Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

Cindie giggled. “Silly …”

“Hey …” he said as recognition came. “What are you up to?”

She took a breath. She could do this. She could. She had to. “I’ve had kind of a bad day... and I was … well, I was remembering what you said that time about bad stuff. You know? That even the bad stuff can be good if we learn from it.”

“Truth.” The rustling of body against cotton met her as he shifted in bed. She tried to imagine him, thick hair tousled, muscles stretching, eyes blinking. “Did something bad teach you something good today?”

Oh, yes … “I’d say so.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

He groaned. “All right. Want to talk about anything in particular?”

Cindie paused. Waiting long enough to gather her courage and become coy at the same time. “Kyle, can I ask you a question?”

“Anytime.”

“Why haven’t you ever—you know—asked me out or, I mean, even tried anything with me? Do you not find me attractive?”

His sigh was long. Poignant. “Gosh, no. I mean, yes. Yes, I find you attractive. You’re downright gorgeous, Cindie. Did someone tell you otherwise?”

“In a way. I guess—I guess what you could say is that someone told me I’m not good enough.”

“You listen to me, you hear? You’re beyond good enough. If I ever thought for a second that our friendship could be something more …” He chuckled lightly. “I would have been all over you like white on rice.”

She smiled in spite of her circumstances. “Kyle,” she said, breathing out his name. “What if I told you that I wish—that I often wished—you’d want more than just friendship? What would you say?”

He didn’t answer at first, making her wait while he gathered his wits, she figured. “What are you doing right now?” he asked.

“Just lying under a mound of covers, shivering.”

“Don’t move,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

She smiled. “The door will be unlocked.”

When the line went dead without a “good-bye,” she threw back the sheet and blanket and the thick comforter, ran to the closet for her robe, then across the room and opened the door. With a dash she entered the dining room, blew out the candles, cleared the table, and then tidied the kitchen as best she could in the little time she had. She found Patterson’s discarded key and threw it into a junk drawer. Finally, she poured two fresh glasses of wine and took them into her room, where she removed the robe and slid back into bed. She took a moment to calculate. To her best guesstimation, she was right at four weeks. All she had to do now was let nature take its course tonight with Kyle. And then tomorrow … tomorrow would come and, hopefully, he’d want more of her. And, with any amount of luck, she’d want more of him. Then, in a few weeks she’d tell him of a baby—their baby. Kyle being Kyle, he’d marry her right away. Never hesitating. Never imagining that Professor Thacker was the biological father. He’d marry her and together they’d raise their child. No one but no one would be the wiser. Except Patterson, and he no longer counted. Finally, with one simple plan, she had the upper hand.

Cindie smiled. Stretched. Reached for her glass of wine and took a sip.

And then she waited.

April 1988

Allison

Cindie had decided that, instead of Michelle coming up to Atlanta for Easter, she would come down and that they would spend the holiday with her family—primarily Velma and Vernon. Which was fine. Better than fine because, at least, Michelle didn’t have to go all the way to Atlanta for a week during spring break. Instead, Cindie told Westley, he could bring Michelle to her sister’s on Saturday morning and she’d have their daughter home Monday before heading back to the city later that afternoon. Double hurray, because now I could make plans with Michelle for the school holiday.

But Cindie had also said something in her call to Westley that left me unnerved in the interim between his taking Michelle to Velma’s and his return to the house. “She said she needs to talk to me about something once we get there.”

I felt blood rush from my head. “What do you think she means by that?”

“I don’t know, Ali. I guess we’ll have to wait and find out.”

And so I waited. I waited and I paced until I nearly wore a groove in the polished bricks of the kitchen floor. Waited for my husband to come home and give me whatever news Cindie had to give. Waited and wondered what she wanted and, even more so, what had gone wrong in our marriage since January. December, really, which was the last time I could remember us consummating our marriage. His lack of attention toward me was only the start of it. Medication or no medication. We seemed farther apart than any two people had a right to be and call themselves husband and wife.

If only I could find that copy of Marabel Morgan’s book. Maybe, then … But I’d long ago misplaced it. Long ago stopped adhering to the principles, except for making sure I looked every bit the part of Westley’s wife. I kept my wardrobe updated to the latest fashion trends acceptable for married women—straight skirts worn just above the knee or flattering slacks, all of which I wore with silk blouses or turtlenecks made from soft cotton. I’d had my stylist cut my hair in layers, which gave it a bouncy look, and I wore my makeup in the smoky, sultry way that graced the face of every fashion magazine cover girl tempting shoppers at checkout counters. I also continued to make a list first thing every day. That I stuck to, although I didn’t always know why. Seemed to me that, lately, every day only mirrored the day before. Every week the week before. Yesterday and today and tomorrow had blurred into a haze I couldn’t see my way out of.

Furthermore, Mrs. Morgan,