~Cindy K. Sproles
bestselling author of What Momma Left Behind
In Dust, Everson commands a rich Southern setting and a wide cast of characters with a deft hand and an evocative voice. Perfect for book clubs and women's groups, Dust brings to life the questions of every woman who has wrestled with marriage and motherhood, while understanding that, sometimes, we live not only with the choices we make, but the ones that are made for us.
~Lindsey Brackett
award-winning author of Still Waters
CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Before
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Anyone who knows anything about classic rock knows that “Dust in the Wind” was released as a single in January 1978 by the progressive American rock band, Kansas. Written by Kerry Livgren, the song became a track on the group’s 1977 album Point of Know Return. The song was haunting. Beautiful. One of my favorite all-time pieces of music from my young adult years. The inspiration, it has been reported, came to Livgren from biblical scriptures (Ecclesiastes 1:14, 3:20; Genesis 3:19) but the song itself was composed only as exercises for the guitar (to learn fingerpicking). Chances are, “Dust in the Wind” wasn’t played on the radio until late January 1978. I took the creative liberty of giving it airtime for Allison and Westley in October 1977. And that’s okay. I am a writer; I can do that.
So, allow me to begin by thanking Kerry Livgren for such an amazing piece of lyrical literature. When I heard the song on Pandora a few years ago, the idea for Dust formed, then took on new meaning as I focused not on our being dust in the wind but in where that Wind carries us. I will also admit that Michelle’s misunderstanding of “Carry On Wayward Son” was originally, well, mine.
There are so many others to thank: my Page 6 group from Word Weavers International who read the bits and pieces of the manuscript for over two-and-a-half years; Ramona Richards, my critique partner; Jessica Everson, who said she didn’t understand the quandary women found themselves in in the late 1970s and so inspired me to go back and “fix things;” Tina Yeager who said, “Who will victimize Cindie next?” and so opened up a whole new world and character in Patterson Thacker; Merilyn Marriott who helped me understand the nature of the self-sabotaging beast; my agent, Jonathan Clements, who encouraged me, even after some time had gone by, to keep at the writing of the story; my husband who left me alone while I sequestered in my office for hours upon hours only to emerge a tad moody; my street team who gave me so many high-fives and who, by and large, taught me that “I have all idea” must be a colloquialism known only to the Southern region of my birth (so I removed it from the dialogue); Ann Tatlock, my editor (I am still so excited!); Lucie Winbourne for her proofreading talents; and to all those who prayed me through an incredible difficult time in which the writing of this book took place.
Finally, “thank you and I love you beyond measure” to the Lord God Almighty whose Word tells me that although my bones may one day return to dust, I have a purpose, and that, no matter how great or how small, that purpose matters.
Eva Marie Everson
DEDICATION
To my Little Bro …
… who loved Jesus …
… and classic rock …
I miss you more than I have words.
And I love you to bits.
Big Sis
Before …
Patterson
June 5, 1965
Atlanta wasn’t just steaming hot; Atlanta was practically on fire.
And so was Patterson Thacker, who stood at the Groom’s Room window, blinking toward the church’s parking lot three stories below. He breathed slow and steady as words repeated in his head. His heart. He could do this. He could marry Mary Helen and be true to her. To her and to the children they would someday have. He wanted this. Had chosen this … more or less.
He took another breath. Tugged at the bow tie his father had tied a bit too tight. Watched steam rise from the asphalt to form ghostly mists. Again, for the hundredth—no, the millionth—time that day, he willed his nerves—and his expectations—not to get the better of him. Because he knew, he knew he had to be careful. His unadulterated passion for the woman who, somewhere in this building of cold stone and stained glass and stretching spires, was as hot as the day. This day. Their wedding day.
Of all days …
He grimaced. Mary Helen had worked herself into a lather planning the perfect date. A date that, she’d told him when she’d settled on it, would occur early enough to keep their guests from walking through the outskirts of hell to reach the church doors. One that meant their outdoor reception at the country club could be—and would be—enjoyed by all.
But her meticulous planning had come to naught; Atlanta was smack dab in the middle of a heatwave unlike anything they’d experienced that century—or so the weatherman declared only nights before during the five o’clock news.
Of course, Mary Helen had been fit to be tied. She couldn’t believe it, she said. Absolutely couldn’t believe that God in his mercy would do this to her … to her of all people, good Christian that she was.
Patterson had tried to calm her. Tried to tell her that, no matter what—heat or cold, rain or shine, if the flowers stood glorious in their vases or wilted like Grandma’s lettuce—they’d be married soon. Husband and wife, off to live the best life any two people ever had. And wasn’t that the
