Almost Home. Debbie Macomber
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book was quite late. Editor was threatening not one heart attack, but two. Agent was having a loud, prolonged fit. PR agent called to bite her nails over the phone.
And in my grossness, I could also hardly breathe. I was so unbelievably … sad. It was the sad you get when your dreams are almost there … and then they’re obliterated. The sad you get when everything seems to stop and get stuck in bleakness. The sad you get when you feel you will never be in love again, never feel happy again, never overcome this giant emotional boulder in your path that seems to want to squish you.
But I had a deadline, so I kept drawing under that clear blue sky. Must keep employed, I muttered. Must not end up as scraggly, molting woman pushing cart down street. Nutmeg Man put his head on my thigh under the table and whimpered.
“Brenda, sit down, stifle the hysterics, and write. Don’t overthink it.” I popped a cherry into my mouth. “Write one word. One letter. Write a paragraph. Describe your costume dates, what you know about men, about life. Be funny. And leave me alone so I can finish these dreadlocks.”
“When we were kids and sending stories back and forth to each other I never had writer’s block.” She dumped a handful of cherries into her mouth and clicked her heels together.
“The romances you sent me were flaming funny. One of your funniest characters was Mr. Hip Swinger.”
Brenda laughed. “Already used him in one of my movies.” She spit out a pit.
“And Loyolita Chantal Montalshawn. She was an evil woman. A man-shredding feminist.”
“Used her, too. Won an award for that movie.”
We both turned as we heard the truck flying down my driveway, creaking, shrieking, rumbling.
Gina drove off the driveway when she saw me and sped right toward us. “Please, Chalese,” she begged when she hopped out of the truck, the flowers flying from her long hair. “Don’t sue me.”
Chapter Nine
Inside the truck was Gina’s son, Reuby.
“Drag your limp butt out of the car right this minute or I’ll use my slingshot against it!” Gina yelled at him.
Reuby slouched on out.
Brenda and I stood up. “What’s wrong?” Instant fear clutched my gut. I could tell that Reuby had been crying. Gina was angry enough to spring an intestine. “What is it?”
Gina jabbed her pointer finger at Reuby. Stomped her foot. “Speak, you troublesome rebel son!”
An anguished Reuby pushed back his blond curls and whined, “I’m sorry, Chalese, dude! I’m sorry. I took pictures of the drawings with my new cell phone and put them on my MySpace page. I thought they were so funny, so cool. They were the animals, dude, from all those kids’ books I read when I was a kid. The Authority Figure never told me you were the author who did the Jasmine Farm Animal books. I didn’t know! I didn’t know that you’re Annabelle Purples! But that’s sick! Sick and awesome!”
My blood dive-bombed toward my feet. “What are you talking about? Which animal pictures?” Oh, please, not the Bridger pictures. “Where did you put them?”
“I thought I’d show the pictures to a few dudes, that’s it! I didn’t know all this would happen. I didn’t know that you were trying to keep yourself secret! Can I still come over and walk the dogs?”
“What?” I could hardly speak, my brain mass flogged with panic. “What pictures?”
Reuby scuffed the ground with his army boots.
Gina glared. “I’m sorry, Chalese. My own son may become a stray animal when I’m done with him.” She whacked him on the head. “Chalese, Reuby wandered up to your studio the other day when he was petting the cats.”
“I couldn’t find Elizabeth I and Clover. I figured they were upstairs. And that’s when I saw all the funny pictures. Dude, you’re hilarious!”
“Do not call Ms. Hamilton ‘dude’ one more time or you will be sleeping in the barn with the cows.” Gina yanked a flower out of her hair and threw it to the ground in anger.
“Sorry, Authority Figure!” He pulled on his eyebrow ring.
I found my tongue. “Are you telling me …” I gasped for air. “Are you telling me my drawings for my book are on the Internet?” Gasped again.
Gina burst into tears, then whacked her son on the head again. Two red flowers fell from her hair. “It’s not your regular pictures, sugar, not the ones for the book. They’re the ones of …”
“Of?”
I heard Brenda beside me gasp and then swear, the swear word long and low and crude.
“Of Goose as a hooker,” Reuby said exuberantly. “Man, that was clever! And Herbert with all the aces saying he’s tired of screwing everyone, and of the fox flashing the puppies, I couldn’t stop laughing at that one, heck yeah, and Cassy Cat smokin’ in a bar—she was always my favorite character when I was a kid …”
No breath. I had no breath in me. I squeaked out, “Please tell me you did not put those pictures on your MySpace page.” My mind about set itself on fire imagining all the possible, truly unspeakable ramifications.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, chastened. “Yes, ma’am, but I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”
I took in a ragged, rough breath before I passed out. “Take them off! Now! Take them off your MySpace page!”
Reuby squirmed, pulled at his scraggly hair. “It’s too late,” he whispered.
“What do you mean ‘it’s too late’?” I shrieked, my arms waving through the air. “It’s not too late! I don’t want anyone to see them!”
“I mean, ma’am, dude, they’re on my MySpace page, but they’re also …”
“They’re what?”
I heard Brenda moaning as she linked an arm around my shoulder. “I’ll take you shopping in Zimbabwe, that’ll make you feel better. We’ll buy you some high heels, those lacy bras and underwear you need so bad, we’ll bring two bottles of wine—”
“I have tequila, Brenda, in my car,” Gina hissed. “Does she drink tequila?”
I put my face six inches from rebel Reuby’s. “They’re what?”
I saw his Adam’s apple sliding up and down. “Dude, I’m sorry,” he rasped. “But my MySpace friends sent them to their friends, and they sent them to their friends, and now those pictures …”
“What?”
“They’re all over the Internet, man. They’re out there. I mean, they’re out there.” He scratched an arm pit. “Who’s Aiden Bridger?”
I staggered away, my hands to my forehead, then screamed. And swore. And screamed again.
My editor called, hysterical.
My agent called, hysterical
My public relations gal called, hysterical.
It wasn’t good. It would get worse.
My privacy was now toast.
A little digging here and there, and the reporters had my connection to Aiden Bridger nailed down via the Carmichael Children’s Book Award.
The reporters called, they sped on over to the island that night, they were nosy, pushy, insistent. What could have been one article by Aiden about me had now morphed into something uncontrollable, huge, and nationwide.
I moved out in the middle of the night and into Christie’s house. Brenda said she would bravely forfeit her high heels for my work boots and take care of the animals. “That’s