Mr. Write (Sweetwater)

by O'Neill, Lisa Clark

  “You’re having way too much fun with this,” he said, and slit the first envelope open with his pocket knife.

  Mason plopped down in one of the Adirondack chairs Tucker had built and which Mason had painted a cool and watery blue. “The creativity and imagination shown by the small town gossip could give you writers a run for your money.”

  Tucker merely grunted, started forming a pile for bills, a pile for trash.

  “In fact, I’m sure an argument could be made that gossip is in reality a form of oral storytelling. And that storytelling, when written down as fiction, achieves a sort of validity that transforms it from idle patter to art. So in reality,” he summed up “you’re just a glorified gossip-monger.”

  Tucker lifted his head. “You know, I think I’ll call in an anonymous tip to the don.”

  “Hmmph.”

  Tucker returned his attention to the mail.

  Mason drummed his fingers on the chair.

  “Are you going to make me embarrass us both by telling you to find something to do?”

  “Like what?” Mason slid a little lower, sulking.

  “What about that kayaking thing you were talking about.”

  “Did you know that bull sharks often swim inland, up the river? And the kayaks looked like floating bath toys. Bath toy.” He held up one hand. “Shark.” And chomped on it with the other. “I think not.”

  Recognizing frustration, Tucker tossed another bill onto the pile. “I’m sorry that didn’t work out. Why don’t you go use my punching bag.”

  “A punching bag.” Mason nodded. “Sounds bloody exciting.”

  “Better than sitting here bitching.”

  “Easy for you to say, seeing as how you’re getting laid on a regular basis.”

  Irritation crawled up his back, but Tucker tamped it down. “I’d hardly describe a few nights as a regular basis. And in any case, my sex life is none of your business.”

  “Yet you’ve made mine yours.”

  Knowing his friend was spoiling – practically begging – for a fight, Tucker kept his tone mild as he picked up the last of the mail. “Take my truck, drive over to Savannah. There are plenty of tourists, plenty of bars on River…”

  “What?” Mason said when Tucker trailed off, staring at the envelope.

  “Ah. It’s, uh, a piece of my mom’s mail. I had it all forwarded to me, then forwarded again when I moved. I thought I’d notified everyone, cancelled all her accounts, but… this is from a bank. A local bank. Next town over, judging from the return address.”

  Mason leaned forward, temper forgotten. “You weren’t aware of the account?”

  “No.” There’d been nothing in her will, nothing in any of her paperwork. And she’d never mentioned anything to him about keeping any ties to the area.

  “Maybe it’s nothing. A promotion or an error of some sort.”

  “Maybe.” He stared at it like it was a snake.

  “You won’t know until you open it.”

  “Sure. Right.” It was stupid to be upset. He’d nearly gotten used to the grief jumping out to grab him by the throat when he least expected it. But to feel… left out because there might have been a part of his mother’s life she hadn’t made available to him was beyond ridiculous. There were, after all, plenty of things he’d kept from her.

  And anyway, Mason was probably right. It was likely nothing.

  He slid his knife along the top. Pulled out a paper which indicated it was a statement of renewal. For a safe deposit box.

  Taken out twenty-eight years ago. The year his father died.

  “I’m gathering it isn’t a mistake.”

  Tucker passed the letter across the table. While Mason stood reading, Tucker stared out through the trees, watched a beam of sunlight stab through the leafy canopy to dance sluggishly on the rich black soil. Beneath the sweetness of the towering magnolia that anchored the right side of the porch, he could just pick out the tang of the river. The air was hot and dense, but Tucker was learning how to handle it. Plenty of shade, plenty of cold fluids.

  There was a… primal quality to it, something that had been conditioned out of the chilly air that circulated through the buildings he’d lived in before.

  He recognized it, somehow. That slightly uncivilized pulse, like a second heartbeat. Maybe that was the kind of thing that came down through the blood.

  He wondered what else had come to him through blood. And what could be in that box that his mother hadn’t wanted to tell him about.

  “Tucker?”

  Realizing he’d been lost in the twisted maze of his own thoughts, Tucker scrubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry. So apparently my mother had a safe deposit box which she renewed annually.”

  “I’m not terribly familiar with American law,” Mason handed him the letter “but wouldn’t any contents have had to be accounted for before the estate could be settled?”

  “If they were of monetary value.” He pinched his nose, trying to think. “I can’t imagine what it could be. Her parents were killed in a car accident when she was seventeen, and by the time she’d paid for their funerals that pretty much wiped out their savings. My dad didn’t have much to leave when he died. My grandfather saw to that. The house was always mine, and I don’t think the contents amounted to much. My mom didn’t take anything but clothes and a few toys with us. He didn’t have life insurance. Hell, he was only twenty-two.”

  “And there was no key among your mother’s things?”

  “For a safe deposit box? No. I… wait. Keys.” He thought of the afternoon Sarah had witnessed his breakdown. Felt a pang of lingering embarrassment. “There was a plastic key ring thing. In with some baby toys and memorabilia in the attic. Some of the keys were also plastic, but a couple of them were real, I think. One of them was pretty small.”

  “You think she would have left the key here?”

  “I don’t know.” How could he? “I was four. You remember much from when you were four?”

  “Fine, fine. Don’t get stroppy.”

  Tucker considered what he knew. “We left here in a hurry. Middle of the night kind of hurry. My grandfather was pressuring my mom to live out at River’s End, so he could control her, make sure I was being raised to his standards. I think she must have panicked, thought that he’d find a way to take me from her, kick her out. So there’s a chance she left stuff behind that she didn’t mean to.”

  “I’ll head up and fetch the keys and we can have a look.”

  “The box is on the floor in front of the broken mirror.”

  He would have gotten them himself, but Mason could use the distraction. And, Tucker thought as he stared blankly at his computer, he needed a moment to think.

  “Tucker?”

  He closed his eyes. Why did the woman have such an unerring instinct for catching him at his most inopportune moments? He felt irritation swirl, pushed it back. After all, the air wasn’t the only thing stirring his blood lately.

  He turned, and found her standing in a long golden dress, just at the edge of the porch. A different kind of sunlight.

  Because the thought made him uncomfortable, he was less welcoming than he could have been. “Hey.”

  “You’re working. I’m sorry.” But he saw that her eyes had gone bright with interest. They’d spoken only cursorily about his work since the incident in her store, but it seemed like discretion on her part rather than apathy. Emotion spiked, warring factions of pride and nerves. It was nice that she was interested.

  But he damn sure didn’t want to discuss what he’d been writing the past several days.

  “Yeah.” He minimized the document. “Do you need something?”

  “If it’s a bad time, I can talk to you about it later.”

  It was only then that he noticed the paper she held in her hand. “You’re already here,” he pointed out.

  “And I can be here at some other time, if you’d prefer me not to interrupt your work.”

  It seemed undiplomatic to p
oint out that the conversation already constituted an interruption. “If I didn’t want to be interrupted, I’d either be growling obscenities or throwing whatever came to hand in your direction.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind for future reference,” she said dryly, then strolled closer, hand outstretched. “This is –”

  He took the paper, laid it on the table.

  “It’s going to be kind of hard to talk about with it facedown.”

  “We’ll talk about it after.” Then he pulled her onto his lap. And kissed her.

  The taste of her flooded into him, sweeter than he would have guessed. She was so frequently acerbic that he’d expected some of that tartness in her kiss. But she tasted warm and smooth, like bourbon blended with honey.

  He ran his hand into her hair, tangled it into the curls she’d left loose and tumbling. Nipped at her full bottom lip as he pulled back. “Hi.”

  It didn’t hurt his ego to watch her have to blink her eyes clear. “Maybe I should not interrupt you more often.”

  “Maybe you should. Middle of the work day for you.” He tapped the tip of her nose. “You playing hooky?”

  “What? I… I can’t talk to you while I’m sitting on your lap. And don’t look so smug,” she said as she climbed to her feet, smoothed down the disappointingly long skirt. “It’s just that I feel ridiculous, that’s all.”

  “If you say so.”

  She snatched the paper back off of the table and thrust it in his direction. It appeared to be a flyer of some sort.

  “There’s an annual arts festival in October. Well, this is only the second year, but the town council’s hoping to make it a yearly event. Boundary Street is closed to traffic, vendors sell local cuisine, there are painting and pottery demonstrations, quilting, woodworking, etcetera, etcetera.” She took a breath as she wound down. “We’re going to set up a couple local authors in the store for a signing and discussion sort of thing. It’s only a month or so after your next novel comes out, so I wanted to see if you might be interested.”

  No. It trembled on the tip of his tongue. He hated talking to groups of people, hated the expectation that he’d be erudite or clever or charming. He rarely knew what to say. He just wanted to write the books, damn it.

  But he sighed, knowing what was expected of him in this day and age of relentless self-promotion. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  He shot her a frown. “That’s what I said.”

  “Well. Great.” She looked nonplussed. “I just wasn’t expecting you to agree so easily.”

  “Trust me. There was nothing easy about it. Now come here and let me fluster you again.”

  “Wait.” She avoided his reaching hands. “Don’t you have any questions, reservations?”

  “I already agreed to do it, Red. No point in talking it to death.”

  “But I had a whole list of answers and arguments ready in my head.”

  “So save them for some other poor unsuspecting sap.”

  Her gaze turned suspicious. “Are you being so amenable because we’re sleeping together?”

  “No.” Jesus. “Why do women have to psychoanalyze every damn thing. I’m being amenable because if I want to eat, I need to sell books.”

  Her brow smoothed. “Okay. I…” She trailed off, looking at the table, and Tucker realized she’d been distracted by the letter from the bank.

  Tucker laid the flyer she’d given him on top of it.

  Her cheeks bloomed pink and she opened her mouth to say something just as Mason banged through the screened door. “Found them. Did… oh. Hello, Sarah. How lovely to see you.”

  “Hi Mason.” She looked at the ring of keys dangling from his finger. Furrowed her brow at the mix of brightly-hued plastic and metal. “It’s nice to see you, too. We’ve missed you the past few days.”

  “Ah…”

  Tucker shifted to study his friend. His enormously charming and glib friend, who was currently gaping like a fish.

  Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen any plates of cookies or scones – or rather their crumbs – lying about the house.

  Mason pulled out an engaging smile. “I’ve been quite busy, I’m afraid. Always something to do around here. Tucker’s a veritable slave driver.” Mason slipped the key ring discreetly into his pocket.

  Because the gesture was meant to protect Tucker’s privacy, Tucker decided not to roll his eyes.

  He patted the flyer, looked at Sarah. “Thanks for dropping this by.”

  “Oh. Sure. Thanks for… being amenable. I have to get back to work. Nice to see you, Mason.”

  Tucker watched her walk away.

  And wondered how many nights with a woman constituted a regular basis.

  THE First Bank of Lawton was small in size, and big on charm. Unlike the imposing brick mausoleum his grandfather had erected to serve the banking needs of Sweetwater, it looked like a cracker box that had been dipped in lime sherbet before being set out to dry.

  Flowers abounded, and he liked the artlessness, the way they tumbled over each other in their beds like playful puppies. And – about this, Sarah was right – the yellow stuff spilling out of pots on either side of the door did look pretty damn cheerful.

  The pale blue shutters with pineapple cutouts had Tucker pausing to consider. Three vertical boards, with one running horizontally at either end to hold them together. Most of the shutters on his house had either fallen off before he moved in or were in serious need of replacement. He could easily replicate these, minus the pineapple cutout. He might be getting the hang of southern living, but that traditional symbol of hospitality just seemed hypocritical.

  “You’re stalling,” Mason said from beside him.

  “I’m looking at the shutters.”

  “If you’re going to be looking at the shutters much longer, I’m going to go wait beneath that tree.” He pointed to a moss-draped live oak, the spreading branches of which curved toward the ground like a graceful, hooped skirt. “It’s bloody hot.”

  “Wimp.”

  “Yes, but I will be a wimp who’s in the shade.”

  Shaking his head, Tucker climbed the shallow step onto the porch which wrapped around three sides of the little building. When he opened the door, the blast of cool air had Mason releasing a ragged sigh.

  “Good afternoon. May I help you?” said the older woman who stood behind the counter. With her curling gray hair, twinkling eyes and the kind of face that he thought of as lived-in, she was Tucker’s image of the grandmother he’d never had.

  “Uh, yeah. Could I speak with Beatrice?”

  She beamed a smile. “You are.”

  “Oh. I’m Tucker Pettigrew. I called yesterday about my mother’s safe deposit box.”

  “I remember. Did you bring the paperwork I asked for?”

  “Right here.” He pulled out an envelope containing his mother’s death certificate and a notarized letter naming him the executor of her estate.

  “Looks to be in order,” she said as she peered through the round glasses perched on her nose. “You have the key?”

  “I do.”

  “Well then. If you gentleman will just follow me.”

  She led them past an office where a man was speaking earnestly with a young couple about mortgage interest rates, through a door into a room lined with metal boxes. Pushing up her glasses, she located the right number. And following her lead, Tucker inserted his key.

  “One and two,” she said, turning the bank’s key along with his. When she slid out the drawer, set it on the table, Tucker wanted to tell her to put it back. He wasn’t one to put much stock in vibes or woo-woo stuff like extrasensory perception, but he had a bad feeling about this.

  “Do you need anything else?” Beatrice asked.

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Okay. I’ll leave you alone, then. I’ll just be out front if you change your mind.”

  She bustled out the door, closing them in with the box and its contents.

  He s
tood there, staring.

  “Would you prefer that I leave as well?”

  Tucker glanced up at Mason. The one person he truly called friend. “No.”

  They’d weathered a number of ups and downs in each of their personal lives, spent more time an ocean apart than they did together, but since they’d first met on the set of that off-off Broadway play, they’d always had each other’s backs.

  Tucker pulled out a chair, gestured Mason into the other.

  And with a deep breath for courage, pulled the manila envelope out of the box.

  He stared, with utter confusion, at the contents.

  “They look like news clippings,” Mason said.

  “They are.” Tucker carefully lifted the top one, an article from the Sweetwater Gazette, dating just over thirty years ago, regarding a fire which had destroyed the old library. One man was killed in the blaze– a janitor who’d been working later than usual. It was his second job, and his car had broken down between there and the library. Wrong place, wrong time.

  Arson was suspected.

  The next clipping was an obituary. The janitor had left behind a wife and three young sons.

  Other articles followed the investigation. The fire marshal confirmed arson. No suspects at the time.

  Yet another detailed the fact that his grandfather bought the riverfront property on which the library had sat, then donated land as well as construction costs for a new library to be erected more centrally in town.

  There was the groundbreaking ceremony. And around eight months later, the dedication of the building in memory of Tucker’s grandmother.

  “Look at this.” Mason pointed to the grainy photograph of the event. Carlton stood next to a grinning woman who held a pair of scissors over a ribbon. In the background, a tall, dark-haired man – his arm around a petite, pretty blonde holding a young boy – looked on.

  “Jesus.” Tucker brought his hand to his damp brow. It was a snapshot into his childhood, a tiny piece of that puzzle he’d been trying to fit together since he’d come back.

  “You favor him.”

  Tucker looked at the image of his father. He’d never noticed the resemblance quite so strongly before, probably because every photo his mom had shown him depicted his dad laughing or smiling. In this picture, his father was watching his own father with a dark frown.