He seemed to find that mildly amusing. “My people.”
She waved her hand, and his gaze went sharp, gray eyes tracking the movement of the coffee cup. “Your contractors.”
She shifted the cup. His gaze followed. She brought the cup to her mouth and took a sip.
Interesting.
“Would that be a problem for you, Doug?” she said to the young man.
“Huh?”
“The dumpster?”
The kid’s head jerked up. Then ducked nervously toward his clipboard when Tucker’s brows crunched in a mighty scowl. “Um, yes. I mean no. It wouldn’t be a problem to put the dumpster over there. That’s to say, if that’s where you want it. Mr. Pettigrew. Sir.”
Tucker snatched the clipboard from Doug’s hands. “Fine.” He scanned the printed page, scrawled his name along the bottom. Then sneered at Sarah. “Look Ma. No Pictures.” And slapping the paperwork back at a startled Doug, turned on his heel and left.
“That was fun,” Sarah grumbled, thanking the Strattons before she turned around. And saw unbridled delight dance across Bran’s face.
He patted a hand to his heart. “I haven’t seen that much testosterone in one place since the high school locker room after a football game.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. And refused to admit that she’d definitely noticed. “Did you see him checking out my coffee? Drool was practically rolling off his chin. Maybe that’s why he’s so damn grumpy.” She took another sip. “Lack of caffeine.”
Bran’s chuckle was low, and just a little evil. “I don’t think he was fixated entirely on the coffee.”
Sarah opened her mouth to ask what he was talking about, then terrible realization dawned. “Oh no.” She looked down, to where her unfettered breasts shifted beneath her thin camisole. Her very, very thin camisole. “Crap. I look like little orphan Annie doing a burlesque.”
“I don’t think the Stratton boy minded. Neither did your Pain In The Ass.”
“He’s not my anything.”
“If you say so.”
God, how humiliating. Some professional reputation she was establishing. “You don’t have to look quite so entertained.”
“Why not? This is Sweetwater. It’s not like there’s a whole lot else goin’ on.”
Sarah considered that she’d shared his opinion. Right up until the night she’d come home. “That’s what you think.” She handed Bran her empty coffee cup, and went to get dressed.
TUCKER scowled as he checked the street signs, turning right onto River Road. As if this morning wasn’t bad enough, he now had a raging and wholly unexpected case of sexual frustration.
Not that he hadn’t noticed the redhead before – at just a few inches shy of six feet, she was kind of hard to miss. But he’d been distracted and annoyed the first time he’d seen her. He’d been distracted and annoyed the second time, too, not to mention embarrassed. But even though it had been dark, he hadn’t been distracted enough not to notice the yard of leg sticking out from beneath that skimpy robe.
This morning he’d been distracted and annoyed – there seemed to be a pattern developing – but he’d gotten a whiff of her coffee, which had nearly brought him to his knees. And he’d finally woken up enough to notice her breasts.
His mouthy neighbor had very nice breasts.
The Stratton kid had certainly noticed, Tucker thought with disgust. He’d been tempted to smack the boy upside his head and tell him to roll his tongue back in. Which was ridiculous. What did he care who looked at Sarah’s… attributes?
And besides, the mouthy factor cancelled out said attributes. It may have been a while since he’d been with a woman, but he wasn’t so desperate as to get involved with a ball-buster. He preferred his women sweet. Like Allison Hawbaker.
Although he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have quite the same reaction if it had been Allison Hawbaker in that see-through top.
Thinking of the Hawbakers made Tucker wonder exactly what Carlton had done. No doubt something completely underhanded. Manipulating people toward his own ends was his grandfather’s specialty. Rage simmered, but Tucker brought it under control. He wouldn’t let the old man push his buttons.
Nearly missing the turn-off, Tucker slowed his truck, checked the rearview mirror, and then threw the gearshift into reverse.
And started down the oak-lined lane to River’s End.
Situated where the Sweetwater River spilled lazily into the sound, his grandfather’s house rose like some kind of church gone awry.
An arcade of Gothic arches made the porch appear more sacrosanct than welcoming, while its many gabled dormers formed a row of perpetually judgmental eyes. Morning had burned through the worst of the river’s fog with its rosy fingers, brushing the metal roof with an ethereal glow. Even the majestic oaks had been pruned into submission, and orderly rows of pure white flowers sat motionless in their earthen pews.
And the river ran behind it all, a snake of green in this perfect garden.
It was somehow awful in its cold beauty, like an avalanche or a calving glacier – the kind of thing you wanted to admire from far, far away.
His father had grown up in this house.
The photo of the laughing, warm-eyed man his mother had kept beside her bed bore little resemblance to anyone who should spring from this environment. This was the stuff of dark romance, where nature is sinister beneath its beauty, and humans, inside their pious shells, full of evil deeds and destruction.
Or at the very least, prone to a brooding sort of solitude.
Someone, actually, like him.
And because that realization further disgusted him, Tucker yanked his keys from his vehicle’s ignition. Thinking he belonged here was just exactly what the old man wanted.
And Tucker had already had enough of that shit.
Squelching the urge to cross himself as he stomped up onto the pristine porch, Tucker leaned heavily on the buzzer. He only hoped he’d get the old jackass out of bed.
When an elf-like elderly woman answered the door, he put a lid on his disappointment.
“Oh!” she said, and he realized the sight of him – all six plus feet, two hundred pounds of him – scowling on her doorstep, might not have been the most pleasant way to start the day.
“I’m sorry to disturb you.” He used the voice reserved for speaking to frightened animals and small children. “But I need to see Carlton Pettigrew. Now.”
Her enormous blue eyes widened even further in her tiny, wrinkled face.
“Please,” he thought to add.
She surprised him with a laugh, a musical tinkle of sound. “You must be Tucker. Please. Please come in.”
“And you know this… how?”
Her gaze drank in his face. “You have your father’s eyes,” she finally told him.
Yeah. He kind of didn’t think so. “You knew my father?”
“Of course. Been here over forty years, haven’t I? Beautiful, happy child and a fine, fine young man. I could see him, in you, in the photographs your mother used to send me.”
“I’m sorry.” Tucker’s feet wouldn’t move, mired as they were in his confusion. “I feel like I should know something about this, but… my mother sent you photos?” He felt the familiar lump form in his throat.
“Eventually, she did. Oh, child.” She reached her gnarled hands out, and covered his. Her touch was surprisingly warm. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am for your loss. Your mother was just such a lovely person.” Her eyes shone with tears. “Well this is silly, isn’t it, us conversing in the doorway? Won’t you please come in? I have a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen, and the blueberry biscuits should be about done.”
Feeling like an overgrown Hansel, Tucker stepped across the threshold.
And immediately caught his breath. The entrance hall was huge, capped off by a sky-painted dome that had to be four stories high. A stringer staircase seemed to float along one curving, plaster wall, and the gazillion-armed chandelier looked like it coul
d light an entire football field. The floor was polished marble, the wood moldings elaborate, and unless he was missing his bet, hand-carved.
Damn.
Not that Tucker hadn’t seen plenty of outrageously impressive structures before. He had. Up close and very personal. But this was a little town in South Carolina, for God’s sake. And this place was an architectural gem, no doubt about it. When he considered the money that had to go into the upkeep of something like this…
His mouth tightened as he followed the little old woman. He remembered his mother quietly sitting at their tiny kitchen table, rolling pennies, so that she could go to the market and buy bread.
“I’m sorry,” he said, as they passed a series of parlors and conservatories and whatever the hell all those useless formal rooms were called. “But I’m afraid I didn’t catch you name.”
“Oh!” She laughed again, a rusty tinkling sound. “I’m Anna Mae.”
They’d finally arrived at a large but surprisingly cozy kitchen. “I’ve been the head housekeeper here for years.” She gestured to the banquette built against a span of windows. Tucker hesitated, but then folded himself behind the table to have a seat. “Cream and sugar, hon?”
He looked up to see her holding a carafe over a stoneware mug. Coffee. Thank God. “No. Thank you.”
“Biscuits’ll be just another minute,” she told him as she poured, and Tucker realized that the kitchen smelled… God, really familiar. It gave him the weirdest sense of déjà vu. “Did I… was I ever…”
When he ran out of verbal gas, she sat his coffee down in front of him with a reminiscent smile. “You used to like to sit there, right in that spot, with a big ole’ biscuit with extra icing. ’Course you drank milk in those days.”
Tucker stared. She couldn’t possibly have known he was coming. He hadn’t known it himself until this morning. “You don’t really seem surprised to see me.”
To his utter horror, tears filled her eyes. “I didn’t mean to –”
“No, no.” She waved him off, pulling open the oven and unloading a pan of steaming biscuits. He could almost taste them, the scent memory was so strong. “When I heard you were in town I knew it would be but a matter of time before your granddaddy found a way to get you over here. He’s been tryin’ for some time, you know.”
Tucker did.
He’d been nearly thirteen the first time – that he remembered – that he’d met his father’s father. His mother had been tense and thin-lipped for weeks, until she finally told him that his grandfather wanted to see him. Tucker hadn’t even been aware he’d had a grandfather, but then she’d explained about the fancy estate in South Carolina, the piles and piles of money. All of it Tucker’s birthright. And that he absolutely, with her blessing, was entitled to it, if that’s what he wanted. But he had to hear his grandfather out.
Like any normal kid, especially one who’d grown up in near poverty, Tucker was elated at the prospect. Until he’d gone to meet the old man. And realized that birthrights didn’t come for free.
“He wanted me to leave New York. Go to some boarding school in Charleston and spend my vacations and holidays here, with him. And my mother wasn’t invited.”
“I know.” The old woman’s voice softened with sympathy. “And you refused.”
Not that it had been that easy. Tucker stomped around, locked himself in his room, accused his mom of ruining his life. It shamed him now, to remember.
Because if anything, his mom had saved him. At tremendous expense to herself.
“He doesn’t understand men like you,” Anna Mae told him. “Men like your father. Men who can’t be bought or coerced. Did your mother…” here she hesitated, and Tucker found himself waiting almost breathlessly to hear what she would say. “Did she ever tell you the story of how she met your father?”
And Tucker realized with clarity that this was why he’d felt so compelled to come to Sweetwater. His mom had told him about his dad, lovingly recycling the same warm, funny anecdotes, over and over. But Tucker had always known there were parts too painful or private for the retelling.
“She told me,” he cleared his throat, “that she spilled soup all over his lap.”
Anna Mae’s eyes lit at what was obviously the memory. “It was a dinner party. The very first night she worked here.”
“Here?” His coffee mug nearly slipped from his hand, so he lowered it to the table. He’d always gotten the impression that they’d met at some kind of restaurant. “Mom worked… here?”
“Not for long.” Those faded blue eyes danced merrily. “Your father saw to that.”
“Anna Mae! Anna Mae!”
Tucker jumped as a disembodied voice filled the kitchen.
“That would be your grandfather,” she sighed, nodding toward a speaker built into the wall. “Wondering why I’m taking so long with his breakfast.”
Tucker had nearly forgotten that it was the old man he’d come to see.
“Let me show you to the gentleman’s game room,” she said as she rose. “I’m sure that’s where he’ll want to meet with you.”
TUCKER stared at the withered man perched on the settee, trying to reconcile him with the memories he had of his grandfather.
The eyes were still the same – cool, intelligent, condescending – but otherwise the past twenty years hadn’t been kind. His big frame was stooped, his skin spotted and lined. But then, the man was eighty-three years old.
It was also possible that Gramps was an even bigger prick now than when he’d given Tucker that whole “responsibility to the Pettigrew name” speech, back when Tucker was a kid.
Guess that laid waste to the myth about people mellowing with age.
“Those papers?” Tucker said now, trying not to be creeped out by the dead animal heads staring at him from the walls, looking every bit as surprised and annoyed as himself to find themselves there. “I’m not sure what bullshit you’re trying to pull, but we work this out right here. I’m not going to be dragged into court, have my life turned into a sideshow.”
Carlton T. steepled his papery hands. “If you’ve bothered to consult your attorney –”
“I fired him.”
For some reason, this made the old man smile. “I’m assuming that was in response to your recent tenant… issues.”
“None of your business.”
“Regardless, the trust agreement states that –”
“It’s an irrevocable, generation-skipping trust,” Tucker interrupted. His lawyer had been clear on this, at least. Just as Tucker had been clear that the generation-skipping aspect hadn’t been chosen for its tax benefits, but as a dart aimed at Tucker’s father.
“You effectively removed your right to any incidents of ownership when you transferred the Boundary Street property to me. Meaning, it’s mine, and you can’t quibble about it just because I don’t bow and scrape and offer to kiss your damn ring. You’re my grandfather, not my king, and I don’t give a shit about your empire.”
A clock ticked in the silence.
“Your mother,” the old man finally said “benefited personally from those incidents of ownership. As interim trustee, that opened her to breach of trust.”
This was the part of the ridiculous lawsuit that really boiled his blood. “My mother,” he said through clenched teeth “is dead.”
“I know.” His grandfather didn’t even blink. Hadn’t offered one word of condolence. “Which is why I’m forced to sue her estate.”
Tucker laughed, completely without humor. “I’m her estate, you jackass. A fact of which you’re well aware. As you’re aware of the fact that she only began to rent the house out so that she could send me to a decent school. I benefited. I was the minor beneficiary who was legally entitled to any incidents. You’re suing me on behalf of me.”
“Then it should be no problem to provide documentation to that effect to your new attorney. Unless, of course, your mother –”
“She never cared about the damn money.”
&
nbsp; Realizing that he’d come out of his chair, Tucker took a ragged breath to get hold of his temper. Losing it was just giving his grandfather what he was after. Or part of it, anyway.
Tucker shook his head in disgust. “You had years to file this lawsuit if you really thought that the terms of the trust were being violated. The only reason you’re doing it now is because I’m here in your backyard, and it pisses you off that I’m still not willing to play footsies.”
“Such a way with words,” Carlton said drolly.
A barb, but Tucker ignored it. “Drop the lawsuit. Then I’ll stay out of your way, you stay out of mine, and we’ll both pretend that the little inconvenience of a shared bloodline doesn’t exist.”
“You could still have it all, you know.”
Tucker paused, halfway to the door. “Have I given you the impression that I’m interested?”
“I simply thought, without your mother around to… cloud your judgment –”
Tucker slowly turned. “In deference to your advanced years, I’m going to assume that of the two of us, you are the one with the fuzzy judgment. My father grew up with all this.” He gestured around the elaborate, antique-filled room. “And he was willing to give it up to be with her, even when you tried to keep them apart. Yeah, I know all about that. And before you start thinking that she was badmouthing you all those years, I was able to put that together for myself. Mostly by the way you acted. If it had been up to her, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have even known you existed.”
Carlton T. rose, and moved slowly toward the fireplace, though his pace was more deliberate than due to age. A tactic, Tucker suspected, to prove that he was still in charge.
Examining the fancy bric-a-brac that lined the intricately carved mantel, he picked up a framed photograph of Tucker as a very young child.
It didn’t really surprise Tucker to see it there, among the heavy candlesticks and collection of antique pistols, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think it had anything to do with sentiment.
Mr. Write (Sweetwater) Page 6