Читать книгу Almost Home - Debbie Macomber - Страница 16

“You lied.”

I sank into my Adirondack chair on my front porch as Aiden stalked up the steps after slamming the door of his truck. He was not happy. “You lied, Chalese. You lied by omission.”

My lifeless fingers dropped my coffee cup which smashed on the porch. I stood up, my anger rising. I did not exactly appreciate being called a liar. “I was not required to tell you the full truth about myself, Aiden, or my past, when you were writing a story about me for a huge newspaper, one I didn’t want written in the first place. Why should I make your job easier? Why should I provide information that I didn’t want out there? Because you kissed me? Sorry, Aiden, I’m not that easy.”

“You had to know that I would find out.” He put his palms up in the air, exasperated. “You knew it.”

“Yeah, Aiden, I thought there was a pretty good probability that you would find out. But I was hoping, hoping against hope, that you wouldn’t dig that deep, and if you did, that you’d let it go.”

His glare about seared me in half. “Maybe you thought if I was turned upside down by my feelings about you I wouldn’t do my job? I’d let it slide, let details slide, not do the research I always do?” His green eyes flashed with all his pent-up anger, the betrayal I knew he felt.

“Maybe. I hoped.” He stood two feet from me. I could smell him—island air, mint, aftershave, and him. If he wasn’t mad at me, I’d want to kiss that man until my lips fell off. He was drop-dead sexy when he was ticked.

“I know you aren’t who you say you are. I know your real name is Jennifer Piermont, your father is Richard Piermont III, your mother is Rebecca Piermont, and your sister Christie is actually Holly Piermont.”

I swallowed real hard. Hearing his name made me feel like I was eating rocks.

“You’re from New York City. Your father, a private investor, was arrested when you were fourteen for defrauding his clients of millions and millions of dollars. It was a huge scandal at the time because of who he was—a pillar of New York society, on all the right boards, went to all the right parties, belonged to the right country club. All those people trusted him with their last dime. He took all their dimes, their quarters, everything.”

“He would have taken their shirts if he could have, Aiden. Ripped them right off.”

“When the scandal broke, there were cameras and reporters stalking you and your family. During the trial, one of the disgruntled clients tried to shoot your father in open court. He missed and was tackled by a guard. Luckily you and your mother and Christie were already gone by then. Your father went to jail for ten years.”

He put his hands on his hips, pushing his leather jacket back. “Your mother arranged to have everything sold, your apartment in New York, the house in Connecticut, the house in the Bahamas, the art, the furniture, and signed it all off to a fund set up to reimburse her husband’s clients. She made no claim to anything in the divorce, and in fact left home with you girls and nothing else. You later drove West and came to Whale Island, a place she had vacationed with her own family several times as a teenager.”

There went my world.

It had imploded.

Was the article being printed as we spoke? Was it already online?

“You all changed your names.”

“Yes, we did. We spent much of our time in the car thinking up new names, and when we arrived my mother legally changed our names. A new identity, a new life.” Why hide anything now? “We covered up our old lives. My mother told everyone we were from the East Coast, she was divorced, and she was a housekeeper. She got jobs as a housekeeper and maid. On the side, she started her own small business.”

“And you disappeared.”

“Yes, from all those furious people, people who had a right to be furious, but not a right to take out their fury on me and my sister.”

He groaned. “Want to hear what else I’ve learned? Something that makes me feel like pummeling your father?”

I knew what was coming, and I braced myself for a nauseous cascade of black, annihilating memories.

“Police were called to your apartment on Fifth Avenue three times for domestic abuse. Your mother went to the hospital on a number of occasions.”

“Well, aren’t you the sleuth.” I felt hot tears swim to my eyes. “Want to know a tad more, Skyscraper? My mother told me later that when she went to the hospital for her injuries, my father told the doctors there she was mentally ill and had done it to herself. I doubt the doctors believed him, I’m sure my mother denied it, but it put my already unstable mother in an emotional tailspin.”

“I can’t believe this.” He was furious, but I could tell it had shifted somewhat from me to my father. “I can’t believe you lived through that.”

“Me, either.” When I remember that time, I don’t know how I survived it—except that my dad was gone a lot on business. “Once, when my mother got up enough courage and left with us when we were very young, he called a private investigator, then hired these huge, scary thugs to bring us back. We left again another time, a year later, same thing. Both times he physically took his anger out on my mother. She was beaten to a pulp.”

“Oh God,” Aiden breathed.

“My father convinced my mother that no judge would ever let her have me and Christie since she was mentally ill. What a threat to hang over an emotionally devastated woman’s head! At that time there was nowhere for an abused mother to run, certainly nowhere that she knew of. They hardly talked about that then. She had been an only child, and her parents were in poor health and living in a facility. She was trapped.”

“And to you, Chalese?” he said, his voice low, pained. “What did he do to you?”

I tilted my chin up. “You mean besides the neglect, his hatred for me, the constant fear he evoked? My father always told me I was fat. He said my skin was a dirty color, not pretty compared to Christie’s super-white skin and blond hair. He said I waddled, identical to a penguin, and he would make these penguin calls at me when I walked by. He always said Christie was the smart one and I had a brain born in a freezer. He’d tell my crying mother to give me whale or seal meat for dinner. ‘She’ll gobble it right up, you’ll see,’ he told her.

“He would turn off the heating vent in my bedroom and tell me since I was a penguin I was used to the cold and I’d be fine. So here we were, living on Fifth Avenue, and I had no heat. And that’s just the start.”

Aiden was pale, his face tightly drawn. “Chalese, come here, honey, come here.” He pulled me into his arms, hugging me close, then swung me up, into my home and onto my couch. One sad story followed another, as if they’d all lined up in my heart and were now pushing each other to get out.

“I am so angry, Chalese. I haven’t been this angry in years. I want to pound his face in.”

“Aiden, I didn’t want to tell you about my past, because I didn’t want it printed. I would have told you after the article came out ….”

“I am mad about you not sharing your past, for not trusting me, but I understand. I do. But damn, I’m furious about what you went through as a kid! When I was reading the reports, I wanted to smash your father. I wanted to find him and tear him apart. I am so sorry about what happened to you.”

“I’m sorry, too,” I said, trying to make light of it. “But it’s over. It’s done. I have a new life. I’m chasing down goats, drawing talking beavers, and going to poker contests now.”

Aiden rocked me back and forth. “So help me, if I ever meet this man, he will not be able to peel himself off the floor again. He was a sick man, Chalese. No sane man would ever treat his wife or a child as he did.”

I nodded. In my head, away from him now for decades, I realized that. It was my father’s issue, not mine. But I remembered the kid I was, how unbearably hurt, how despairing, I had been.

He stroked my back, his cheek next to mine, and I clung to him. At one point I tilted my head up, and Aiden was wiping his tears. Huge, manly stud man, toughened, roughened Aiden.

“Aiden, it’s hurting me to see you cry.” His tears made me cry. A man who cried for what we went through! A man who cared enough about me to cry in the first place! Through all that pain, I saw this light, this golden, sparkly light.

My lips found his. Aiden kissed me back, pulled away, kissed me again, pulled away. I knew he was fighting within himself. He was kissing me, the subject of his newspaper article.

I should have pulled away, made it easier for him, but I couldn’t. I would have given up my yellow house with all my art and quilts before I would have given up the next hour of my life. We gave in together in a rush of passion, of bottled-up lust, of trusting friendship, of shared intimacies. My arms went around his neck, he picked me up, and we were on my bed, on my periwinkle comforter, chasing down that heaven I knew I’d find in his arms.

I tried not to sniffle or let any more tears escape, but when I did, Aiden pulled back, kissed my cheeks, cupped my face, and told me I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known.

In my head I heard these words: I love you, Aiden, I do. I trust you, too. Whatever happens with this, I trust you.

And, whew! That Aiden Bridger was indeed comparable to the mighty Zeus in the bedroom.

“Don’t print the article, please, Aiden.” I leaned over him in bed the next morning, sunlight streaking through the French doors, and kissed his neck. Instead of responding, I felt him go rigid beneath me.

“What?” he rapped out. “What did you say?”

“I told you everything last night, so now you understand why I don’t want the article written.”

He whipped back the periwinkle blue comforter, stalked to the windows, and glared at the ocean.

“Is that what this was all about?” he shot at me, turning around, his arms crossed over that muscled chest. I had enjoyed that chest last night.

“What are you talking about?”

“You slept with me, we made love, then you make your request with a couple of kisses thrown in.” His face was hard, completely cold. “Did you actually hope to change my mind with sex? Do you think I’m that naïve, that clueless?”

I clutched the sheet to me. I wanted to let him have it face-to-face, but I sure as heck was not getting out of bed naked. It’s one thing to feel fat in the darkness of night, overcome with excitement; it’s quite another to parade around and about naked, bouncing bottom, thunder thighs and all. Plus, I was pissed.

“Let’s get something straight, Aiden, before I get off-the-cliff ticked. I slept with you because I wanted to. I didn’t sleep with you because I wanted to manipulate you or your precious career. Not a bit.”

“Somehow I’m finding that hard to believe.”

“I don’t care what you find hard to believe, you … you difficult, rigid, journalistic prick. Things got carried away last night, and I”—my voice shook and wobbled—“I made a mistake.”

“You made a mistake?”

“Yes, I made a mistake. I slept with a man who woke up in the morning, and instead of saying, ‘Good morning, how are you, can I make you some French toast and coffee, want to go for a walk to the ocean?’ he accuses me of having sex with him to get something out of it.”

“How can you blame me for thinking that? The first thing you asked this morning was for me not to write the article.”

“Hey, Aiden, I blame you for thinking that because you know me better than that. I have never stopped asking you not to write the article. Not once. Did you think I would have changed my mind this morning because we rolled around naked? That pisses me off even more than I was pissed off to begin with! How dare you think so little of me! How dare you think I would stoop to sleeping with you to manipulate you, to get what I wanted.” The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to throw something at his head.

“I hate this situation, I do, Chalese, but this is the way it is. I can’t believe—” He stopped, pulled himself together as his voice got deep and scratchy. “This article has been assigned to me to write. I said I would, and I will. I’ll write it with respect for you, with kindness, with care and consideration, but I’ve got to write it.”

“You said you would, so you will,” I mimicked him. “Well, I’m going to throw this yellow pillow at your head.” I threw it. “I said I would, and I did. Here’s another one.” I shot another pillow across the room. “Here’s a third,” I yelled. “I said I’d throw it, and I will!” Another one went flying, and another.

“Stop it, Chalese.”

“No, you stop it, Aiden. Did you sleep with me so you could have a fuller picture? Perhaps you want to know my mind, and my boobs and butt, too? What is this—the full-body interview? Maybe you can give your readers a play-by-play.”

He paled, white as snow. “I slept with you because …”

“Because what?”

“Chalese …” He swore, turned away. “You know why I slept with you.”

“Yes, I do know why, and clearly we let passion shrink our brain cells. Get out of my house. Right now!” Two dogs named Sherbert and Mr. Green ran in, tongues lolling about. When they saw me yelling and upset, they stood in front of Aiden and growled.

“Get out, Aiden. Go. Go skedaddle back to that newspaper of yours, tap away on your keyboard, and do your thing.” I felt a wave of depression, of black, gooey sadness, take hold. It was a sense of inevitability, a sense of dismal doom. I had been hiding for years, but the hide-and-seek game was over. The game was up. I leaned back against my wooden head-board, bracing myself for what was to come. “We’re done. We are completely done.” In case there was any doubt about what I wanted him to do, I threw a light blue silk pillow at him.

I did not miss the shattered expression on his face. I felt it in my own heart, which was shriveling, shrinking, dying.

“Can you quit throwing pillows and understand for one second how this is for me? I’m sorry about this—”

“Sorry about this, Chalese,” I said, mimicking him. “You poured out everything last night, all about your childhood, and, hey, I’m sorry about blowing your privacy and about dragging up that you are Annabelle Purples, children’s writer who has a truly famous crook for a father, but thanks for the sex!” I wanted to run. Run as far as the ocean shore, then jump in and swim until I couldn’t swim, swim to the whales, swim with the whales. “Get out. Get out now.”

I did not miss the hopelessness mixed with anger in his expression. I felt the same way. Like my life had been crushed.

As soon as he left, I pulled the covers over my head and soaked my one remaining pink pillow with my tears.

“Hello, Mom,” I said into the phone, muffling my weeping with a tissue. “You’re going to Los Angeles next? I received the box of peaches and the box of kale. Yes, the natural spices from Africa arrived, too. I’ll be sure to use them liberally, as your instructions dictated. I love you, too, and yes I’ve been thinking about more designs ….”

I braced myself for the article. Each day I checked online. It did not appear.

I kept working on my book at a frantic pace, while shoveling in orange truffles and coffee, but in my off moments, almost breathless with despair, I took a break and drew away my anger.

I drew Cassy Cat, the presidential contender who usually wore glasses and simple clothes, in a low-cut red gown smoking a cigarette in a biker bar. Above her I drew a bubble that read, “Hey, baby, want some of this? Aiden Bridger, a little man, if you know what I mean, sure didn’t.”

I drew Fox with his pointy nose from behind, his tuxedo coat pulled open by his sharp claws, clearly flashing a group of puppies in front of him. I put a sign on the fox’s coat that said, “Aiden Bridger: Exposing Everyone!”

I drew the prissy Goose as a streetwalker. A fat dog with a long tongue leaned out of his truck. “How much?” he asked. The truck was a twin to Aiden’s, and the license plate said, “A. Bridger.”

And popular humble Herbert Hoove the Horse? I drew him at a poker table, aces sticking out from his sleeve, his hat, his shoes. He had a name tag on. It said, “Aiden Bridger, Gambler.” The bubble above his head read, “I get so tired of screwing people.”

It was my silent way of revenge. My way of getting back at Aiden while I raced to meet the deadline. A way to rebelliously cope while the tears streaked down my checks as if I had faucets in my eyeballs.

Little did I know that the rest of the nation would be cackling their hearts out—or screaming in outrage—by the middle of the next week.

It was announced that I had won the Carmichael Children’s Book Award. My agent and publisher began fielding calls and requests for interviews.

All were denied.

I wished I felt happy about the award.

It was one of those things, though. If you don’t have that special someone to dance around with when cool things happen, the cool things don’t seem that cool.

“I think if we grabbed your sister, the crying Christie, took off our shirts, and drove through the night half-naked, I could get rid of my writer’s block,” Brenda told me, crossing her red and white polka-dot heels on the top of my blue picnic table in the clearing of the woods. “My life would be better. I’m tired of Shane, you know. He wants me to dress up in a superhero costume, and I am so done with that.” She dropped cherries into her mouth. “I mean, how many times can you be Wonder Woman and still keep it fun?” She clicked her heels together.

I went back to my draft of another picture for my book. I was giving one of my characters, a llama, dreadlocks. He was a hippie sort of llama.

My hair was slung up in a ponytail, I had been wearing the same jeans for days, and I was operating on approximately four hours of sleep a night. I smelled; my hair was gross. Besides Brenda, the only person I had seen in days was Reuby, who came in to pet the cats when I walked the dogs one afternoon.

“Wanna see my new cell phone again?” he’d asked. “It takes awesome pictures. It’s sick it’s so awesome. I can’t believe the Authority Figure bought it for me.”

I nodded absently and shoved my bangs off my head.

My book was quite late. Editor was threatening not one heart attack, but two. Agent was having a loud, prolonged fit. PR agent called to bite her nails over the phone.

And in my grossness, I could also hardly breathe. I was so unbelievably … sad. It was the sad you get when your dreams are almost there … and then they’re obliterated. The sad you get when everything seems to stop and get stuck in bleakness. The sad you get when you feel you will never be in love again, never feel happy again, never overcome this giant emotional boulder in your path that seems to want to squish you.

But I had a deadline, so I kept drawing under that clear blue sky. Must keep employed, I muttered. Must not end up as scraggly, molting woman pushing cart down street. Nutmeg Man put his head on my thigh under the table and whimpered.

“Brenda, sit down, stifle the hysterics, and write. Don’t overthink it.” I popped a cherry into my mouth. “Write one word. One letter. Write a paragraph. Describe your costume dates, what you know about men, about life. Be funny. And leave me alone so I can finish these dreadlocks.”

“When we were kids and sending stories back and forth to each other I never had writer’s block.” She dumped a handful of cherries into her mouth and clicked her heels together.

“The romances you sent me were flaming funny. One of your funniest characters was Mr. Hip Swinger.”

Brenda laughed. “Already used him in one of my movies.” She spit out a pit.

“And Loyolita Chantal Montalshawn. She was an evil woman. A man-shredding feminist.”

“Used her, too. Won an award for that movie.”

We both turned as we heard the truck flying down my driveway, creaking, shrieking, rumbling.

Gina drove off the driveway when she saw me and sped right toward us. “Please, Chalese,” she begged when she hopped out of the truck, the flowers flying from her long hair. “Don’t sue me.”