Almost Home. Debbie Macomber

to kids through the stories. I love the creativity, the color, the smell of paint …” I finally unwrapped my arms from the death grip around my worried body.

      “You have lots of dogs and cats here.”

      “I love animals. They were all strays or abused, and I take care of them, then find them new owners who will be kind and loving and appreciate them.” I did not mention my gigantic veterinarian and grooming bills.

      Mrs. Zebra, almost on cue, put her paws on my shoulders and licked my face.

      “Why were you rocking yourself?” Aiden asked quietly.

      “I’m sorry?”

      “When I was asking you questions about your childhood, you had your arms wrapped around your body and you were rocking yourself back and forth.”

      “I was not.” But I was. I knew he was right.

      He waited. “Difficult childhood?”

      “All childhoods have their difficult points.” I tucked my hair behind my ears when the wind blew it across my face.

      “But yours had more than a few.”

      “That’s it, Aiden,” I said, suddenly angry. I was used to my own anger about my childhood, but I smothered it. Now it was being triggered by Mr. Gorgeous Skyscraper getting way too personal. “That’s enough, okay? I don’t want to talk about my childhood anymore.”

      “Hey, it’s okay. I understand.”

      “You do? I don’t think so. I can’t imagine that you could. And would you mind not putting it in your article? Please, one favor. You’ve boxed me into a corner, you’ve forced me to talk to you because you’re going to write it with or without my help, you’re going to blow my private life to hell, and I’m asking you for a favor.” My voice pitched, then cracked. “Please don’t mention anything about my childhood—what I said or didn’t say—in your stupid article.”

      “I didn’t mean to upset you, Chalese. I’m not writing an exposé. I’m not going to publicly lampoon you ….”

      I closed my eyes when they started feeling hot and wet. An image of my father, yelling, disdainful, sprang to my mind. He would rarely come to my room and tell me goodnight, but when he did it was with a litany of things I wasn’t doing right. He never hugged me. Not once. I remembered the cowering little girl I had been. I felt sorry for that little girl.

      “I’m done with this interview, Aiden,” I said as I jogged after my troublesome dogs. When they saw me coming, they grinned and ran fast, checking to make sure I was following. “Come back,” I demanded, leaping over a couple of logs. They turned and grinned again, barking joyfully. “Right this minute, come back, you monsters.”

      When I returned to where we had been sitting in the sand, about twenty-five minutes later, he was gone.

      Later a huge basket was delivered to my house. It was filled with flowers and gourmet food. The card read, “I’m sorry.”

      I sunk into my Adirondack chairs as the sun went down and the night came up, the haunting memories of my father pushed back into their box in my mind.

      As I said, the second I set eyes on Aiden I knew it wasn’t gonna be good.

      At four o’clock in the morning I gave up on sleep, wrapped my periwinkle blue comforter around my shoulders, and settled into my rocking chair on the porch. Shortcake climbed on my lap as I listened to the lapping waves, the sky bluish black and scattered with stars.

      My mother snuck two stray cats she found next to a dumpster in New York City into our home, and I have been a sucker for animals ever since. She was in a poorer part of the city that day; I have no idea why. Anyhow, she heard mewing, headed down an alley, and there were Star and Moon, as we came to call them, starving and helpless.

      She snuck them into her bag and brought them home. Luckily, our father was on another business trip and then was planning on “checking on” our Connecticut home. For one week, Christie and I and our mother played with those cats, loved them, held them.

      And right before my father came home, raging, dangerous, asking me where my harpoon was, we had to give them away to another family.

      We were lost. Lost in a huge apartment with a mother scared down to her toes, a sister who was favored by our father and, to this day, still has nightmares about their “father-daughter” times, and a father who often told me that I belonged in an igloo with a polar bear for a pet.

      My love of animals began right then.

      To find new homes for my dogs and cats, I created a simple website. It does the trick. I get a surprising amount of hits and adopt out quite a few dogs and cats every year. I have a few dogs, however, who will always stay with me because of their poor behavior.

      Shortcake is one of them. I kissed her head.

      She slobbered on me.

      “Help me.”

      Those two pathetic words wept over the phone sent panic streaking through my heart. I almost swallowed the nub of purple pencil I was clenching with my teeth.

      “What is it? What’s happened?” I spit out the pencil and dropped the paintbrush in my other hand to the floor. It hit my cat Butterball on the head. She meowed, miffed.

      I heard sobbing on the other end of the phone.

      “Tell me, right now, tell me.” I abruptly stood up, and my cat Freaky went sailing off my lap. She glared, then stalked off to cuddle up to Rocky, who had horrendous gas problems that morning.

      More wretched sobbing.

      “I’m coming—I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I felt as if I’d jumped into an arctic lake. “Please tell me what’s wrong!” A spray of rain hit my windows, and I took it as a terrible omen, fear scraping its ragged claws across my stomach. I thudded down the stairs, shoved my feet into pink rain boots, and stumbled for the door.

      “Christie! Honey, hang on!” I thought of Christie, who always smelled like roses and baby powder, and I could barely contain my panic. “Should I call the chief? An ambulance?”

      “No,” Christie moaned. “But I …”

      I sprinted to my truck in my green cat pajamas, sloshing through the puddles, the rain drenching me. Shortcake and Mrs. Zebra leaped off the covered porch and followed me out. I didn’t have time to wrestle them into the house, so I yanked open the door to the truck. They clambered in, their tails wagging with joy at a car ride.

      “You what? Is it the babies? Are you hurting? Are you bleeding?”

      Christie sobbed again, raw, hopeless.

      “Oh no.” Not the twins! Tears sprang to my eyes. “Oh no!”

      “Chalese,” she moaned. “Chalese … I am … I am … I am so fat.”

      My sweating hand froze on the key to the car, my heart trip-trapping.

      “I’m fat!” Christie moaned again. “Fat, fat, fat. My legs are huge and I’ve got stretch marks on my stomach and my boobs are the size of cannonballs and my ankles are the size my thighs used to be and even my ears are fat!”

      I leaned against the back of the seat, my heart pattering. Shortcake leaned over and licked me.

      “And … and … my skin feels like it’s ripping! These babies are so big and the other three won’t take their naps and the house is a wreck and I used to be fun and smart and sexy and had a sexy car and now I’m fat and all I have time to think about is poopy diapers and where’s the pacifier and I wear frumpy clothes because I’m fat, my hair is greasy because I haven’t had time for a shower for two days, and I don’t have a career and probably never will because I’m fat!”

      I breathed heavily, deeply, sagging like I was a drunken rag doll against the back of the seat.