Almost Home. Debbie Macomber

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СКАЧАТЬ out on my mother. She was beaten to a pulp.”

      “Oh God,” Aiden breathed.

      “My father convinced my mother that no judge would ever let her have me and Christie since she was mentally ill. What a threat to hang over an emotionally devastated woman’s head! At that time there was nowhere for an abused mother to run, certainly nowhere that she knew of. They hardly talked about that then. She had been an only child, and her parents were in poor health and living in a facility. She was trapped.”

      “And to you, Chalese?” he said, his voice low, pained. “What did he do to you?”

      I tilted my chin up. “You mean besides the neglect, his hatred for me, the constant fear he evoked? My father always told me I was fat. He said my skin was a dirty color, not pretty compared to Christie’s super-white skin and blond hair. He said I waddled, identical to a penguin, and he would make these penguin calls at me when I walked by. He always said Christie was the smart one and I had a brain born in a freezer. He’d tell my crying mother to give me whale or seal meat for dinner. ‘She’ll gobble it right up, you’ll see,’ he told her.

      “He would turn off the heating vent in my bedroom and tell me since I was a penguin I was used to the cold and I’d be fine. So here we were, living on Fifth Avenue, and I had no heat. And that’s just the start.”

      Aiden was pale, his face tightly drawn. “Chalese, come here, honey, come here.” He pulled me into his arms, hugging me close, then swung me up, into my home and onto my couch. One sad story followed another, as if they’d all lined up in my heart and were now pushing each other to get out.

      “I am so angry, Chalese. I haven’t been this angry in years. I want to pound his face in.”

      “Aiden, I didn’t want to tell you about my past, because I didn’t want it printed. I would have told you after the article came out ….”

      “I am mad about you not sharing your past, for not trusting me, but I understand. I do. But damn, I’m furious about what you went through as a kid! When I was reading the reports, I wanted to smash your father. I wanted to find him and tear him apart. I am so sorry about what happened to you.”

      “I’m sorry, too,” I said, trying to make light of it. “But it’s over. It’s done. I have a new life. I’m chasing down goats, drawing talking beavers, and going to poker contests now.”

      Aiden rocked me back and forth. “So help me, if I ever meet this man, he will not be able to peel himself off the floor again. He was a sick man, Chalese. No sane man would ever treat his wife or a child as he did.”

      I nodded. In my head, away from him now for decades, I realized that. It was my father’s issue, not mine. But I remembered the kid I was, how unbearably hurt, how despairing, I had been.

      He stroked my back, his cheek next to mine, and I clung to him. At one point I tilted my head up, and Aiden was wiping his tears. Huge, manly stud man, toughened, roughened Aiden.

      “Aiden, it’s hurting me to see you cry.” His tears made me cry. A man who cried for what we went through! A man who cared enough about me to cry in the first place! Through all that pain, I saw this light, this golden, sparkly light.

      My lips found his. Aiden kissed me back, pulled away, kissed me again, pulled away. I knew he was fighting within himself. He was kissing me, the subject of his newspaper article.

      I should have pulled away, made it easier for him, but I couldn’t. I would have given up my yellow house with all my art and quilts before I would have given up the next hour of my life. We gave in together in a rush of passion, of bottled-up lust, of trusting friendship, of shared intimacies. My arms went around his neck, he picked me up, and we were on my bed, on my periwinkle comforter, chasing down that heaven I knew I’d find in his arms.

      I tried not to sniffle or let any more tears escape, but when I did, Aiden pulled back, kissed my cheeks, cupped my face, and told me I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known.

      In my head I heard these words: I love you, Aiden, I do. I trust you, too. Whatever happens with this, I trust you.

      And, whew! That Aiden Bridger was indeed comparable to the mighty Zeus in the bedroom.

      “Don’t print the article, please, Aiden.” I leaned over him in bed the next morning, sunlight streaking through the French doors, and kissed his neck. Instead of responding, I felt him go rigid beneath me.

      “What?” he rapped out. “What did you say?”

      “I told you everything last night, so now you understand why I don’t want the article written.”

      He whipped back the periwinkle blue comforter, stalked to the windows, and glared at the ocean.

      “Is that what this was all about?” he shot at me, turning around, his arms crossed over that muscled chest. I had enjoyed that chest last night.

      “What are you talking about?”

      “You slept with me, we made love, then you make your request with a couple of kisses thrown in.” His face was hard, completely cold. “Did you actually hope to change my mind with sex? Do you think I’m that naïve, that clueless?”

      I clutched the sheet to me. I wanted to let him have it face-to-face, but I sure as heck was not getting out of bed naked. It’s one thing to feel fat in the darkness of night, overcome with excitement; it’s quite another to parade around and about naked, bouncing bottom, thunder thighs and all. Plus, I was pissed.

      “Let’s get something straight, Aiden, before I get off-the-cliff ticked. I slept with you because I wanted to. I didn’t sleep with you because I wanted to manipulate you or your precious career. Not a bit.”

      “Somehow I’m finding that hard to believe.”

      “I don’t care what you find hard to believe, you … you difficult, rigid, journalistic prick. Things got carried away last night, and I”—my voice shook and wobbled—“I made a mistake.”

      “You made a mistake?”

      “Yes, I made a mistake. I slept with a man who woke up in the morning, and instead of saying, ‘Good morning, how are you, can I make you some French toast and coffee, want to go for a walk to the ocean?’ he accuses me of having sex with him to get something out of it.”

      “How can you blame me for thinking that? The first thing you asked this morning was for me not to write the article.”

      “Hey, Aiden, I blame you for thinking that because you know me better than that. I have never stopped asking you not to write the article. Not once. Did you think I would have changed my mind this morning because we rolled around naked? That pisses me off even more than I was pissed off to begin with! How dare you think so little of me! How dare you think I would stoop to sleeping with you to manipulate you, to get what I wanted.” The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to throw something at his head.

      “I hate this situation, I do, Chalese, but this is the way it is. I can’t believe—” He stopped, pulled himself together as his voice got deep and scratchy. “This article has been assigned to me to write. I said I would, and I will. I’ll write it with respect for you, with kindness, with care and consideration, but I’ve got to write it.”

      “You СКАЧАТЬ