Mr. Write (Sweetwater)

by O'Neill, Lisa Clark

  “What?”

  “Run to the lumberyard tomorrow.”

  “They’re open ‘til nine. It’s only…” He glanced toward his desk, which was crammed in the corner, and remembered he’d moved all his electronics to his bedroom to keep them away from the dust and debris. “Maybe eight,” he guessed, squinting at the fading light coming through the window.

  “On a Friday night.”

  “So?”

  “So, you’ve been holed up like a troglodyte for the past three days, pounding away at your keyboard –”

  “Weren’t you the one who was complaining that I wasn’t making any progress in that area?”

  “While I applaud your productivity – and I’m assuming, since you barely grunted at me when I left offerings of food at the door of your cave, that you were indeed productive –”

  “Is there any more of that shrimp and sausage stuff left?” Talk of food made Tucker realize he was hungry. “And where did you get that, by the way? Restaurants don’t package their takeout in Tupperware.”

  “While I applaud your productivity,” Mason continued as if Tucker hadn’t spoken at all. “I can’t help but note that you’ve barely slept in three days. And instead of crashing, you chose to shovel out your cave here and begin demolishing the floor.”

  “I repeat: so?”

  “So.” Mason climbed to his feet, brushed the sawdust from the knees of his jeans. “You and I are going out tonight. You need to blow off some steam.”

  “I’ve blown off plenty of steam.” He pointed to the pile of rotting floorboards he’d yanked out with a hammer and a crowbar. Because even after losing himself in his work for three days, he hadn’t been able to settle.

  Hadn’t, he admitted, been able to get the thing with Sarah off of his mind.

  Not just the thing, but the woman. The entire aggravating, intrusive, mouthwatering package.

  “As… cathartic as that may be,” Mason continued drolly “we’re still going out.”

  “I don’t want to.” He nearly added: you can’t make me, which made him realize he was twitchier than he’d thought. Probably not the best time to be using power tools, anyway. “I have beer in my own fridge, and I don’t have to talk to anyone else to get it.”

  Mason sighed.

  Tucker walked over toward the rubbish pile, thinking he’d just haul it to the dumpster.

  And was tackled from behind.

  Mason, though two inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter, had taken him rather handily to the floor.

  Tucker spat out sawdust. “What the hell, Armitage?”

  “Consider it a token of my friendship.” And delivered a short-armed punch to Tucker’s kidney.

  Tucker saw red. And using his superior bulk, bucked so that it was Mason who landed hard on the floor.

  The Brit muttered an oath, but being game – and damn quick – shifted so that the force of Tucker’s punch caught him in the shoulder instead of the jaw. He groaned, rolled, leapt nimbly to his feet, and assumed the ready stance of a boxer. “Still ham-fisted, I see. No elegance whatso –”

  The word died on an oomph as he hit the floor again, Tucker’s slashing legs having knocked him off his feet. He tried to gain them again, but the force of Tucker’s next blow shoved him back.

  The air turned blue with curses as they grappled. Fists jabbed, bodies rolled. Tucker shot out an elbow, heard bone crunch against bone.

  The bare-knuckled punch Tucker received in return felt like the crack of a baseball bat.

  “Not the face, you twit.”

  Tucker shook the stars out of his eyes to see Mason swiping blood from his mouth. “Shit. Sorry.” He prodded the flesh around his left cheekbone. “I think you blackened my eye.”

  “You bloodied my lip. And damn near cost me a tooth.”

  Tucker studied his friend, who sat with his battered hands dangling between his knees, covered in blood and sweat and sawdust. And recalled that he had to be on stage in a matter of weeks, fit for public consumption. “Don’t worry, Nancy. You’re still pretty.”

  “Oh, sod off.”

  They sat there, just breathing.

  “What the hell was that move with your legs?” Mason wondered. “Jiu-Jitsu?”

  “Basic street fighting. Doesn’t need to be elegant to get the job done.” He hauled himself up. “Come on.” He extended his hand. “Let’s get cleaned up and I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Damn straight you will.”

  He pulled Mason to his feet. They moved – a little stiffly – down the hall. Tucker paused at the door to his bedroom.

  “Mason.” He waited until his friend looked back. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime you need a kick in the arse, I’m always happy to oblige.”

  SARAH watched Noah slip The Tavern’s new bartender’s number into his pocket. She didn’t know how he did it. He wasn’t outrageously handsome – not on Mason’s level, anyway. He wasn’t particularly outgoing, wasn’t flirtatious, wasn’t rich.

  He was quiet – unless you got him started on fishing, boat engines or baseball. And then God help you. He slept with his dog, tended to wear wrinkled T-shirts and faded jeans, and smelled, inevitably, of salt.

  Yet women tended to act like he was the only man standing.

  Like their father, Sarah was forced to admit. Even at his lowest, when her dad had been drunk and unemployable and nearly destroyed by grief, there’d been women. Plenty of women. Certain they could be the one to fill the hole her mother’s death had torn in his heart.

  None of them had. At least, not until her father cleaned himself up, picked up the tattered shreds of both his heart and his pride.

  Noah, she realized, was the man her father might have been if life had been kinder. Or at least less cruel.

  Her brother turned away from the bar, caught her looking, and shot her a self-satisfied smirk.

  “Excuse me.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Sarah backed up a couple steps to let the waitress with a loaded tray move past.

  And found herself sitting on someone’s lap.

  “If you’re going to make a habit of this, I’m going to have to invest in a new wardrobe.”

  Stung by realization, Sarah leapt back to her feet.

  She turned to find Tucker, sitting on a banquette, watching beer seep into his shirt. Between the black fabric and that dark mop of hair, she could hardly be blamed for not noticing him in the shadows.

  He was the kind of man, she realized, who went out of his way to avoid drawing attention to himself.

  To the point that she’d seen neither hide nor hair of him since he’d walked out of her kitchen that night.

  It was a relief, she told herself now. A relief that he hadn’t come by the store, waved at her from the porch. Looked out the damn window.

  She didn’t need any follow-through, any solicitude, any questions. She didn’t need – didn’t want – to be treated like a victim.

  So he’d seen her at a particularly bad moment. Had overheard, almost certainly overheard, a number of things she’d preferred to have kept to herself.

  And if that was why he’d avoided both her and the store – even going so far as to send Mason over to fetch what had to be gallons of coffee – then he could just –

  “If you’re going to be at it awhile, you might as well sit down.”

  Train of thought derailing abruptly, Sarah narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve been around enough women to know when one is working herself into a snit. How’s your foot?”

  He said it so casually that it took the fire right out of her… snit. Damn it. “It’s fine. Mostly fine,” she qualified when he zeroed in on the flats she’d been wearing all week. “A little sore when I’m on it all day.”

  He simply looked at her. Waited.

  “Right.” She started to take a seat across from him, but he kicked the chair aside with his foot. Then scooted over.

  Unsure of whether to be alarmed or flattered, Sarah set
tled for amused. And slid, with cool dignity, onto the complete opposite end of the banquette.

  He took a pull on his beer, those smoky eyes watching her over the rim, and Sarah’s pulse stuttered.

  “Is that something they teach women in the schools down here? The art of the nonverbal fuck you.”

  “Oh, we say it, too. But being polite, as a rule, we usually use code phrases like bless your little heart.”

  “And here I thought that was an expression of sympathy.”

  “That too,” she agreed. “Or in some instances, it can mean that we find you dumber than a box of rocks but have too many manners to say so outright. Or we use it as a disclaimer. It’s a versatile phrase. Sort of like our version of aloha.”

  Instead of the scowl he usually wore, Tucker’s hard mouth slid into a grin.

  And it was like a miracle of physics. One moment, he was a solid lump of overbearing man, the next he was pure, liquid heat.

  “Nice cave you have here,” Sarah said, looking around the dim alcove. Looking anywhere but at him. There were several glasses on the table along with empty bottles of beer. Unless Tucker had a hollow leg, she thought it likely that Mason was nearby. “All you need is a burnt stick to write on the walls, and you should feel right at home.”

  Instead of taking offense, he actually chuckled. “More than you could possibly guess.”

  Disconcerted, Sarah grabbed the bottle of Newcastle he’d just set down and sniffed the top.

  “Problem?”

  “Just trying to figure out if there’s a little something extra in your beer that’s causing you to act human.”

  “Are you implying that I need a chemical stimulant to enhance my natural charm?”

  “I’m implying that you have no charm, natural or otherwise. Bless your little heart.”

  He grinned again, and shot heat straight down to her toes. Then she tilted her head forward, wondering if her eyes were playing tricks on her in the dim light. “Looks like someone else found you nearly as charming as I do. Run into a door?”

  “Mason’s fist.”

  She stared. “Mason punched you in the face.”

  “He’s faster than he looks.”

  Having a brother, Sarah was somewhat wise to the ways of men. “Why do you people do that? Engage in physical violence, and then buy each other a drink.”

  “Why do women go to the bathroom in pairs?”

  “Point taken.”

  “So.” He reclaimed the beer, tipped the bottle her way. “Big week for you.”

  “The biggest,” she agreed. “Open my dream business with my best friend and have to relive my worst childhood nightmare in front of an audience.”

  “And here I was politely trying to ignore the big, ugly elephant in the room.”

  The words were light enough, but his eyes showed a sort of latent anger. For her, she realized. He was angry on her behalf. It made it easier than if he’d shown her pity.

  “I guess I’ve learned that ignoring something doesn’t make it any less real. Tucker.” Might as well go ahead and just say it. “Thank you. For helping out the other night.”

  “If I see that bastard anywhere near your place, I’m going to kick his ass. And you can bet I won’t be buying him a drink afterward.”

  “Oh. No. You don’t –”

  “Why books?”

  “What?”

  “You said the bookstore was your dream business.”

  Subject closed, she thought, and had to admit it was a relief. “Why not? Education, entertainment. Possibilities. Whole worlds at your fingertips.”

  He stared at her for several beats. “A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies.”

  “You noticed the sign over the door.”

  “I did. Buy you a drink?”

  “What?”

  “You’re having an awfully hard time keeping up with the conversation. A drink.” He lifted his. “I noticed that you’re empty handed.”

  “Right.” She guessed she was a little unsettled by the companionable waters they seemed to be sailing. “Thanks, but I’ve got that covered.” She gestured toward where Noah had gotten hung up talking to one of the guys from his baseball league, his beer and her club soda forgotten in his hands.

  “You’re here with someone.” Now both his words and his eyes were annoyed. And this time she didn’t have to decide. She was unexpectedly flattered.

  She could have toyed with him, but she just wasn’t that kind of woman. “My brother, Noah.”

  “Ah. The one with the hands.”

  “Well, I guess if those women who stick to him like white on rice are any indication.”

  He shot her a look. “I was talking about the work he did on your porch. However.” He nodded. “It’s true that carpenters have to have a certain amount of… manual dexterity.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Believe it.”

  Sarah grabbed his hand.

  “If you wanted me to demonstrate, all you had to do was ask.”

  “Har. I take it you punched Mason, too?”

  “No, I just stood there and let him hit me.”

  She shook her head in disgust at his battered knuckles. But then she flipped his hand, ran her thumb along his palm. “You have calluses.” A thick, hard ridge of them. The kind developed over time. Noah’s palms looked remarkably similar. Hell. “You’re the one doing the work on your house.”

  “As opposed to, what, renovation elves?”

  “As opposed to Mason, you jerk.”

  “Mason.” He grinned, then chuckled at her sharp look. “Mason is a quick study – and likely bored – so he’s been making himself useful. But he wouldn’t know a coping saw from a ball peen hammer, were both to smack him in the head.”

  That explained the element of disconnect she’d felt trying to reconcile the elegant Englishman with his apparent profession. “I thought something was off.”

  “He must not have been making a concerted effort.”

  “Pardon?”

  He waved it away with his free hand. Which made Sarah realize she was still holding the other. But when she started to slide hers away, Tucker linked their fingers in a move that was as casual as it was surprising.

  “Smooth.”

  “I have some experience taking off rough edges.”

  “As that was another not-so-thinly veiled reference, I’m going to go out on a limb. You’re a carpenter. Or have worked as one in the past.”

  “Among other things.”

  “Like, what, Broadway singer? Oh, don’t give me that look. You’re the one who chose to sing while your window was open.”

  “One of my first jobs was building sets for a theater. Musicals are popular. I picked up some of the songs.”

  “No desire to move from behind the scenes to in front of them?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Right. How silly of me. But I have to say, as difficult as it is to reconcile your scowling countenance with that voice, it’s somehow easier to believe than you schlepping boards around for a living.”

  “There might be a little more skill involved than your basic schlepp.”

  “You know what I mean.” Although it certainly would explain his physique. A physique that was even more appealing now that she knew it had come from actual work instead of hours spent with a personal trainer.

  She gave in to curiosity. “Tell me what Carlton Tucker Pettigrew – the fifth – was doing working as a non-schlepping craftsman in New York.”

  “Earning a living.”

  When she crossed her arms, he said “Tell me why this is any of your business.”

  She gazed at him down her nose. “Clearly, it’s not.”

  He grabbed her hand again when she started to slide off the banquette. “The implied fuck you again. You must have passed that test with flying colors. What is this – you inadvertently showed me yours so now I have to show you mine? Fine. But I already told you the other day. Just because I share a name and som
e DNA with the old man, doesn’t mean we share anything else. That includes bank accounts.”

  Well. She really had made some big assumptions.

  And wasn’t it lowering to realize that she was guilty of what she’d so often decried with regards to herself. Judging a book by its cover. Or more accurately, in this case, by its name.

  “Disappointed?”

  “Only by the fact that I can no longer find you loathsome just on general principal. Now I’ll have to focus on specifics.”

  “There.” He toasted her with his drink. “A female in this town with some sense.”

  “I would take issue with that, except that I’ve managed to capitalize on a number of senseless females in this town, to my financial advantage. Having an eligible Pettigrew next door has been great for business.”

  “So glad I could help.”

  Appreciating the dry remark – appreciating him – Sarah thought screw it. Might as well grab the bull by the horns. “I’ve been annoyed with you for several fairly minor good reasons, and for one big one that was wrong. I’m going to apologize for that.”

  “Let me order the champagne.”

  “You’re a smartass,” she continued without missing a beat. “Which I don’t mind, as I tend to believe that Alexander Pope was wrong about sarcasm being the lowest form of humor. Your grandfather, however, is a jackass. And a greedy jackass at that.”

  “On that we can agree.” He eyed her with mild curiosity. “Personal experience?”

  “Enough.” She turned to face him more fully. “If you and your grandfather are… estranged, then why are you here? Why did you come back to Sweetwater?”

  “Good question,” he muttered, then took a long pull from his beer. “At the risk of sounding like a bad cliché, I guess I wanted to explore my roots.”

  “Sink some reinforced pilings into the old hometown soil,” she murmured.

  “What?”

  “Just something I’ve been thinking about lately. Why now?”

  “Full of questions, aren’t you?”

  Annoyance leapt back into his voice like a poorly tethered guard dog. Assuming that she’d tread on boggy ground, Sarah stepped lightly.

  “I know it took a proverbial kick in the pants for me to leave Charleston and come home, and I’ve only been gone ten years. I was just wondering what the catalyst might be for a New Yorker who’s been away nearly thirty.”