Almost Home. Debbie Macomber

talents. I could drink her jams all day.”

      “When’s you ladies’ next prank?” Officer Lopez asked. “Can I film it? I could probably send it to one of those funny-videos shows and get me enough for a new truck!”

      “We’ll keep you updated!” Brenda swung her handcuffs around one finger.

      I hot flashed.

      Before he headed for the fifty-year-old blue bed and breakfast by the bay, Aiden leaned in and whispered in my ear, “I think this is going to be one of my best stories.”

      I closed my eyes. Heavens. He was even handsomer close up. “Why?” I asked, strangled.

      “Because of you.” Would it be inappropriate to tell him he smelled like mountain vistas and sunny days on a clear lake?

      “What do you mean?”

      “You are not at all what I expected.”

      “Gee, is that because you didn’t expect to see the creator of Cassy Cat get arrested?”

      He laughed, I could almost feel the laughter in me. Would it be inappropriate for me to deeply inhale his smell and make a moaning sound?

      “Partly. But I think”—he stared into my eyes from inches away—“I think it’s you, Chalese. Just you.”

      “That doesn’t sound good.” Would it be inappropriate to daydream about this man every day for the rest of my life?

      “It is good.” He winked at me. “You’re good.”

      He stepped away, which was very good because I was getting dizzy.

      I could never say I believed in love at first sight … but I did believe in lust.

      Too bad the object of my lust could destroy my life.

      I inhaled like a drowning rat before I passed out.

      “Hi, Mom, yes, I’m doing well,” I said into the phone. “How’s Provo? You’re in Houston? Yes, I’m resting enough. Yes, I have my new vitamins. I didn’t need eight bottles of seaweed and echinacea, but thank you for sending them. Yes, I am still taking fiber. I agree that being regular is important. Yes, I will help with more designs when you get home. Love you, too …”

      Chapter Four

      “He’s going to find out everything,” I choked out to Brenda the next afternoon in my studio.

      I picked up a paintbrush, put it down, picked it up, put it down. Hard to paint or use colored pencils when your hand is shaking. “I know it. He’s been all over the world writing articles. Researching a publicity-shy writer is nothing for him. He’ll dig. He’ll find out.” I wanted to cry. I wanted to hide. I wanted to move to Alaska. I had had three hours of sleep the previous night. “Last night, I dreamed of a giant hand grabbing me in the middle of the night and squeezing my neck. Everyone was staring at me, pointing.”

      I gave up trying to work and stalked to the deck outside my second-floor studio with a box of orange truffles. I did not need any more orange truffles. I could feel my butt expanding as I ate. It did not slow me down.

      I petted Mr. Earl, a lab-beagle mix who was returned by his ex-new owner last week. He jumped into my arms when he saw me, not feeling the slightest bit guilty that his new owner had found him in, in, her tropical aquarium and only three green flashy fish left.

      “He may not find out, chillins,” Brenda said, linking an arm around my shoulder. She was wearing a red robe with fluffy trim and red heels because she was hoping dressing romantically would lift her writer’s block. “Tell him what you’ve been telling everyone for years.” She grabbed a truffle. Brenda never gained weight. She was thin and rangy. I would hate her, but I love her too much.

      “He’s a man, after all. They want to know what they believe they need to know, which is minimal because they are raw, uncivilized, unrefined animals. They talk endlessly about themselves and puff up their chests. Give him the basics, off he goes.” Brenda ate another truffle. “I wonder if I should get Botox done on my lips.”

      I turned toward her. “Botox? If your lips were any puffier they’d need to wear a bra.”

      “Hmm. Maybe you’re right. Plus, I can’t get my head around shooting a dead botulism virus into my body. Seems if God wanted me to have Botox in my lips, I would have been born with a syringe in my hand, right?”

      I rolled my eyes. “Right. And if he had wanted us to have laser peels done on our faces, we would have been born with a mini-sandblaster. Can we get back on topic?”

      “Yes, sweets.” She patted me. “You know I get sidelined when I’m thinking.”

      I shoveled in another truffle.

      “Listen up, dear friend.” She turned my trembling body around so I was facing her. “You, Christie, and your mother have managed to keep your whole family’s past a secret for more than twenty years.”

      “Quite an accomplishment since you could always use it for your movies.”

      “Pshaw, pshaw! I wouldn’t do that. But sweetems, we’re going to keep this a secret, too. Tell him about the animals, your jams and jellies business, and your always-pregnant sister. Tell him what you think of modern birth control, rabid butterflies, French politics, tulips, the tsar of Russia, spin the bottle, and cannibalism. It’ll throw him off the track. He has a deadline, right? He’ll be outta here in a couple of days.”

      I pressed my hands to my forehead. “No. Aiden Bridger will not be gone in a couple of days. He’s a reporter. A successful, award-winning, blood-sucking, dirt-digging, story-sniffing, lie-detecting reporter. His job is to find out all about me. And then everyone on the island will know.”

      A sudden stab of anxiety hit my stomach, and I bent over double. Family secrets die hard. Once you’re told, as a child, to keep your mouth shut, you take that into adulthood with you. Revealing the secret is only slightly less difficult than lifting the state of Oregon out of the ground and shifting it to Hawaii.

      “A beer. A beer will help,” Brenda said. “Two beers? Or, how about if we throw off our shirts and drive naked through the night? That’ll get the ole hormones pumping again! Or skinny-dipping! Let’s get your sister! The water will hold that mammoth stomach up for her …. How that woman walks is a mystery to me ….”

      “’Morning.”

      Bent halfway over to pet my new dog, a black poodle named Nutmeg Man, I froze right where I was in the kennel when I heard that gravelly voice.

      The man who had kept me up most of the night for two nights worrying about what he would do to my sorry life was right behind me. Staring at my ample buttocks.

      “It’s you, isn’t it?” What a special moment this was.

      “Yep, it is. A pleasure to see you.”

      A pleasure to see your butt. I sagged, then straightened up.

      I had no makeup on. I hadn’t showered. I smelled like garlic. Brenda had made chicken garlic pasta while she guzzled white wine and whimpered that she would never write a word again, she was lost, done, a failure. That writer’s block was killing her. She slept on the kitchen floor so she could get a different “perspective.”

      “How are you today, Chalese?” he asked.

      “I’m dandy.” Go away, please. Go away. “So dandy I feel I will whistle a merry tune and dance a jig.”

      The dogs barked, and I let them out of their kennels one by one. They kissed me, jumped up to my shoulders, ran around my ankles, then went to sniff Aiden. He got down on his haunches and petted each one of them.

      I ran fingers through my hair. I knew I was the spitting image of Mrs. Godzilla.

      “I didn’t hear you drive up,” I said.

      “I’m