Almost Home. Debbie Macomber

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.