Debbie Macomber - Almost Home

To my way-cool sister,
Dr. Karen Straight,
and her special friend,
Matt Farwell,
of the Kindness Ranch,
a home for former laboratory animals.

Hartville, Wyoming

I could not believe I was going to climb up on Stephens roof in a black burglar-type outfit so I could spy on him through his skylight.

I have gone over the edge, I muttered, adjusting my black leather knee-high boots. Im completely whacked. Brain-fried. Crazed.

Our mission, Brenda whispered to me before we scurried onto the roof, the stars our only witnesses to this sheer stupidity, begins right now. One for all, all for one, and dont leave a wily woman behind! She shimmied her hips, then stuck both thumbs up, her black gloves cutting through the cool night.

My sister Christie and I smothered our laughter.

Never give up, ladies! Christie ordered as she pulled a black-knit hat over her blond hair and down her face, her green eyes twinkling through the eyeholes. Never surrender! Never accept defeat!

Women unite! I said as we high-fived each other.

Brenda fiddled with her night-vision goggles then grabbed the gutter and shimmied her way up the roof. Her agility was impressive, as shed had a number of strawberry daiquiris.

I yanked my black-knit hat over my face, pulled the eye and mouth holes into the appropriate places, tucked in my black curls, and followed her, trying hard not to laugh. If I laughed while I was climbing I might wet my pants.

Im a spy! Brenda whispered as she climbed. She hummed the James Bond theme song. She has a full head of curling reddish hair, now hidden by her full-face black-knit hat, a huge mouth, huge eyes, and a biggish nose. Men went wild for her. A sexy spy!

My laughter broke free, and I had to cross my legs. Dont wet your pants! Brenda was wearing black leather pants and a black motorcycle jacket, like me. My sister was wearing a black cowboy hat over the face-hiding knit hat, which was so hilarious, and a black coat that wouldnt close over her stomach because she is gigantically pregnant with twins. Normally she is the size of Tinkerbell. Now she is the size of a small bull.

Chalese is not a sexy spy, I said about my sorry self as I grabbed the gutter to hoist myself up. Chalese has been dumped. Damn that snaky Stephen. I hadnt even liked Stephen. But I didnt appreciate being dumped. Nothing is worse than being dumped by someone you dated because he was there, a breathing male, and you desperately hoped he was more than he was but you had to quit lying to yourself in the face of overwhelming evidence of his jerkhood.

A voice inside my blurry head said, Since you believe him to be a jerk, why are you on his roof in the middle of the night dressed like a burglar?

Why? Because the three of us, me, Brenda, and Christie, together, are lethal. Daring. Truly ridiculous. And a little drunk. Although Christie is stone-cold sober. She never drinks when shes pregnant.

But, really, there was no harm in seeing whom Stephen was dating, even if I had to do it via a skylight. I didnt care, not at all, but knowledge is power. Knowledge is a daiquiri, I intoned as I scrambled up, my black gloves offering a little traction. Strawberry daiquiri, lemon daiquiri, peach daiquiri

Stephens roof was flattish, so our climb to the skylight was not too perilous, even in my fuzzy state. I hummed the Rocky fight song, stopping to pump the cool night with my fists, like Rocky did in the movies.

Whats going on, Chalese? my sister hissed from the ground below, her voice coming in from the walkie-talkie on my hip.

I giggled and held my walkie-talkie to my mouth. Im not Chalese! Im a spy! A secret agent! I am on a serious mission!

Why are you talking about a mission? Why arent you home reading a romance novel?

Brenda burped. She says its her best quality. That is patently not true. Her best quality is writing screenplays for major motion pictures that make women alternately laugh and cry like banshees. Shes living with me until she smashes through her writing block.

Christie said, Copy that, Ms. Bond. All right, 007, carry on.

I carefullyas carefully as I could with two strawberry daiquiris under my belt, well, three, actually, but whos countingscuttled over to Brenda, who was peering through Stephens giant skylight, quiet as a tiny drunken mouse dressed all in black with night-vision goggles.

I could see the butcher-block island in the middle of the kitchen. Mission fuzzy, I whispered.

Brenda put her black-gloved hands over the skylight to angle a better view. Command center, I report zero activity.

I leaned on the skylight a smidgen, balancing most of my weight on the roof. I could smell Brendas perfume, sultry and earthy.

I gasped.

Brenda said, Holy Tomoly.

It was Alanna. Alanna Post.

I had known Alanna the Man-eater for years. I avoided her at all costs. She was perfect. Blondish hair, highlighted just so, curling under right at her shoulders. Heavy, but annoyingly perfect, makeup. Thin. Oh, I hated how thin she was! Probably a size six. Designer clothes. And always, always, a condescending sneer or raised eyebrow to make it clear that she thought I was a chubby spider beneath her feet. An awkward orangutan with a poofy butt.