use up.”

I blinked now at the words in the book in front of me, forcing the memory away. The last thing I needed to worry about tonight was Cindie Campbell. She lived her life in Atlanta; we lived ours in Odenville.

Patterson

His life had become complicated.

For starters, Mary Helen had begun to demand more of his time, declaring that the children would be grown and gone soon, and they needed to spend as much time with them as possible. That much was true. Patricia had grown into an exquisite beauty, like her mother, but with a zeal for life, like him. She had also been granted an impressive scholarship at Boston’s New England Conservatory of Music and had been living there since midsummer. When she called home—typically on Thursday evenings, because she had nothing else to do then, she said—she spoke of classes and new friends, outings, and—too often—of her new job working as a teaching assistant for Dr. Bauder, who, she said, insisted she call him by his Christian name—her words—which was Lance.

“Don’t neglect your studies, Patricia,” her mother had warned from their bedroom phone while he listened in on the office extension while wanting to shout, “And don’t sleep with this—this—Lance!”

He also wanted to grill his daughter on everything she spoke of, especially when it came to her friends. How many of them were male? Occasionally, when she brought up a young man’s name, Mary Helen fluttered about as mothers of young adult daughters do, wondering if Patricia was getting involved too soon. He, on the other hand, continued to conjure up a vision of her chastity being stolen by some slick professor. Or worse, given away.

But when it came to her musical outings—the theater, concerts, jazz clubs—he wanted to drown in her excitement. For nearly her whole life, and despite him not being able to play an instrument, it had been the one thing he could connect with her on that Mary Helen could not. His wife could play a piano, but as with most things in life, she didn’t have the passion for it.

No passion for much of anything until recently when she became friends with Nola and Eldon Edwards. Predominately Nola, a woman who seemed completely at ease in her role as a wife and mother. And, Patterson couldn’t help but note, a woman at ease in her own skin. The two women had met during one of Mary Pat’s lessons at Bryce Park Equestrian Center, which the Edwardses happened to own. Bryce Park and a slew of others. Mary Helen and Nola became fast friends as did their middle daughter, Mary Pat, who recently turned seventeen, and the Edwards’ oldest son who neared twenty at an alarming rate of speed. Which, of course, was another cause for concern,