Читать книгу Almost Home - Debbie Macomber - Страница 15

Gina Martinez is actually quite famous for her pet-communicating skills. She speaks to animal lovers at conventions all over the country. She’s even been on talk shows and has written newspaper articles about her abilities. She 100 percent believes that she can talk to animals and is quite persuasive.

She was especially persuasive the next night, when she got me and Brenda in our black burglar outfits once again and drove us down a dark and bumpy road on the south side of the island for the rescue mission. Gina was dressed in purple, head to foot. I have no idea why. Reuby was there, too. He wore black.

“Don’t take any pictures with your cell phone, Reuby,” Gina warned. “None. We can’t have any evidence.”

“Got it, Authority Figure. It wouldn’t be cool to be the guy in court who has to tell the judge his mother is a horse thief, he’s got the evidence, and she should go to jail.”

Gina rolled her eyes. “No wonder your hamster says you drive him crazy, Reuby.”

I sighed. Now I could add “horse thief” to my resume.

We watched the dilapidated house and rickety barn where the poor horse who was “battling depression and enduring anxiety attacks” lived. I didn’t know about the anxiety attacks, but there was no disputing Gordon the horse was underfed, sickly, thin, weak, and uncared for, as I had noted days before on our spy mission.

Red Scanlon, a cantankerous drunk whom everyone on the island hated because he was a cantankerous drunk, would soon leave for the local bar on his bicycle, that was a given. Twice he’d parked his truck sideways in the middle of the main street of the island and passed out after a foray to the bar.

The second time it happened, with Red locked up in the jail, someone took the truck and exploded it in the middle of a field. The insurance paid out, Red got drunk again, rammed the drugstore with his new truck, almost rammed a kid, and whaddya know, his truck mysteriously ended up in a lake. (Perhaps we did that).

The chief made sure he lost his license, locked him up again, fined him to the high heavens, and now mean Red was allowed a bicycle.

When the cantankerous drunk bicycled off five minutes later, we horse thieves pulled our black-knitted hats over our entire faces with only our eyes and mouths showing and went for Gordon.

Gina turned on the light in that sagging barn as soon as we walked in, and that pathetic, bony horse met my eyes. I wanted to cry. I went over and hugged him with my black gloves.

“I’ll get the trailer,” Brenda said. Though the black hat covered most of her face, I did not miss the tears in her eyes.

The next morning the chief was out hunting down the horse.

Everyone knew that Gina had taken it. About ten people called Gina telling her the chief was on his way out to her property. How did they all know this? The chief stopped by Marci’s Whale-Jumping Café and announced quite loudly that old Red Scanlon’s horse was missing and he knew where he might find it. Apparently Red had roused himself and called in the loss that morning.

The chief took his time eating his eggs and bacon with three cups of black coffee and pretended not to notice when half the place took out their cell phones.

When Gina got notice, she trotted Gordon over with Reuby to my place through the field and forest separating our homes.

Brenda and I met them halfway. I grabbed the reins. Brenda and I were still in pajamas, our hair flattened and sticking out in strange ways. Gina had fed the horse the night before—“I thought he’d never stop eating!”—and had brushed him out. “He says his self-esteem is growing exponentially!”

“Hey! Can I come over to walk the dogs today, Chalese?” Reuby asked, fiddling with his eyebrow ring.

“Anytime,” I said. “You can visit the cats, too. I’ve hardly paid them any attention, and they’re getting cranky and spiteful.”

“Radical. I’m going to take their pictures with my cell phone and put them on my MySpace page.”

“Fine by me. Shoot away.”

Brenda and I led the horse with better self-esteem into my dilapidated but clean barn, rustled up fresh food and water, then wearily climbed the stairs to the porch and dropped into the Adirondack chairs to watch the sun warm my land.

“The horse stealers prevail,” Brenda said, fists shaking victoriously in the air. “We were probably horse rustlers in a previous life, guns hanging all over our hips, big pink cowboy hats, spurs on our silver heels, golden lassos swinging all around.”

“I think you’re right. I have often felt a real bond with lassos,” I mused. “Horses. Cowboys. The Wild West. Stagecoach drivers. More cowboys.”

“I think ya got your own cowboy right now, my friend,” Brenda said. “He’s a winner, sweetie. Smart, nice, tight ass, good teeth. Try not to get that suffocating feeling around him, will you? You can do this, you know. To relax, why don’t you dress up as a pirate? That’s what I did the other night with Chatham. I even had a gold ring in my nose. Chatham was the wench.”

“Man, Brenda. You are one wild woman.”

“It’s stimulating to let my creative streak out in the bedroom, hon. It’s a rush for the libido.”

“I think if I dressed up, I’d be a flamingo.”

“A flamingo? What are you talking about? Geez, Chalese, why don’t you dress as a giraffe? Or a snake? That’d be about as much of a turn-on as a flamingo!”

“I admire flamingos. They’re flexible, they can wind around each other’s necks—”

The ring of my phone interrupted my flamingo thoughts. “Hide the horse, hide the horse, the chief is coming your way,” Gina yelled. “Hide him!”

“Hide him!” I screamed back as Brenda leaped off her chair. “Where? You have the trailer!”

“Put him in your kitchen.”

“My kitchen! I can’t put him in my kitchen! Too small.”

“Hurry!” Gina screamed.

Brenda and I were up and running in our pajamas again, our hair flattened and sticking out in strange ways.

Turns out the dining room was a good fit, although the cranky, spiteful cats were not appreciative of this new guest.

Funny enough, after the chief checked my barn and property, he never thought to hunt for a horse in the dining room.

Later, a friend of Gina’s came by with a horse trailer. Gordon was on the mainland and in a cozy horse shelter with a sizeable donation from me by eight o’clock that night, working on his self-esteem.

“That can’t happen again, Chalese,” Aiden told me the next day, trying to keep the smile off his face. “I’m sorry. My fault. I never should have kissed you.”

I pulled my robe closer to my body. It was eleven in the morning, after all, and I had a deadline. I knew of other writers who didn’t peel their pajamas from their bodies until their kids got home from school. At least I’d had a shower and brushed my teeth.

“Uh …” I said. “Am I supposed to say thanks? Thanks for apologizing? Thanks for not kissing me again? Thanks for coming by and telling me you’ll never kiss me again?”

“I don’t need the thanks, Chalese, but I want to apologize.”

How surprised would Aiden be if I all of a sudden ripped my robe open and wriggled about naked like a flexible flamingo?

Nah. Couldn’t do that. Too much stomach, too much hip. Not enough boob. Still, the image made me smile.

And when Aiden saw that smile, he murmured, “Damn,” and then stepped into my house, slung an arm around my waist, pulled me close and kissed me like he never should have kissed me.

When he was leaning back against the door, his jaw tight, and I was leaning on him, I said, “Thanks for not kissing me again, Aiden.”

He rolled his eyes.

I laughed.

Laughed with sadness in my heart.

We were in a terrible situation. He wanted to write about me; I wanted to hide.

And all I could think about was what the dear man would look like stark naked on my periwinkle blue comforter on my bed eating orange truffles. Delicious!

“Can I make you an omelet?” he asked.

It’s amazing what you can learn about a person over a cheesy omelet, especially when they insist on trying all my jams and jellies and their expressions tell me they believe they’re tasting fruit heaven.

I did not bother to change out of my robe. It was one that Brenda gave me, silky and blue, and I loved the feel of it. I think Aiden did, too, as he kissed me after he scrambled the eggs, and again after the chopping of the tomatoes and mushrooms, his hands exploring much of that silk robe and the hot body beneath it ….

We took the omelets outside to the deck. Aiden helped me get the toast and orange juice and everything else out there.

On the deck we stayed apart by a table and talked while Thunder and Lightning fell asleep by our feet and snored.

We talked about our work, the island, my naughty goats, who had escaped yet again into town, my desire to see Greece one day, our favorite books, favorite movies, politics, and a social issue or two.

By the end of it I felt as if my brain had had sex. Aiden was witty and sharp and could talk and debate until my cranium rang with pleasure.

I caught him staring at me, and I looked away, looked back. He was still staring.

“I have never talked to a woman as I talk to you. It’s relaxing, it’s stimulating, funny. I can only compare it to talking to a comedian/sociologist/professor all wrapped up in a blue silk robe. You are one smart lady.”

“I’m glad. I wouldn’t want any competition, Zeus.”

“There is none,” he said in all seriousness. “You have no competition, Chalese. None.”

Later that day, we took my boat out. We watched the water shoot from a whale’s blowhole, Aiden’s face reflecting his awe. We held hands as the sun set, the colors a liquid, moving painting against the outlines of the green islands.

The next day, I showed Aiden more of the island.

When we got back to my yellow house, he stared at my barn, our fingers entwined.

“It needs work,” he said.

“Yes, it does. I’ll get to it.”

He held my hand. “We’ll get to it. I’ll help you rebuild the whole thing.”

And in the silky darkness of the night, I thought to myself, That is the most romantic thing any man has ever said to me.

She screamed, long, guttural, and piercing.

Then she jumped up and down, indulging her temper tantrum. She punched the air, ripped up paper, threw it over her head, and stomped around. She arched her back and screamed again through clenched teeth.

When she lifted up her laptop to throw it across my studio, I made a lunge and grabbed it from her. “Brenda, not the laptop. It’s too expensive.”

“I can’t get rid of my writer’s block.” She fought me for the laptop. “I hate this. I hate screenwriting. I’m going to become a … a … fourth-grade teacher and teach kids about the Revolutionary War and adjectives and how to get a date!” She screamed again.

I wrestled the laptop out of her hands. We ended up in a heap on the floor huffing and puffing.

“Want an orange truffle?” I asked.

She screamed through clenched teeth.

I blame the Annual Whale Island Poker Tournament, a fund-raiser for the local schools, for the extreme kissing that occurred afterward.

Aiden won third place in the tournament. Brenda won second place.

Mrs. Ailene Brooks, age eighty-five years young, won first place. The woman is a genius. She knows how to count cards. When she won, she climbed up on a table and did a break-dance of sorts.

Five tables practically buckled with desserts. At least sixty women had entered the Whale Island Dessert Contest. The prize was a three-day spa package on the mainland. A number of women started mean-spirited dessert gossip when they didn’t win, one repeatedly stabbed her fork into the table, and one stomped out and slammed the door, but hey. Tough break.

On Whale Island, Aiden and I were officially a couple. In fact, each time he won another round, it was announced by Sherilee Rotowsky via the microphone, “The gentleman who is the special friend of Chalese Hamilton has won another round. Let’s see, what’s his name? Ah, yes …” And then his name would be verbally mangled: Aide-on. Or Add-on. Or even Eedon.

Finished by “You know, the man who is dating our Chalese … Doesn’t she make the best jams and jellies you’ve ever tasted? Y’all know that she and Brenda had to go down to the police station again.” Laughter. “This time it was Stephen’s skylight. No one hurt, folks. She never should have dated Stephen in the first place.” That last bit was said under Sherilee’s breath, but everyone heard it. “He wasn’t good enough for her.”

I snuck a glance at the back of the building. Stephen’s face was bright red. The Man-eater crossed her arms and scrunched up her angry face.

“How many times has Chalese said no to marriage proposals?” Sherilee asked everyone as I slouched in my chair. “I can’t remember.”

“It’s nine,” Forrest Lee declared. He’s forty, the town comedian, and owns a pottery shop. “Nine.”

“Nine? That’s not true. Chalese has said no to six men,” Rainwater Nelson said. “I know. I keep track.”

“Is she engaged to Add-on?” yelled Beatrice Wong, principal of the high school.

“That’s a good question,” Sherilee said into the microphone. “Are you engaged to Add-on?”

Before I could say a word, Aiden stood up. He took a second to grin at everyone. “I think I can answer that. Chalese is …” He paused, and everyone leaned forward. “Chalese is not at this time engaged to me.”

Hooting and hollering followed. Not at this time?

I stood up on legs that held all the strength of those green noodles that are supposed to be healthy for you. “I am not engaged to Aiden. I am not even ‘not at this time’ engaged to Aiden. And to keep the official record straight, I’ve said no four times.” I held up my hand, four fingers up. “Four. Cuatro. Quatre.”

Rainwater yelled, “So don’t ask her, Add-on. Kidnap her, throw her over your shoulder, and haul her into the church. I’ll drive the getaway Porsche.” He had three.

“I can come to you,” Reverend Tinner said helpfully. “We’ll sneak up on her, Add-on.”

“For someone who wants to live a quiet, anonymous life, you sure aren’t anonymous, Chalese,” Aiden drawled to me as we stepped into the cool night two hours later.

“Shut up, Add-on,” I said.

And that’s where some serious kissing took place, right in the field next to the poker tournament. At the end of it, when I could barely breathe, he swung me around under a shimmering moon as if I were some skinny little thing.

“I have to go back to Seattle.”

Aiden’s words sunk straight into my heart as we stood at the front of the ferryboat, passing the emerald green islands surrounding Whale Island.

I really didn’t have time to do this island tour, but I could no more have refused Aiden’s invitation than I could have invited a boa constrictor to give my neck a good squeeze.

In fact, I hadn’t said no a single time as we’d laughed, talked, and danced our way through the last four days. Plus, I was beginning to think about using paintbrushes as weaponry, so I knew I needed a break.

“I’m going back to Seattle tomorrow. I’ve been here much longer than I intended so I could hang out with you and your smile. I’m going to write the story, Chalese, it’s going to print, and then I’m coming back. We’ll work through the fallout together, and I’ll be here to hold your hand. I promise.”

I had two raging emotions battling for space in my head. One: dead panic. And two: liquid, swirling, joyous joy. Aiden wanted to come back and see me!

“I don’t want to invade your life.” He threaded his fingers through mine. “I don’t want to pressure you. I haven’t asked you to marry me, so there’s no need for you to feel suffocated, but you’re too good of a fisherwoman for me to let you go.” He winked at me. So intimate, so sweet.

The wind whipped our hair back as I giggled. We’d gone fishing two days ago and ended up kissing in a rowboat I borrowed from Gina. The rowboat capsized. It was one of the funniest things that had ever happened to me. The fish we caught had been lost.

“I can’t be anything but honest here. The first time I saw you, scratched up from the skylight adventure, dressed in leather, grouchy, I felt this … I don’t even know how to say it. It was as if I was seeing my future. You are the most unique woman I’ve ever met. You live your life so fully, with courage and caring. You’re independent and talented and a heckuva lot of fun.”

“Even when I’m struggling back onto a rowboat?”

“Especially then. You walk your dogs at odd hours, you have a thing for your pajamas, you dance well in the sand, you laugh from your heart, and you’re dedicated to four-legged creatures.”

He wrapped our linked hands behind my back.

“And you’re sexier than hell. Every bit of you.”

I thought of my burgeoning bottom and my hot flashes.

Oh, well. If he thought they were sexy, who was I to argue? “So when we went biking through the mud and I crashed into you, that didn’t appear to be a warning that I wasn’t the right one?”

He laughed. “No, not at all.”

“And when we hiked to Constitution Point and it started to pour down rain and I suggested we do a waltz, that also wasn’t a bad sign?”

“Not at all. Kissing you in the rain was one of the best things that has happened to me in years.”

“They were wet kisses,” I commented.

“True. I’m going to come back, and I want to see you again for more wet kisses. Many times. Please, Chalese. Say yes.”

For an answer, I leaned in, stood on tiptoe, and kissed his neck. Once, twice, three times. “Whatever you say, Reporter Man.” Pain rippled through my body. I hoped that this would not be the last time I would kiss this man.

The ferry captain tooted the horn, a long, low screech. I jumped out of Aiden’s arms at the noise. Up in the captain’s booth, my friend Jonathan Solberg waved.

I kissed Aiden again, right on the mouth, and he kissed me back, taking control of that kiss, which was sexier than all get-out.

I would remember that kiss, I knew it. When I was old and gray and leaning on a walker, that windy kiss on the ferryboat would make me smile.

I worked until three o’clock in the morning.

I drew my strutting rooster and my busy-body chickens. I drew the blue ocean in back of them. I drew Gordon, the anxiety-ridden horse. I drew my barn. And I wrote the dialogue between the animals as they figured out who would be president of the farm.

Goose couldn’t simply take over because she wanted to, and Fox couldn’t be president, because he was threatening to eat the chickens unless they voted for him. Donkey couldn’t be president, because he had been bribing the other animals, telling the pigs he would bring them donuts if they voted for him.

Next I wrote the speech that presidential candidate Cassy Cat gave to her fellow animals. Cassy Cat is a smart, calm cat who wants everyone to have a voice in her government, even the old horses, the weird new goat from a farm with a name no one can pronounce, and the duck with the green feathers who is different from all the other ducks.

I drew and wrote until I couldn’t see straight.

I turned off the light, but dancing before my eyes was Aiden Bridger, with his full lips, knowing green eyes, fishing pole in hand. Next to him was a giant newspaper article, my real name all over it next to my books, along with all the old photos, the old scandal, and my latest arrest for the skylight-busting incident.

I trusted Aiden. But after this, he would probably never trust me.

I conked my head on my table.

For the next five days, I worked fiendishly. Hardly moved except to go and help Christie, who was crying because she didn’t know why she was crying. I made her pancakes with applesauce and crushed potato chips, as she requested, then put her to bed, as she was the size of a house. She smelled like baby powder and roses, as always.

“Mommy has some big, fat babies in her tummy,” Wendi Jo, her daughter, whispered.

“Yeah. I felt the babies in there,” Jeremiah said. He’s four. “One kick my hand. He wearing soccer cleats. I felt ’em.”

“How they gonna come out?” Rosie Mae asked, three years old. “She got a zipper in her tummy?”