Almost Home. Debbie Macomber

famous under your pen name. Your books are famous. They’ve sold hundreds of thousands of copies, and yet no one knows anything about you.”

      “I would bet, Mr. Bridger, that you know a thing or two about me, isn’t that correct?” I could feel my spine tingling, that old fear of discovery flaming around me. “After all, you found me, you know my name.”

      “I know your pen name is Annabelle Purples but very little else. Certainly not enough to write my article.”

      “There will be no article.” I shook my head. Glass tinkled to the porch. “Nada. None.”

      I saw the alarm on Aiden’s face. “You had glass in your hair. Are you all right?”

      “Absolutely splendid.” I was exhausted. My body ached, I had dried blood on my legs and hands, my hangover was merciless, and I’d hardly slept. First thing this morning I’d paid Mervin to repair Stephen’s skylight. Brenda and I had done our best to clean up the kitchen after making a serendipitous call to Christie to tell her to stay out of the house.

      The Man-eater in her red negligee had been furious, scathing, degrading. Stephen hadn’t been much better. I believe the words “pathetic … jealous … criminal” had left his mouth. I had promised him a better skylight, immediately installed, and a cleaning woman to fix the rest of the mess in exchange for his not calling the police.

      The Man-eater had smirked at me when we’d left. “Get over it, Chalese. Be a mature woman and leave us alone. Stephen doesn’t need a jelly maker who is always doing stupid stuff and is obsessed with animals for a wife. He doesn’t want you.”

      I’d scuttled out like a humiliated cockroach after Brenda told the Man-eater her negligee was “uninventive, boring staid” and that Stephen had the face of an “uptight, constipated prune.”

      “No, thank you very much, Mr. Bridger.” I put my key in the lock. “Good-bye.”

      “Okay. Got it. But you’re hurt, aren’t you?”

      “I’m Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah fine. All is well. Calm and collected.”

      I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. He was trying not to laugh. “It has occurred to me that you’ve had quite a night. Were you at some biker event? A women’s wrestling contest? A costume party where everyone had to wear leather?”

      “Take your pick. I get a high out of riding motorcycles, wrestling has its appeal, and I do have wacky friends who might be inclined to have a leather party. Adios, Mr. Bridger.”

      “I’m good at putting bandages on.”

      “I’m sure you’re good at a lot of things,” I drawled, then snapped that traitorous mouth shut. “I mean I’m sure you have many talents.” Darn. I yanked at the door. Must escape from Mr. Gorgeous!

      “And I’d really like to help you get that glass out of your hair. Please?” His voice was soft and manly and would taste so good hearing it close to my ear. “It’s against my chivalrous, princely nature to let a damsel in distress, or a damsel with glass in her hair, fend for herself.”

      “This damsel is one tough woman and does not need a man in her life to cope or live or be happy or get glass out of her hair. And this is what I know about princes—the prince is probably gay, I’d have to deal with his supercilious mother, the queen, I don’t admire men in tights, and if I want a horse I can buy myself a whole damn stable.”

      “You didn’t buy into the whole fairy-tale thing as a kid, did you?”

      “No. Why should I? The most interesting things in those stories were the talking mirror that told the truth, the dress-sewing mice, and an apple that could put someone to sleep with one bite. I was also fascinated by the vengeful witches, whom I admired.”

      “Already you’re fascinating to me, definitely not a damsel in any distress at all. Perhaps you should ride up on the charging horse.”

      “I’m boring. I’m dull. Trust me. I write and illustrate children’s books. I take care of stray and abused animals found on the islands and try to find them homes. I hang out with my sister, who has been almost constantly pregnant for six years, and my childhood friend, Brenda, who is a menace. I take walks. That’s it. That’s all.”

      I opened the door to my home.

      “Ms. Hamilton, I’m sorry.”

      I turned around. The motion killed me again. My back felt like it was splitting. “Why are you sorry?”

      “I’m sorry, but I have to write this article. I’m going to stick around Whale Island for a while, talk to people, get a feel for the mysterious children’s writer who is going to be even more famous next month when the award is announced. You’ve been assigned to me, and with you or without you, I have to write it.”

      My air got stuck in my lungs. I figured it was my past drowning me. I felt a tightening in my shoulders. I figured it was my instincts pushing me to run. My secret would be blown to smithereens. A flood of memories came pouring on in, cameras and furious people, newspapers and reporters, crushing us, shouting, demanding answers.

      “People want to know the authors they love. You write kids’ stories with these fully developed animal characters, and you’re always addressing the problems we have—environmental, social, animal rights, racial issues, politics. You have books that address loneliness, sadness, not having friends, but you use animals to get your point across in a way kids can relate to. It’s brilliant.”

      I leaned my forehead against the door, then banged it lightly a few times. I took the he-man heartthrob reporter in one more time. He meant what he said. He was going to write the story with or without me. Maybe if I talked to him I could throw him off the scent, the article would be brief, six people would read it, and that would be that.

      “Mr. Bridger, you are a pain in the butt.”

      He nodded amicably. “Been called worse.”

      I left the door open. I had to. I didn’t have a choice.

      The prince with the powerful thighs followed me in.

      “Let me get this straight. No one on this island knows that you are Annabelle Purples, is that right?”

      I let my eyes wander around my home before answering that truly problematic question. The décor was blue and white, with lots of glassworks, pottery, and paintings made by artist friends on the island. Plus stacks of old books, quilts, and three framed pictures of Greece, a country I had promised myself I would visit in this lifetime.

      I bit my lip, then nodded at Mr. Gorgeous. “That’s right. No one knows except my mother, my sister and her husband, and my friends Brenda and Gina, who has hair all the way down to her rear. Sometimes she sticks real flowers in it. She’s a hippie.” I wrung my hands, my nervousness unnerving me. “You didn’t need to know that.”

      He blinked. “I respect hippies. But so I’m clear here, the other islanders think you sell jams and jellies and take care of stray and abused animals?”

      “That’s right again. My, aren’t you sharp.” I had shown him a storage room that held the jams and jellies I slaved over in between writing books. Each label read “Wild Girl’s Jams and Jellies.”

      “And you want who you are to stay secret?” Aiden leaned toward me across my rattan coffee table, the sunlight streaming through the room.

      I rolled my shoulders inside my black leather motorcycle jacket. Even my elbows hurt. “Now you’ve been right three whole times. You’re a freakin’ genius.”

      “Because you’re a private person?”

      “Yes.” And I have something from my past to hide, but no need to split hairs, right? “Privacy is good. Like air. Like cheesy pizza. Like having working intestines.”

      He paused to consider that bit of wisdom.

      “Why?”