Free Julia's Chocolates by Cathy Lamb

would never breathe again, my forehead breaking out in a sweat, that familiar tremble coursing its way through my weakened limbs.
    What disease was it? Was it the first case of leprosy in hundreds of years? Would I suffer? Would I collapse dead away in the chicken coop, and all the chickens would cover my body with eggs and no one would find me?
    I would be remembered as The Woman Buried By Eggs.
    And Dean Garrett would probably read about me. How humiliating.
    I tried to breathe, but it didn’t work, and my head spun. Tried again. The air this time was gracious, and I felt my collapsed lungs inflate slightly.
    Another breath came puffing on in, then another, and soon the sweet smell of jasmine potpourri wafted in, the curtain at the window fluttered, I heard one of Lydia’s cats meowing, and the clucking of the chickens penetrated the thick fog of frightening yuck in my head.
    Now, I realized I could go to a doctor about the Dread Disease, but I didn’t want to hear that I had contracted a strange, deadly, breathing sickness from a tiny colony of ants that had somehow grown giant teeth and burrowed their way into my skin.
    No, knowledge is not always good.
    I heard Aunt Lydia, Stash, and Dean talking and laughing downstairs and knew I wouldn’t be able to eat at all. Not in the presence of that he-man. Although I felt exhausted, and I knew the exhaustion would take hours to shed, I could think clearly enough to know that I was not going to sit next to a man who was as tall as a tree and had blue eyes that had stripped my insides bare.
    But I would take it upon myself to shower. Dropping Aunt Lydia’s clothes on the floor, I turned the water on, shampooed and rinsed my hair, then scrubbed any possible fleck of chicken poop off my body.
    I toweled dry and put on my jeans and my one nice white blouse, although I certainly wasn’t going down to breakfast. That would be too scary with Dean there.
    I slipped on silver hoop earrings and my watch. And a little lipstick.
    Although I certainly wasn’t going down to breakfast. Way too scary.
    Lydia came up, saw me sitting on the bed.
    “I knew I would find you hiding up here.”
    “I’m not hiding.”
    “You are hiding. You must draw up your courage from the bowels of your uterus and come join us at breakfast.”
    “I’m not hiding,” I said, trying to sound rational. “I am enjoying a nervous breakdown. I should be done in a couple of months. But until I’m done I’m not hanging out with any men, especially men related to Paul Bunyan. Does he have his blue ox outside?”
    Aunt Lydia groaned. “Funny. Now that you mention it, he does. Although he calls it a truck. Don’t be scared of him, Julia. He’s a good man. A man who is not afraid of his testosterone. He rules his testosterone and does not let his testosterone rule him. His balls are made of steel, you can tell by the way he moves.”
    Steel balls?
    “Moved here several years ago. He’s a farmer and a rancher. Attorney, too, so he goes into the city for weeks at a time sometimes. Some big hotshot. I don’t know. Stash does.”
    Great. A rancher. Farmer. And an attorney. Oh, yes. I’m sure he would be excited to dine with someone like me. A nervous, paranoid, blushing, clutzy, bruised, muddy, plump, overly endowed ex-fiancée who left her wedding dress hanging from a tree and who sounds like she’s been getting it on with chickens.
    “All I know is that he is a damn good poker player. He beat Stash many times, and he’s almost beat me. He’ll play for quarters, not pennies, like all the other cowardly people in this town.” Lydia snorted, then grabbed my arm. “I’m drying your hair.”
    “No, please, Aunt Lydia. Tell him I’m sick. Tell him I have leprosy. I’m certainly not going down to breakfast.”
    “You do look a little pale, Julia. Which is why you need to pump your womanhood full of eggs and cheese. They will restore the equilibrium in your inner core, which is what you need. And those