Almost Home. Debbie Macomber

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