Almost Home

by Macomber, Debbie; Duarte, Judy; Lamb, Cathy; Mary Carter

  “Smart woman.” He tucked a curl behind my ear, then drew his hand back real quick, as if that motion had surprised him.

  “None of them listened well,” I said, clearing my throat when desire flamed up and out of control in my nether regions. “Sometimes they didn’t even bother to look at me when I spoke, or they’d say ‘Yep’ or ‘Uh-huh,’ which really means ‘I’m not listening. You’re not worth the effort, and the conversation is not about me, Mr. Man, so I’m not interested.’”

  Identical to my father’s attitude.

  “One man was passive-aggressive and controlling. He sneakily put me down when he could, threw out barbs. The second man was a closet drinker with the accompanying problems of denial, blame of others, anger, and depression.”

  I watched a sailboat leave the dock.

  “The third man was a goofball who did not want to take responsibility for anyone, including himself. He was eternally lazy but tried to hide it under the artist/musician mantle. He played the sax.”

  “And the fourth man who asked you to marry him?”

  “He was a liar. I found that out about two days before he asked me to marry him. He hid massive credit-card bills, and his betting and gambling. When I found out, that was it.”

  “Good decision.”

  “Yes, it was. In none of them had I sensed a real and true kindness. Compassion. Selflessness. For those men, it was all about them. I knew they would never help me, support me, encourage me in my career or anything else. It sure wouldn’t come naturally to them, and they wouldn’t do it if they had to inconvenience themselves in any way.”

  And I hadn’t trusted any of them.

  “So when they asked you to marry them?”

  “I felt as if I were suffocating.”

  “Suffocating.” He nodded.

  “I couldn’t breathe. I can only compare it to having a wedding bouquet smashed over my nose. Had I slept with any of them, which I didn’t, I’m sure the feelings of suffocation would’ve been exponentially worse.”

  “What about marrying someone else? Some great, kind, smart, handsome bloke who made you laugh? Would you still feel suffocated?”

  “Yep. I’d still feel as if my windpipe was being somewhat smashed. I don’t think I would be happy married.” Unless it was to Zeus here. I might be able to breathe long-term around Zeus, the sex god.

  “Because…,” he prodded.

  “I am happy with my life the way it is.” I had to hide away, keep things private, and I preferred to do that without a husband strapped to my back. Unless, perhaps, it was Zeus. He would not be too heavy on my back.

  “You don’t want kids?”

  “No.” Well, no more than four with Zeus. “Do you?” I tried not to feel insanely, flamingly jealous of the wife he did not yet have and the kids she would bear him.

  “Yes, I want kids.”

  “But you travel all the time for your work.”

  “I did travel all the time for my work. I came to the Seattle paper a year ago because I wanted a change in my life. With this job, I knew I could have a life, flexibility. I’ve travelled almost constantly for twenty years, not counting my childhood. My suitcase is worn out. I have enough frequent-flier miles to go to Saturn. I can’t even think about pretzels anymore without feeling sick. I don’t have a real home, and I want that. And I want a family—wife, kids, the whole nine yards. I’ve wanted that for years now.”

  I tried to make light of it so I didn’t bang my head against the ground like a jealous, rabid rat gone wild envisioning his wife-to-be and kids. “I’ve rarely heard a bachelor admit that. Strike that. I’ve never heard a bachelor admit that.”

  “I admit it. It’s what I want.”

  “I’m sure your kids will be born ready to be ace reporters, lie detectors in their tiny fists, flak jackets on, pens at the ready…”

  “And your kids, Chalese? They’ll be born clutching paintbrushes and drawing pencils.” He paused. “And then they’d be off to spy on someone through a skylight….”

  I tossed a grape at him.

  He tossed one at me.

  I tossed another.

  And somehow, some way, our faces ended up so close I could see the darker green flecks in those eyes, the lines crinkling from the corners, and the wave of those brown curls.

  And there we froze.

  I should have moved away, at the very least to avoid the abject, eyeball-popping humiliation of the last kiss-attack. This time, I kept my peepers open.

  But that electricity, that lust, that thing between us, went loose, boinging off both of us. Aiden leaned in to kiss me, his fingers entwining with mine.

  His lips could not have been better, a mixture of softness and demand, passion and restraint, rampaging lust and more rampaging lust.

  When he pulled me closer, I linked an arm around his neck and gave in to that quivering, sexily sinking, hot sensation until I thought I might self-combust. He pulled me in close, so we had a warm, tingling, full-body press going on. After luscious minutes, he picked me up, me, Ms. Plentiful Bottom, and gently placed me on my back in the warm sand and followed me down, his kisses strong, our breath mixing, a pant following a moan and a pant, until I had no idea where I stopped and he began.

  He pulled his head up. “Damn. Oh damn.”

  I tried to speak, couldn’t. I did make a sound in my throat, though, like someone would who landed unexpectedly in heaven. He was an excellent kisser!

  He bent to kiss me again, and I kissed him back, his lips trailing my neck, and lower, and I instinctively arched my back, willingly diving into that pool of passion in a way I’d never dived.

  And then there was cool, ocean air where a warm, muscled, male body used to be as he arched up on his elbows, knees to the ground between my legs, shaking his head. “Dammit,” he breathed.

  I dropped my arms and waited, trying not to smile like a Cheshire cat, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “I’m sorry, Chalese,” he started breathlessly. “Dammit.”

  “Dammit twice?” Charlotte circled us, then ran off, barking, like she was tattling to the other dogs.

  “Yes, twice.” He crinkled his eyes, appreciating the humor, before he went back to serious.

  I wanted to laugh, wriggle, dance. The man who was going to expose me had kissed me, and the kisses were, well, outstanding! Even my throbbing body yelled, “Outstanding!”

  “I can’t believe I’m in this situation,” he said, shaking his head. “Well, I can, I can believe it. You have strung me up since the second I saw you. I can hardly think anymore but I have never gotten involved with anyone I was interviewing. This is totally unprofessional and inappropriate.”

  “It felt totally appropriate, though. Yes, it did.” I grinned up at him, then ran a finger over his lips. Warm. Yummy. His eyes shut, he moaned.

  He was a truly delicious male specimen. Truly delicious. The kisses had been the commanding sort of kiss, the “I’m going to take charge here” kiss, the “I want you, and I’m about to lose control over you” kiss.

  Awesome! I chuckled.

  “This is funny to you?” he said.

  “Yep. It is.” I cupped his face, and he turned his head more fully into my palm.

  “It’s a mess.”

  “That, too,” I agreed. I bit my lip but couldn’t suppress my smile. How I wanted that man. He was huggable and kissable, and I had never had such a base, magnetic attraction to any man in my whole life. My body was thrumming for him. Thrumming! “A beautiful mess, though.”

  I saw something flicker in those eyes, eyes that never wavered from mine. “Beautiful, tragic. Complicated. And I really must kiss you again.”

  It was an instant, a millisecond, and we were right back in each other’s arms, sweet, hot, desperate, on-fire kisses, hands going this way and that, legs curved around legs, a roll here and there, an arch or two, a semistraddle.

  Until he pulled away again and panted, “This is out of control.”

  I noticed
he was breathing really hard, even harder than me.

  “But it’s fun.” I smiled at him. “So much fun.”

  He gave up, that stressed expression leaving his face as he laughed.

  The dogs circled us, barking, tails wagging.

  “You are a helluva kisser, Zeus,” I muttered.

  And maybe, one day, I could trust this man. Maybe.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said into the phone. “You’re in Dallas? Yes, I got the shiny green coat for winter. It fit perfectly…. I do appreciate the ear flaps on the hood and how the coat reaches my ankles. I resemble an overgrown caterpillar. I’ll take the extra vitamin C and green tea you sent, and I’ll do the earth mud mask…. I love you, too….”

  Chapter Seven

  Gina Martinez is actually quite famous for her pet-communicating skills. She speaks to animal lovers at conventions all over the country. She’s even been on talk shows and has written newspaper articles about her abilities. She 100 percent believes that she can talk to animals and is quite persuasive.

  She was especially persuasive the next night, when she got me and Brenda in our black burglar outfits once again and drove us down a dark and bumpy road on the south side of the island for the rescue mission. Gina was dressed in purple, head to foot. I have no idea why. Reuby was there, too. He wore black.

  “Don’t take any pictures with your cell phone, Reuby,” Gina warned. “None. We can’t have any evidence.”

  “Got it, Authority Figure. It wouldn’t be cool to be the guy in court who has to tell the judge his mother is a horse thief, he’s got the evidence, and she should go to jail.”

  Gina rolled her eyes. “No wonder your hamster says you drive him crazy, Reuby.”

  I sighed. Now I could add “horse thief” to my resume.

  We watched the dilapidated house and rickety barn where the poor horse who was “battling depression and enduring anxiety attacks” lived. I didn’t know about the anxiety attacks, but there was no disputing Gordon the horse was underfed, sickly, thin, weak, and uncared for, as I had noted days before on our spy mission.

  Red Scanlon, a cantankerous drunk whom everyone on the island hated because he was a cantankerous drunk, would soon leave for the local bar on his bicycle, that was a given. Twice he’d parked his truck sideways in the middle of the main street of the island and passed out after a foray to the bar.

  The second time it happened, with Red locked up in the jail, someone took the truck and exploded it in the middle of a field. The insurance paid out, Red got drunk again, rammed the drugstore with his new truck, almost rammed a kid, and whaddya know, his truck mysteriously ended up in a lake. (Perhaps we did that).

  The chief made sure he lost his license, locked him up again, fined him to the high heavens, and now mean Red was allowed a bicycle.

  When the cantankerous drunk bicycled off five minutes later, we horse thieves pulled our black-knitted hats over our entire faces with only our eyes and mouths showing and went for Gordon.

  Gina turned on the light in that sagging barn as soon as we walked in, and that pathetic, bony horse met my eyes. I wanted to cry. I went over and hugged him with my black gloves.

  “I’ll get the trailer,” Brenda said. Though the black hat covered most of her face, I did not miss the tears in her eyes.

  The next morning the chief was out hunting down the horse.

  Everyone knew that Gina had taken it. About ten people called Gina telling her the chief was on his way out to her property. How did they all know this? The chief stopped by Marci’s Whale-Jumping Café and announced quite loudly that old Red Scanlon’s horse was missing and he knew where he might find it. Apparently Red had roused himself and called in the loss that morning.

  The chief took his time eating his eggs and bacon with three cups of black coffee and pretended not to notice when half the place took out their cell phones.

  When Gina got notice, she trotted Gordon over with Reuby to my place through the field and forest separating our homes.

  Brenda and I met them halfway. I grabbed the reins. Brenda and I were still in pajamas, our hair flattened and sticking out in strange ways. Gina had fed the horse the night before—“I thought he’d never stop eating!”—and had brushed him out. “He says his self-esteem is growing exponentially!”

  “Hey! Can I come over to walk the dogs today, Chalese?” Reuby asked, fiddling with his eyebrow ring.

  “Anytime,” I said. “You can visit the cats, too. I’ve hardly paid them any attention, and they’re getting cranky and spiteful.”

  “Radical. I’m going to take their pictures with my cell phone and put them on my MySpace page.”

  “Fine by me. Shoot away.”

  Brenda and I led the horse with better self-esteem into my dilapidated but clean barn, rustled up fresh food and water, then wearily climbed the stairs to the porch and dropped into the Adirondack chairs to watch the sun warm my land.

  “The horse stealers prevail,” Brenda said, fists shaking victoriously in the air. “We were probably horse rustlers in a previous life, guns hanging all over our hips, big pink cowboy hats, spurs on our silver heels, golden lassos swinging all around.”

  “I think you’re right. I have often felt a real bond with lassos,” I mused. “Horses. Cowboys. The Wild West. Stagecoach drivers. More cowboys.”

  “I think ya got your own cowboy right now, my friend,” Brenda said. “He’s a winner, sweetie. Smart, nice, tight ass, good teeth. Try not to get that suffocating feeling around him, will you? You can do this, you know. To relax, why don’t you dress up as a pirate? That’s what I did the other night with Chatham. I even had a gold ring in my nose. Chatham was the wench.”

  “Man, Brenda. You are one wild woman.”

  “It’s stimulating to let my creative streak out in the bedroom, hon. It’s a rush for the libido.”

  “I think if I dressed up, I’d be a flamingo.”

  “A flamingo? What are you talking about? Geez, Chalese, why don’t you dress as a giraffe? Or a snake? That’d be about as much of a turn-on as a flamingo!”

  “I admire flamingos. They’re flexible, they can wind around each other’s necks—”

  The ring of my phone interrupted my flamingo thoughts. “Hide the horse, hide the horse, the chief is coming your way,” Gina yelled. “Hide him!”

  “Hide him!” I screamed back as Brenda leaped off her chair. “Where? You have the trailer!”

  “Put him in your kitchen.”

  “My kitchen! I can’t put him in my kitchen! Too small.”

  “Hurry!” Gina screamed.

  Brenda and I were up and running in our pajamas again, our hair flattened and sticking out in strange ways.

  Turns out the dining room was a good fit, although the cranky, spiteful cats were not appreciative of this new guest.

  Funny enough, after the chief checked my barn and property, he never thought to hunt for a horse in the dining room.

  Later, a friend of Gina’s came by with a horse trailer. Gordon was on the mainland and in a cozy horse shelter with a sizeable donation from me by eight o’clock that night, working on his self-esteem.

  “That can’t happen again, Chalese,” Aiden told me the next day, trying to keep the smile off his face. “I’m sorry. My fault. I never should have kissed you.”

  I pulled my robe closer to my body. It was eleven in the morning, after all, and I had a deadline. I knew of other writers who didn’t peel their pajamas from their bodies until their kids got home from school. At least I’d had a shower and brushed my teeth.

  “Uh…” I said. “Am I supposed to say thanks? Thanks for apologizing? Thanks for not kissing me again? Thanks for coming by and telling me you’ll never kiss me again?”

  “I don’t need the thanks, Chalese, but I want to apologize.”

  How surprised would Aiden be if I all of a sudden ripped my robe open and wriggled about naked like a flexible flamingo?

  Nah. Couldn’t do that. Too much stomach, too much hip. N
ot enough boob. Still, the image made me smile.

  And when Aiden saw that smile, he murmured, “Damn,” and then stepped into my house, slung an arm around my waist, pulled me close and 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.