Читать книгу Almost Home - Debbie Macomber - Страница 10

“I’ve told you I don’t want to talk to you.”

I grimaced as I limped up the porch steps and tried to glare at him without salivating. Why did he have to be so yummy-rugged and full of such glorious testosterone? That wasn’t fair.

“Yes, I know.” For a few long seconds Aiden stared right at me. His eyes were greenish, and he had long lusty eyelashes. The corners of his mouth tilted up, then back down again.

“What happened? Were you in an accident?”

“No.”

“Did you fall?”

Pause. “Not really.” I glanced away from those bright eyes and reminded myself that men are cagey, deceptive beasts and hairy vermin.

“Did someone hurt you?”

I did not miss the outrage in his tone, the beginning of incredulous fury. My heart didn’t miss it, either, but I told my heart to shut up.

“No, no man would ever hit me, because they know I’d flatten them into a kidney-smeared mass of flesh. I don’t want to talk about it.”

He exhaled, his hands on the waistband of his jeans. “Can I help you? Are you hurt in other places, too?”

Can he help me? Geez. That one little question stopped me right up. How often had a man said “Can I help you?” to me and really meant it? Not often.

“I don’t need help Mr. Bridger. I’m perfect. One hundred percent. Fine. Dandy. Do I seem weak? Some damsel in distress who needs an effeminate white guy with skinny thighs charging up on a white horse for a pathetic rescue?”

“No, ma’am, you don’t.” He grinned. “And I did not bring my white horse anyhow or my skinny thighs.”

I immediately stole a peek at his legs. Long, muscled, not skinny, powerful. Big mistake.

My breath caught and I glanced longingly at my front door, wanting to escape from He-Man here. I had saved every penny and had this house built in a farmhouse style seven years ago. It was small, fifteen hundred square feet, but there were no walls in the downstairs, so it felt bigger. Upstairs there were two bedrooms and my studio, flooded with light from floor-to-ceiling windows and two skylights. I did not want to think about skylights.

“You have a very nice home,” he said, quite serious.

And you have very nice hips. And your shoulders aren’t so bad, either, under that beige, outdoorsy jacket you’re wearing. And sheesh. That jaw. Even the scar above your eyebrow turns me on. Oh, do shut up, Chalese. To distract myself from the prince’s thighs, I said, “Thank you.

“Your view is incredible.”

“It calms my nerves.” You, however, have set my nerves on fire.

“I’ll bet.” He laughed, low and rumbly. “I think it would calm anyone’s nerves.”

My yellow home sat on five bucolic acres on Whale Island off the coast of Washington, with a view of the ocean and two neighboring islands through towering pine trees. The pine trees acted as a natural frame for the moving, changing post-card. I watched sailboats and rowboats glide in and out of a small harbor as I worked.

“I’m detecting a longing note in your voice,” I said. “Do your nerves need calming?”

“Uh, yes. More than I can tell you at this time.”

I nodded. We smiled at each other. Couldn’t help myself. My smile hurt my aching face.

“The deer think they own the place,” I rattled out to fill the silence. “The raccoons have almost formed a union, there’s so many of them. The squirrels have raucous, argumentative family reunions on my back deck, and the birds are bossy and rule the sky.”

He shrugged. “Deer are possessive, raccoons should be unionized, squirrels never get along, and birds always have to see what’s going on in everyone’s lives because they’re nosy. Didn’t you know that?”

Oh no. A he-man with a sense of humor.

He gazed around, his eyes stopping at my seriously dilapidated barn and then the building with the heated kennels for various abused/stray dogs I had taken in over the years until I could adopt them out to happy homes.

My home, and this island, had been the perfect hiding place for me, my mother, and my sister.

And now, after one award, Mr. Bridger here was going to ruin it. “Mr. Bridger …”

“Aiden.”

“Mr. Bridger,” I started again, trying to sound firm through my throbbing headache. “I have already told you I am not interested in doing an interview with you or your newspaper. Any questions from the media always go through my agent. I believe I forwarded you Terry Rudolph’s number already?”

“Got that,” he said softly, still staring at me.

“And?” I raised my eyebrows at him and pushed a stray curl off my face. At least I wasn’t wearing my black burglar cap that covered all my face except my eyes and mouth. I brushed my leather pants with my hands. Gall.

“And what?” He smiled at me then, his intense gaze never leaving my face. I was doomed, doomed. He was even more yummy smiling.

“Shurx …” I tried to speak, could not find words. “Anr … Bix …” I cleared my throat, studied my red Adirondack chairs, the hanging flowers, the wind chimes tinkling over my porch. “And you should leave. Good-bye, Mr. Gorgeous.” I turned away, my kneecaps feeling like they were cracking, then froze.

Oh, please, I begged myself. Please tell yourself you did not say ‘Good-bye, Mr. Gorgeous.’ I hadn’t, had I? My body prickled with pure mortification.

It was his laughter that confirmed it.

“Damn,” I muttered. “By damn, damn. I did say it.”

I did not turn around. “Mr. Bridger, please go. I don’t want an article written about me, not now, not ever. I’m a private person, have a private life, and I want to keep it that way.”

“I understand that. Privacy is one cool thing.”

I did not turn around to look at him, because my acute embarrassment was causing a hot flash. Hot flashes at thirty-five years old. Gimme a break. My mother had had them early, too. And her mother. My mother called them her “skin boilers.” Her mother called them “the devil’s heat spells.”

I called them my “sweatfests.”

“Ms. Hamilton, it’s going to be announced very shortly here that you’ve won the Carmichael Children’s Book Award. Our paper had a contact on the committee, and we want to get the story written on you first. You’re already famous under your pen name. Your books are famous. They’ve sold hundreds of thousands of copies, and yet no one knows anything about you.”

“I would bet, Mr. Bridger, that you know a thing or two about me, isn’t that correct?” I could feel my spine tingling, that old fear of discovery flaming around me. “After all, you found me, you know my name.”

“I know your pen name is Annabelle Purples but very little else. Certainly not enough to write my article.”

“There will be no article.” I shook my head. Glass tinkled to the porch. “Nada. None.”

I saw the alarm on Aiden’s face. “You had glass in your hair. Are you all right?”

“Absolutely splendid.” I was exhausted. My body ached, I had dried blood on my legs and hands, my hangover was merciless, and I’d hardly slept. First thing this morning I’d paid Mervin to repair Stephen’s skylight. Brenda and I had done our best to clean up the kitchen after making a serendipitous call to Christie to tell her to stay out of the house.

The Man-eater in her red negligee had been furious, scathing, degrading. Stephen hadn’t been much better. I believe the words “pathetic … jealous … criminal” had left his mouth. I had promised him a better skylight, immediately installed, and a cleaning woman to fix the rest of the mess in exchange for his not calling the police.

The Man-eater had smirked at me when we’d left. “Get over it, Chalese. Be a mature woman and leave us alone. Stephen doesn’t need a jelly maker who is always doing stupid stuff and is obsessed with animals for a wife. He doesn’t want you.”

I’d scuttled out like a humiliated cockroach after Brenda told the Man-eater her negligee was “uninventive, boring staid” and that Stephen had the face of an “uptight, constipated prune.”

“No, thank you very much, Mr. Bridger.” I put my key in the lock. “Good-bye.”

“Okay. Got it. But you’re hurt, aren’t you?”

“I’m Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah fine. All is well. Calm and collected.”

I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. He was trying not to laugh. “It has occurred to me that you’ve had quite a night. Were you at some biker event? A women’s wrestling contest? A costume party where everyone had to wear leather?”

“Take your pick. I get a high out of riding motorcycles, wrestling has its appeal, and I do have wacky friends who might be inclined to have a leather party. Adios, Mr. Bridger.”

“I’m good at putting bandages on.”

“I’m sure you’re good at a lot of things,” I drawled, then snapped that traitorous mouth shut. “I mean I’m sure you have many talents.” Darn. I yanked at the door. Must escape from Mr. Gorgeous!

“And I’d really like to help you get that glass out of your hair. Please?” His voice was soft and manly and would taste so good hearing it close to my ear. “It’s against my chivalrous, princely nature to let a damsel in distress, or a damsel with glass in her hair, fend for herself.”

“This damsel is one tough woman and does not need a man in her life to cope or live or be happy or get glass out of her hair. And this is what I know about princes—the prince is probably gay, I’d have to deal with his supercilious mother, the queen, I don’t admire men in tights, and if I want a horse I can buy myself a whole damn stable.”

“You didn’t buy into the whole fairy-tale thing as a kid, did you?”

“No. Why should I? The most interesting things in those stories were the talking mirror that told the truth, the dress-sewing mice, and an apple that could put someone to sleep with one bite. I was also fascinated by the vengeful witches, whom I admired.”

“Already you’re fascinating to me, definitely not a damsel in any distress at all. Perhaps you should ride up on the charging horse.”

“I’m boring. I’m dull. Trust me. I write and illustrate children’s books. I take care of stray and abused animals found on the islands and try to find them homes. I hang out with my sister, who has been almost constantly pregnant for six years, and my childhood friend, Brenda, who is a menace. I take walks. That’s it. That’s all.”

I opened the door to my home.

“Ms. Hamilton, I’m sorry.”

I turned around. The motion killed me again. My back felt like it was splitting. “Why are you sorry?”

“I’m sorry, but I have to write this article. I’m going to stick around Whale Island for a while, talk to people, get a feel for the mysterious children’s writer who is going to be even more famous next month when the award is announced. You’ve been assigned to me, and with you or without you, I have to write it.”

My air got stuck in my lungs. I figured it was my past drowning me. I felt a tightening in my shoulders. I figured it was my instincts pushing me to run. My secret would be blown to smithereens. A flood of memories came pouring on in, cameras and furious people, newspapers and reporters, crushing us, shouting, demanding answers.

“People want to know the authors they love. You write kids’ stories with these fully developed animal characters, and you’re always addressing the problems we have—environmental, social, animal rights, racial issues, politics. You have books that address loneliness, sadness, not having friends, but you use animals to get your point across in a way kids can relate to. It’s brilliant.”

I leaned my forehead against the door, then banged it lightly a few times. I took the he-man heartthrob reporter in one more time. He meant what he said. He was going to write the story with or without me. Maybe if I talked to him I could throw him off the scent, the article would be brief, six people would read it, and that would be that.

“Mr. Bridger, you are a pain in the butt.”

He nodded amicably. “Been called worse.”

I left the door open. I had to. I didn’t have a choice.

The prince with the powerful thighs followed me in.

“Let me get this straight. No one on this island knows that you are Annabelle Purples, is that right?”

I let my eyes wander around my home before answering that truly problematic question. The décor was blue and white, with lots of glassworks, pottery, and paintings made by artist friends on the island. Plus stacks of old books, quilts, and three framed pictures of Greece, a country I had promised myself I would visit in this lifetime.

I bit my lip, then nodded at Mr. Gorgeous. “That’s right. No one knows except my mother, my sister and her husband, and my friends Brenda and Gina, who has hair all the way down to her rear. Sometimes she sticks real flowers in it. She’s a hippie.” I wrung my hands, my nervousness unnerving me. “You didn’t need to know that.”

He blinked. “I respect hippies. But so I’m clear here, the other islanders think you sell jams and jellies and take care of stray and abused animals?”

“That’s right again. My, aren’t you sharp.” I had shown him a storage room that held the jams and jellies I slaved over in between writing books. Each label read “Wild Girl’s Jams and Jellies.”

“And you want who you are to stay secret?” Aiden leaned toward me across my rattan coffee table, the sunlight streaming through the room.

I rolled my shoulders inside my black leather motorcycle jacket. Even my elbows hurt. “Now you’ve been right three whole times. You’re a freakin’ genius.”

“Because you’re a private person?”

“Yes.” And I have something from my past to hide, but no need to split hairs, right? “Privacy is good. Like air. Like cheesy pizza. Like having working intestines.”

He paused to consider that bit of wisdom.

“Why?”

“Why what?” My golden, one-eyed cat, Racy, curled around my legs, and I stroked her back.

“Why the secrecy? Aren’t you proud of who are, what you’ve accomplished?”

Proud of who I am? For years I had wanted to crawl in a hole with the worms and wiggle my way farther into the dirt, I was so ashamed. “I’m glad that kids like my books.” That was true. If one kid, one place on Earth, learned something from my books, learned to read better … Well, that was more than good enough for me.

“They love your books, but you didn’t answer the question. Aren’t you proud of yourself?”

Proud of myself. No. I didn’t even really understand what “proud of myself” would entail. “Want some more coffee?” I stood up. Aiden didn’t stand. He leaned back in my plush blue-striped chair and linked his hands behind his head.

Why did he have to ooze such masculinity in my pretty messy family room?

“Nice try, Chalese. Why are you dodging the question? And for the third time, can I help you get the glass out of your hair? It’s making me nervous. I’m afraid you’re going to get hurt again. You could step on it later and cut your foot ….”

“I’m not dodging it, and stay out of my hair. Why would I let a stranger paw through the glass in my hair anyhow?” I felt the vague zip of a caffeine headache. “I want coffee. I am going to perish without it. In fact, I want to take these clothes off and get in the shower and wash my hair because it’s a wreck.” Oh, hell. Had I said that? Had I said “take these clothes off”? I stalked to the kitchen, my black leather boots thumping on the wood floor.

Aiden said something. I was tempted to keep marching, but I couldn’t stop myself. “What?”

“I said your hair is fine to me.”

My face grew hot, so did my neck, and my forehead broke out in beads of sweat. Hot flash. Oh, why? Why now? I grabbed the coffee pot and shoved it under the faucet, then fumbled for a bag of coffee beans. I attempted to pour the beans into the grinder, but the beans spilled all over the floor. I grabbed a broom. Aiden grabbed the dustpan. “You don’t have to help.”

“I want to help. I’m drinking the coffee, right?”

When that was cleaned up, I tried to pour the beans into the grinder with my trembling hands again. Same experience. Beans everywhere. My internal thermometer shot up eight hundred degrees, and I sweated.

I wanted to cry. I stopped, gripped the counter, and turned away.

“Hey,” Aiden said, his voice quiet, reassuring. “It’s all right, Chalese. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” I squished my eyes shut and wiped my forehead. It wasn’t nothing.

“Chalese, I’m not trying to wreck your privacy. To be honest with you, if I don’t write the story, someone else will at this point.”

I put my cool, wet hands to my flaming face. That was true. That award was gonna rip me out into the open like a hunting target.

I turned away from him and wiped the tears off my cheeks. “Can you write the article without using my real name?”

“Use your pen name, Annabelle Purples, instead?”

“Yes.”

“No. I can’t.”

“Why not?’

“Because it’s not your real name, Chalese.”

Chalese Hamilton isn’t my real name, either. The need to cry ballooned up again. So unusual for me. I’ve been burying my tears forever.

I felt the inside of me crumbling. I made a muffled sound against my hand.

“Chalese, please,” Aiden said, his voice soft and warm. “I’m sorry. I am. Let me take you out to breakfast—”

Whatever else he was going to say was interrupted by the doorbell.

Sniffling, I hurried over to the door, glad for the reprieve. Perhaps it was a Martian and I could go to Saturn with him and be used for alien experiments.

The second I opened the door to a human, not an alien, I wished I hadn’t.

I wished I’d skipped out the back door, toward the fields, or to the ocean. Or to my boat at the dock, always waiting to take me on a little jaunt with the whales that circle our islands on their migration journeys.

“Chief O’Connaghey,” I squeaked, dread filling my stomach. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Hello, Chalese!” He grinned at me, almost proudly. “It seems we have a problem again. Yep. Another problem.” He whistled. “This one is a doozer, sugar. Where’s your co-conspirator? She here?”