Inflamed: A Love Letters Novel

outcome.
A school bus rolled to a stop outside her house, and the doors opened. A lanky almost eight-year-old boy galloped out, his jacket bundled in his arms, and charged toward the house.
Debra blinked back her teary lapse of self-pity. How could she regret the outcome when it included her son? She stepped out of her car. “Aidan! Why aren’t you wearing your jacket? Do you want to catch a cold?”
He rolled his eyes at her. “You can’t catch a cold from the weather, Mom. You get colds from viruses and bacteria. You catch a chill—”
“You be sure to thank your English teacher tomorrow—”
“Miss Darby teaches science.”
“All right, your science teacher.” Debra unlocked the front door and ushered him in. Aidan stampeded past her and rushed toward his room, but the thud of his sneakers against the wooden planks did not concealed the soft “ruff.”
“Aidan?” she called out quietly.
He froze in his tracks but did not turn to face her. “What, Mom?”
“What do you have wrapped in your coat?” She walked up to him and swung him around by his shoulder.
The coat in Aidan’s arms wriggled.
Debra lifted back a corner of the jacket, and a hairy little face popped up. A pink tongue darted out to lick her hand. Debra stared at Aidan. “Were you seriously attempting to sneak a dog into this house without my finding out?”
“You’re out working all the time,” Aidan grumbled. “How would you know? He’s just a little puppy.”
Who would grow up into a big dog, judging by the size of those paws. Debra stroked the dog’s furry head. “Whose dog is he?”
“He’s nobody’s dog. I found him in a ditch. He’s just a hungry, scruffy mutt nobody wants.”
Debra arched an eyebrow. If Aidan’s defensive tone hadn’t given him away, the fact that the puppy appeared well-fed, well-groomed, and perfectly at-home in Aidan’s arms did. “What does the rest of him look like?”
Aidan set the puppy down on the floor. The dog looked like some kind of Irish or Scottish greyhound, but stockier and chubbier, with tri-colored markings, like a St. Bernard. Debra would have bet every penny in her bank account—not that there was much in there—that the puppy came from the Smiths’ litter. A mutt, most certainly, but not uncared for. The Smiths lavished their dogs with love and were reportedly picky about who they gave their precious puppies to.
Coldness closed around Debra’s heart. Had Aidan stolen the puppy? Aidan’s reputation as “the troubled child” was almost as solid as her reputation as “the other woman.” The Smiths were practically Havre de Grace royalty; their family was one of the oldest in town and their 18th-century home overlooked Main Street like a guardian angel hovering over the town. Why would the Smiths give Aidan a puppy?
A stomach rumbled loudly. Debra and Aidan exchanged glances before their gazes simultaneously alighted on the dog. She managed a tight laugh. “We’ll discuss the dog later. For now, let’s get us—all of us—fed.”
Aidan whooped. “I’ll take him out to the yard. Don’t want him to poop in the house.”
“Aidan, your jacket.” Debra kept the smile in place until the back door slammed shut. Through the glass, she watched Aidan shove his arms into his jacket before picking up a stick. He hurled it across the yard; the puppy raced after it and sniffed the ground before choosing one stick out of the tangled spread of other random sticks and scrambling back to Aidan.
Debra found the Smiths in the directory and reached for her phone. She drew a deep breath, trembling as she waited for someone to pick up on the other end.
“Hello?”
Debra immediately recognized the voice of Patricia Smith, the elderly matriarch. Patricia had once been a celebrated beauty in Atlanta; fifty years earlier, she had married into the Smiths of Havre de Grace, supplementing their large family fortune with her lavish inheritance. Despite the intervening years, she had not lost the charm of her southern drawl.
“Good evening, Mrs. Smith. This is Debra Martinez.”
“Of course it is. What can I do for you, Ms. Martinez?”
Formality was the hallmark of Patricia’s interactions; Debra tried not to interpret it as personal coolness. “My son found a puppy—one who looks like a mix of your Bonnie and Clyde. I was just calling to ask if…any of your puppies had run away.”
“My puppies do not run away, Ms. Martinez. Are you asking if I gave Jewel to your son, or if he stole her?”
Jewel? Debra winced. Bonnie. Clyde. Jewel. How many more bank-robbing analogies did she need to drive home the likelihood of her son’s theft?
“I gave Jewel to your son this afternoon as we agreed.”
“You agreed?”
“He’s been mowing my lawn for the past year in exchange for the pick of Bonnie and Clyde’s next litter. Well, the next litter has just weaned, so Aidan’s claimed his fee.”
Debra blinked. Just as well, her jaw was attached to her face, or it might have fallen to the floor. She glanced out the backdoor, at the lawn that Aidan flatly refused to mow. “I…see.”
“Your son is a hard worker, Ms. Martinez, and a great talker. I’ve enjoyed my conversations with him.”
A glib liar, more like. How had Aidan managed to conceal his activities from her for over a year?
“You’re out working all the time.”
Guilt plucked at Debra. She worked long hours seven days a week at the café and supplemented them with hours as an administrative assistant at the clinic, but what choice did she have? Wishes and prayers did not pay household bills, and Peter, Aidan’s father, could not be counted on for regular child support.
Debra scribbled out Patricia’s instructions for Jewel’s care and feeding before disconnecting the call. She stared at her son and his gamboling pup as they tumbled over each other in a mad sprint around the yard. She smiled, and in spite of the thermostat set low, she felt warm and content.
Life still had its moments.
A small part of her mind, cynical from experience, scoffed at her naiveté. Finding