Читать книгу Almost Home - Debbie Macomber - Страница 12

“He’s going to find out everything,” I choked out to Brenda the next afternoon in my studio.

I picked up a paintbrush, put it down, picked it up, put it down. Hard to paint or use colored pencils when your hand is shaking. “I know it. He’s been all over the world writing articles. Researching a publicity-shy writer is nothing for him. He’ll dig. He’ll find out.” I wanted to cry. I wanted to hide. I wanted to move to Alaska. I had had three hours of sleep the previous night. “Last night, I dreamed of a giant hand grabbing me in the middle of the night and squeezing my neck. Everyone was staring at me, pointing.”

I gave up trying to work and stalked to the deck outside my second-floor studio with a box of orange truffles. I did not need any more orange truffles. I could feel my butt expanding as I ate. It did not slow me down.

I petted Mr. Earl, a lab-beagle mix who was returned by his ex-new owner last week. He jumped into my arms when he saw me, not feeling the slightest bit guilty that his new owner had found him in, in, her tropical aquarium and only three green flashy fish left.

“He may not find out, chillins,” Brenda said, linking an arm around my shoulder. She was wearing a red robe with fluffy trim and red heels because she was hoping dressing romantically would lift her writer’s block. “Tell him what you’ve been telling everyone for years.” She grabbed a truffle. Brenda never gained weight. She was thin and rangy. I would hate her, but I love her too much.

“He’s a man, after all. They want to know what they believe they need to know, which is minimal because they are raw, uncivilized, unrefined animals. They talk endlessly about themselves and puff up their chests. Give him the basics, off he goes.” Brenda ate another truffle. “I wonder if I should get Botox done on my lips.”

I turned toward her. “Botox? If your lips were any puffier they’d need to wear a bra.”

“Hmm. Maybe you’re right. Plus, I can’t get my head around shooting a dead botulism virus into my body. Seems if God wanted me to have Botox in my lips, I would have been born with a syringe in my hand, right?”

I rolled my eyes. “Right. And if he had wanted us to have laser peels done on our faces, we would have been born with a mini-sandblaster. Can we get back on topic?”

“Yes, sweets.” She patted me. “You know I get sidelined when I’m thinking.”

I shoveled in another truffle.

“Listen up, dear friend.” She turned my trembling body around so I was facing her. “You, Christie, and your mother have managed to keep your whole family’s past a secret for more than twenty years.”

“Quite an accomplishment since you could always use it for your movies.”

“Pshaw, pshaw! I wouldn’t do that. But sweetems, we’re going to keep this a secret, too. Tell him about the animals, your jams and jellies business, and your always-pregnant sister. Tell him what you think of modern birth control, rabid butterflies, French politics, tulips, the tsar of Russia, spin the bottle, and cannibalism. It’ll throw him off the track. He has a deadline, right? He’ll be outta here in a couple of days.”

I pressed my hands to my forehead. “No. Aiden Bridger will not be gone in a couple of days. He’s a reporter. A successful, award-winning, blood-sucking, dirt-digging, story-sniffing, lie-detecting reporter. His job is to find out all about me. And then everyone on the island will know.”

A sudden stab of anxiety hit my stomach, and I bent over double. Family secrets die hard. Once you’re told, as a child, to keep your mouth shut, you take that into adulthood with you. Revealing the secret is only slightly less difficult than lifting the state of Oregon out of the ground and shifting it to Hawaii.

“A beer. A beer will help,” Brenda said. “Two beers? Or, how about if we throw off our shirts and drive naked through the night? That’ll get the ole hormones pumping again! Or skinny-dipping! Let’s get your sister! The water will hold that mammoth stomach up for her …. How that woman walks is a mystery to me ….”

“’Morning.”

Bent halfway over to pet my new dog, a black poodle named Nutmeg Man, I froze right where I was in the kennel when I heard that gravelly voice.

The man who had kept me up most of the night for two nights worrying about what he would do to my sorry life was right behind me. Staring at my ample buttocks.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” What a special moment this was.

“Yep, it is. A pleasure to see you.”

A pleasure to see your butt. I sagged, then straightened up.

I had no makeup on. I hadn’t showered. I smelled like garlic. Brenda had made chicken garlic pasta while she guzzled white wine and whimpered that she would never write a word again, she was lost, done, a failure. That writer’s block was killing her. She slept on the kitchen floor so she could get a different “perspective.”

“How are you today, Chalese?” he asked.

“I’m dandy.” Go away, please. Go away. “So dandy I feel I will whistle a merry tune and dance a jig.”

The dogs barked, and I let them out of their kennels one by one. They kissed me, jumped up to my shoulders, ran around my ankles, then went to sniff Aiden. He got down on his haunches and petted each one of them.

I ran fingers through my hair. I knew I was the spitting image of Mrs. Godzilla.

“I didn’t hear you drive up,” I said.

“I’m not surprised.” He eyed the barking, jumping dogs.

“Right. I call it my Canine Chorus Line. I have to walk them, or I’ll never hear the end of it. They’ll complain.” I winced. I sounded like Gina, my pet-communicator friend who translates for humans what their pets are thinking.

“The dogs complain?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Uh, well, not in English. Not in any other language, either—for example, French or German.” Stop talking, mouth, I told myself. “They don’t have conversations, they don’t communicate to me, but they … uh … they whine and yip and screech.”

“I didn’t think dogs had conversations, but thank you.” He straightened up. The man towered over me. “That clarifies things.”

“No, they don’t talk. Animals don’t talk.” Why must I babble? “That’s silly. But Gina thinks they do.”

“Gina the hippie?”

I paused. Shoot. I could see the headlines now: “Reclusive Writer Friends With Pet Communicator. ‘I know what horses think!’ Gina Martinez proclaims. ‘I can tell you if your hamster is depressed or if your cat struggles with multiple personalities from past lives!’”

I put a leash around Shortcake. “I have to walk the dogs.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“That’s not necessary. I won’t get lost.”

“No.” He smiled at me. “I know you won’t get lost. You are one of the most ‘found’ people I think I’ve met. But I thought I’d help out.”

Why did Aiden have to be charming? “Fine. But you have to know that I haven’t showered, I was up late last night working, I have paint in my hair, Brenda made me smell like garlic, and I’m tired and cranky.”

“I’ve already seen tired and cranky, and I’m okay with it.”

I glared at him.

“I see you have blue and purple paint in your hair, and I love garlic, so all is well there, too, and I’ve seen what diving through a skylight does to your face. Now, that was precious.”

I opened another kennel, and Rocky jumped up and down, a giant dog-rabbit with a long tail. I stole a peek at Aiden’s face. He was trying not to laugh.

I scowled at him. “It wasn’t funny.”

“But I think it was.”

I handed him four leashes with poorly behaved dogs on the ends of them. I took another three. Though my property is fenced, I am trying to teach this mangy gang to walk on leashes so they’ll be somewhat respectable members of society. The “respectable members of society” part isn’t working very well, as they are uncontrollable beasts.

“I’ve also seen you in the police station. Even in the poor lighting, you still somehow glowed, as if you were pure and innocent.”

“Thanks. Gee. I’ve always been tremendously worried how my complexion would hold up under the station’s lighting.” We headed out of the kennel, into the sun and down a path lined with ferns and pine trees.

“How long did you date Stephen?”

“I don’t know ….” I glanced at him. The change of subject threw me. “Three months. I didn’t sleep with him.” I crammed my eyes shut. “I have no idea why I said that. It’s none of your business who I sleep with or don’t sleep with at all, and it’s not my business who you sleep with or don’t sleep with, and I’m not going to ask you anyhow.” Message to mouth: Please. Shut. Up. My hot flash began.

“You’re not going to ask me what? To sleep with you?”

I flushed harder, redder, sweatier. Darn these sweatfests. “No! Forget it.” A vision of me and a naked Aiden on a red blanket in a field filled with daisies appeared in my brain in 3-D. I could almost smell the honey the bees were making.

“I’ll try to forget it,” he mused. He smiled that friendly smile again. Why is it that some people are born with smiles that demand you smile back? “Yes, I’ll try to forget it, but it might be hard.”

The dogs decided they wanted to yank my shoulder socket out. I stumbled as they lunged. They yanked again. I stumbled and yelled at them. Nutmeg Man glanced back and smirked at me. No kidding—this dog knows how to smirk.

This lunge-and-stumble routine went on for quite some time as we headed for my blue picnic table in a clearing in the forest. I gave up, unleashed them, and let all the furry monsters run free.

We settled at the table on the same bench, and Aiden studied me for long seconds while I studied the ocean through the trees. Now, if I were skinnier, prettier, I would think the man was interested in me, but my guess is that he was staring at me because I was a strange sight to behold. A she-devil-insanely private, persnickety, overly well-rounded criminal female.

“Can I interview you now?”

That got me back to reality. “Aiden, one more time, please no story. Let it go.”

“I can’t force you to talk to me, so it is your choice. But I have talked to some interesting people in town about you. Don’t worry, I was subtle. I didn’t tell them your pen name and I didn’t tell them I’m a reporter. It has gotten around that I’m your special friend.”

I sagged in relief. He had nice hands. Long fingers, tough, strong. How would they look on my thighs? I shook my head. “What have other people said about me?” I cringed. Did I really want to know? We all have a vague idea of what people think of us, but are we right? Do they actually dislike us? Love us more than we thought possible? Admire us? Are we irritating and don’t know it?

For long, treacherous seconds Aiden smiled at me, and I fell into that smile and felt my heart thumping around like it was in a disco.

“Let me start this way,” he said. “I have interviewed thousands of people. In all of my interviews, I can find someone who can’t stand the interviewee. Always. Sometimes many people.”

Man. I wanted to get under that table and hide. He was buttering me up for being Most Unpopular Islander. I knew I was irritating; I knew it! I knew I said stupid stuff, but I wasn’t realizing how stupid it was! I knew I didn’t belong. I had felt I belonged here, but now I would become a recluse, a hermit, so as not to offend anyone else. I put my face down on the rough picnic table.

“I can’t find anyone who dislikes you.”

“What?” Head snapped up.

“I can’t find anyone who dislikes you.”

“You’re kidding.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“You have to be. I’m a moody freak.”

“No. In fact, you may be the most popular person I know. I’m about ready to put a tiara on your head, a scepter in your hand, and drop a banner on you that says “Most Well-Loved.”

I sniffled.

I coughed.

I wiped my nose, then my eyes.

Sniffled again.

And then I lost it and started crying. I don’t know why.

“Chalese, this is good news ….”

“I know, I know! I know!” I put my head back on the table and let the tears out, not the sweet tears fair damsels in distress cry, but shoulder-shaking, nose-running, face-red-and-sweaty kinds of tears. “I … I … I …” I cried again. They liked me. I felt like Sally Field when she got the Oscar. That made me cry harder.

He slung an arm around my shoulders. I whimpered, wiped my face, and he pulled me in close.

“That’s twice now.”

“Twice what?”

“Twice that you’ve cried on me.”

I tried to pull away. He pulled me closer. I leaned into his warmth. I promised myself I would get off the reporter as soon as possible, because I stank.

“There is nothing fake about you, is there? Whatever you feel, you show. You don’t hide your emotions. You don’t hide what you’re thinking. You cry, you’re sarcastic, you care, you’re daring, you’re funny. And you and Brenda …” He laughed.

I cried again—more tears! Why was I so emotional? Why such a wreck? But I loved Brenda! She was from my other life, and underneath the froufrou she was one of the most courageous people I knew. Without her laughter and friendship, my home life would have been even more unbearable. “She’s the best,” I wept out.

And then I was facing him, tears swimming in my eyes, and he was brushing the tears off my face, his warmth seeping into my side, and I wanted to kiss him. I did. One time. One kiss. I leaned toward him. I closed my eyes and prepared for this dizzying passionate kiss with Prince Aiden. I waited a second, then two and whoosh. Cold air.

When I opened my peepers, he was standing up by the picnic table, facing the ocean, running a hand through his hair.

No no no no no, that voice in my head shrieked. Oh heck, no, say it isn’t so. Say you didn’t just do that!

But I did! I had! Hell and tarnation, I had tried to kiss Aiden Bridger.

I could not have been more humiliated if I’d stripped off my clothes in front of him and performed a Scottish Highlands dance followed by a double cartwheel.

I wanted to die.

I got up and jogged toward those monstrous dogs of mine, my mind drowning in embarrassment.

I heard him call my name, but I kept on truckin’.

I don’t know why I let Brenda talk me into it. I don’t know why Christie agreed so eagerly to do it, either. I may have mentioned: the three of us together are lethal.

At ten o’clock that night, there we were, in one of the island’s lakes, naked, swimming around.

“I want to live in this water,” Christie said. “For once I don’t feel as if I’m carrying around a Mack Truck in my gut.”

“The freedom, the breathless freedom, the ultimate in liberation, right here, right now,” Brenda said.

“Fat floats,” I said as I floated naked on my back and counted the stars, Aiden’s face next to every one of them. “I am such an idiot.”

We did not drive with our shirts off through town after that, as previously suggested.

“We’ll save that exciting event for later, Brenda,” I said.

“Agreed,” she said. “We’ll bring Mrs. Zebra. She’s my favorite dog.”

My sister moaned. “I’ll probably be nursing by then, so I’m gonna miss out! Why do I always miss out on all the fun?”

“We have to stage a rescue.”

I put my paintbrush down. I was drawing/painting Cassy Cat. Hard to do when all I could think about was my bumbling kiss-attack on the unsuspecting Aiden. I hot-flashed at the thought of it.

Cassy Cat had white in her golden stripes and wore glasses and simple clothes. Even though she is running for president of her farm, she did not try to get all dressed up as the prissy goose did.

“Gina, I cannot even think of rescuing a horse right now.” My cat Troublesome, old and creaky and missing a leg, settled on my feet.

“It’ll take one night.” She pulled a purple flower from her hair and stuck it back in over her ear. “One night out of your life!”

“I don’t even have a night.” I would be up all night, again. I hadn’t even been to bed yet, and it was eight in the morning.

I rinsed out my brush, stood up, examined Cassy Cat. She had to be presidential, but not snobby. Smart but not superior. Fox was sticking his pointy nose in the picture, as if spying on her, his black tuxedo coat buttoned up tight.

Had I really leaned in to kiss Aiden?

“This is about reaching out to our fellow species! Grasping their humanity, their dignity! Haven’t you seen the horse?”

“No, I haven’t.” I thought of my own Herbert Hoove the Horse. Herbert was humble and sweet and wore bow ties. I get letters from kids addressed to Herbert Hoove the Horse all the time.

“Come and see him.”

“No.” I would hide in my studio the rest of my life.

“Yes. One peek. A tiny gander. You won’t be able to sleep at night once you’re introduced to Gordon. He’s depressed, he’s having anxiety issues, and he can’t sleep because he’s starving.”

“Then Gordon and I have something in common, because I’m not sleeping much now, either.” I picked up Troublesome and dropped her on my lap. At least Troublesome hadn’t witnessed the kiss-attack.

“Take a mental break. A break for Gordon. For a hairy old friend who whispered to me yesterday that he’s afraid he’s going to die and he has so much more he wants to do with his life!”

Gina is very passionate about animals. Not only is she a pet communicator, she runs an animal sanctuary on the island. Her grandfather bought tons of land here decades ago, and she inherited it. In addition, she inherited money from her father, a megamillionaire software guy, so her full-time job was taking care of animals that had been used in medical experiments. The labs were actually giving her their animals when they were through with them, and a donation, on condition that she never reveal the status of their health when they arrived.

“I have great fondness for hairy old friends, Gina, but right now I’m painting a cat who bears a sad resemblance to a sick porcupine, and I can’t stop.”

She marched around my studio for a few minutes, her long hair swaying like a horse’s tail as she stared at my paintings. “Okay, Chalese. I’ll make you a deal.”

“No deal.”

“Listen up. If you go with me to take a gander, a peek at this starving, troubled, emotional horse, I’ll make you one of my frozen chocolate, flourless pies.”

My paintbrush stopped in midair. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

I’m a sucker for those pies. “How about two?”

“Agreed. Two for the horse!”

“Done. We’re on.”

Who knew that a few days later I was going to end up with a horse in my dining room?