Mr. Write (Sweetwater)

by O'Neill, Lisa Clark

  “You’re paying for the tea,” Allie said as she measured out tea leaves and readied the little pot. “But my time’s not for sale.”

  “Allison, let’s be reasonable.”

  “Okay. I’m reasonably sure you’re a jerk.”

  Gaping, Sarah watched as Mason nodded his head. “Quite likely. Be that as it may, the fact remains that I was not lying to you.”

  “Oh, excuse me.” Allie fisted her hands on her hips, five feet two inches of attitude. “You were just acting. Which makes sense, since you’re an actor. Which you failed to point out at any time up to and including jumping me in the theater closet.”

  What?

  “Why are we hiding?” came a familiar voice, and Sarah nearly leapt out of her skin. “Shh.” She pulled Branson down beside her so that he didn’t give her position away. This was entirely too good to miss out on.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “The kitchen. Had to say hey to Josie first or else she gives me grief.”

  Right. She gestured toward the counter. “I believe we have a romantic spat. Twelve o’clock.”

  “Oh, goody,” he whispered back, iced coffee sweet on his breath. Then: “Oh dear. Well, I could have told you that this little show was in production.”

  “You knew about this?” She glared at him.

  “Honey, I was there. Hot and sweaty kiss unraveled by failure to mention career as semi-famous thespian.”

  “What?” Mason was semi-famous? But then Sarah considered his looks, his presence. And decided she wasn’t surprised.

  “Hush. I can’t hear what they’re saying. Although he is delicious, isn’t he? Yeow. ”

  “Didn’t you just tell me to shut up?”

  “Sorry,” he said with a grin, and they squeezed their heads together to spy through the hole.

  “– believe me,” Mason was saying. “What happened in the closet? That was no act. I may be able to pull off a very convincing Macbeth, but I’m afraid my penis doesn’t perform on command.”

  “There goes that dream,” Bran murmured, and Sarah stifled a laugh.

  “I thought you said a hot and steamy kiss?”

  But Allie was talking again, so Branson slapped a hand over Sarah’s mouth.

  “– nice. That makes it so much less humiliating.”

  “Humiliating?” Mason seemed honestly confused. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve had this kind of genuine reaction to a woman?”

  “Genuine?” Allie shot back. “So with the other women in this town who’ve been falling at your feet you were just…let me guess, acting?”

  “That’s not what I meant, Allison, and you know it.”

  “But see, that’s where you’re wrong. I don’t know what you meant. Because you let me go on and on – explaining the name of the prop room, for heaven’s sake – without once stopping me or even cluing me in that, you know, you might be a little familiar. You were all I find you interesting and do carry on and the whole time you were probably like would you listen to this stupid hick.”

  Sarah’s heart clutched, because she could hear the tears forming in Allie’s voice. Mason looked horrified as he said “What? Allison, no.”

  “Why are you here? In Sweetwater?”

  “I came along to help Tucker settle in. He’s had a rough go of it, and –”

  “Why else? Why else?” she repeated when he said nothing. “Could it be because you’re studying up for your new play? Let’s see if I can remember the description from the article I found online. Whistlin’ Dixie is a campy, gothic send-up of all things southern – William Faulkner meets the Dukes of Hazard. I’m sure, given all the material we’ve given you to work with, you’ll have them rolling – or hey, maybe even shagging – in the aisles.”

  “Allison, please. It’s not like that.”

  But Allie was turning away. “Just… stay away from me.”

  She hurried toward the back, and Bran squeezed Sarah’s shoulder. “Uh-oh,” he said, and Sarah nodded.

  “Do you want to smack him, or should I?”

  “GO away,” Allie said when Sarah walked into the storeroom.

  The fact that there’d been witnesses to her humiliation was a kick to the ragged scraps of her pride. “Or else I’ll be forced to shove one of these coffee stirrers through my eye, piercing my brain, and putting myself out of my misery.”

  “Even if I tell you that Mason just slunk out of here with his tail between his legs?”

  “Oh. Well. Good.” Embarrassed, Allie dropped the box of coffee stirrers and sat on the floor. “Did you know? That Mason was an actor? Right” she said when she saw Sarah’s face. “Of course not. You would have told me. Well, obviously he’s quite talented. And judging from some of the pictures I found online, he’s makes a good living at it, too. I was worried. He seemed so uncomfortable about driving my car to the shop, that I was worried he thought I looked down on him in some way for being at loose ends, job wise. That I was a snob. But there’s this picture? On one of the gossip sites? And he’s riding in the back of a limo. With some model. A lingerie model. I’ve never been so humiliated in my life.”

  “You know.” Sarah hitched up the hem of her pretty blue wrap dress, and sat. “When I found out – from Victoria, I might add – that Tucker was a writer, I felt pretty dumb, too. Hear me out.” She raised a hand to ward off Allie’s scowl. “But after I listened to him, I understood his position on why he’d acted like a jerk. Not that I agreed with it, mind you. But I understood it.”

  “You think I should talk to him.”

  “It couldn’t hurt.”

  “It could if I beat him over the head with my grandmother’s sterling teapot.”

  “Okay. Plan B. How about I sweet talk Josie into baking us a pan of brownies? We’ll eat ourselves into a chocolate coma and have a down-with-men night.”

  Moved, Allie laid her hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “That’s so sweet. But you don’t really want to have a down-with-men night, not when things are going so well with Tucker. Anybody with eyes can see he’s half-crazy over you.”

  “Worried, you mean.”

  “Not just worried. It’s the way he watches you when you walk out of a room. The way he lights up, just a little, when you walk back in. It’s… wonderful, Sarah. I’m so glad for you.”

  Sarah pressed a hand into her stomach. “I’m so in love with him, Al.”

  “I know you are.”

  “I don’t know how it happened. One minute we’re arguing with each other over boundary lines, and the next we’ve got our lines all tangled up together. I…”

  “Don’t.” Leaning forward when Sarah trailed off, Allie took both her hands. “Don’t start feeling guilty because you’re happy. You deserve it. And anyway, I’m not going to break.” Not again. Not like she had with Wesley. “If anything, I guess I can thank Mason for getting me… going again. And for making me realize that I am never going to let another man walk all over me. Bastards.”

  “They really are.”

  Sarah squeezed her hands. “Are we good?”

  “Better than.”

  Sarah pulled her to her feet. “Then let’s get back out there before Bran hurts himself with the cappuccino machine. And I’ll tell you both about a very interesting customer I had this morning.”

  SARAH scooped fudge frosting with the tip of her finger, popped it into her mouth.

  “I didn’t expect to find you making brownies at ten o’clock at night.”

  “I’m a big believer in therapeutic baking,” she told Tucker, who leaned against her little spit of counter watching her spread frosting over cake.

  “Rough day?”

  “It had its highs and lows. One of the lows being Carolann Frye – whose rhinoplasty has done nothing whatsoever to discourage her from sticking her nose in – expressing doubt and concern over the Ladies Garden Club hosting their regular meeting at the Dust Jacket due to a possible lack of suitable parking.”

  “Can’t t
hey park down the street and walk? Or hell, carpool?”

  “Sure they could, which is what June Darby and I, being intelligent, reasonable human beings, discussed when we had our meeting. It’s not the optimal solution – a bigger parking lot – but it’s doable. However, Carolann, being neither reasonable nor intelligent, likes to complain. Also, she’s pissed at me because I snagged you before she had a chance to seduce you with one of her casseroles.”

  “If her food’s as plastic as she is…” he lifted his beer. “Thanks.

  Amused, Sarah glanced at him over her shoulder. He looked so big and male, dwarfing her tiny kitchen. And she just couldn’t find it in herself to be annoyed.

  “You know, these were supposed to be Down With Men brownies.”

  “There’s a specific recipe for that?”

  “Sure. Plenty of chocolate, plus two cups of sugar to balance out the bitter taste of deceit.”

  When he sat his beer down, moved behind her to wrap his arms around her waist, she scraped more chocolate from the mixing bowl and offered it to him.

  He tasted it, nipped at her finger. “Good.”

  “I don’t quite have Josie’s skill, but I can get by.”

  Tucker took her by the shoulders, eased her around. His hands were gentle, but his eyes were the turbulent gray of stormy seas. “Mason’s business is his own. It wasn’t my place to tell.”

  “I know that.” Sighing, she reached for the checked dishtowel to wipe off her hands. “I do. I just hate to see Allie upset. She’s had enough knocks this past year.”

  “Which is why I told Mason to stay clear after I met her.”

  “You did?” Why did she find that impossibly sweet?

  Looking slightly uncomfortable, Tucker shrugged. “You have to be able to read people to write them. She was bruised, and Mason isn’t exactly known for careful handling.”

  Sweet, she thought again. “You’re a nice guy, Tucker Pettigrew.”

  “I thought I was honest, which is better.”

  “That, too. You’re also cranky and rude.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her lips to the pulse that beat there. Then she shivered with delight when that pulse leapt, and quickened. “Mix it with a sharp wit, a creative mind, and pour it all into a truly excellent body, and I think you have something pretty delicious.”

  “I’m not sure how I feel about being likened to a bakery item.”

  “No? That’s too bad. I was thinking about taking a couple licks to make sure I wasn’t wrong.”

  Tucker went still.

  Then when he simply scooped her up, wrapped her legs around his hips, Sarah buried her face in his hair and laughed. He’d taken two steps toward her bedroom when he backtracked, grabbed the mixing bowl.

  She lifted her head, raised a brow.

  “Everything’s better with frosting.”

  MASON lay on the old iron bed in the dark, watching the blades of the fan spin around.

  The air stirred the yellowed lace curtains that neither he nor Tucker had bothered to take down. Moonlight filtered in, silvering the shadows, while some kind of insect droned outside the window screen.

  Restless, he kicked at the sheet clinging stubbornly to his sweaty bare legs.

  He should get up. Start packing. He was leaving in a matter of days. And while part of him was delighted at the prospect – no more manual labor and mucking about in the bloody heat – he couldn’t quite convince himself to move.

  He hadn’t been able to convince himself to move for the better part of an hour.

  It wasn’t that he was depressed. He wasn’t a nancy, for sweet Christ’s sake.

  And it was reasonable – expected even – to feel a little poorly about departing on a sour note. He didn’t like having Tucker cheesed off with him.

  Although really, he considered as he ran a hand across his damp chest, the entire thing had been blown well out of proportion. So he hadn’t been upfront about his profession. That wasn’t a crime, was it? He hadn’t lied, specifically. He simply hadn’t volunteered the information.

  And if she’d misconstrued some things about his financial stability, it would have been awkward – even cheeky – to correct her.

  Was it necessary for him to pull out his driving license, his portfolio, his bloody GCSE scores just because he’d danced with a woman, snogged her?

  It was just a kiss. Not a matter of life or death.

  This wasn’t the flaming nineteenth century, after all. He’d hardly despoiled her, then tossed her aside.

  And Allison was completely daft if she thought he’d kissed her as part of some method acting madness. He might enjoy building a character from the inside out, but he wasn’t schizophrenic.

  The insect fell silent, and Mason squeezed his eyes shut.

  He was an arsehole. A jerk, just exactly as she’d said. He shouldn’t have kissed her in the first place, or – God! – let it get so out of control. He’d been doing brilliantly up until then, in his opinion. He’d treated her, he thought, as a friend would.

  But she’d looked at him, nerves and desire waging a battle in those lovely eyes, and he hadn’t been able to stop himself.

  He hadn’t wanted to stop himself.

  In fact, he’d wanted – rather desperately – to continue moving, full steam ahead.

  He should ring her up. Better, he should borrow Tucker’s truck, drive out, demand that she speak with him, allow him to state his case.

  And likely get arrested by her brother.

  Mason sighed, watched the fan make another pointless rotation. He’d tried the direct approach, and it hadn’t gotten him anywhere except basically tossed out on his ear by her other brother.

  He sniffed. The woman had entirely too many siblings for Mason’s taste.

  He should let it alone. He’d leave town, she’d move on, and six months down the road they’d barely remember that the other existed.

  The idea of it made him bare his teeth.

  He could write her a letter.

  She might not be willing to see him or take his calls, but – given her fondness for history – he doubted she could resist the nostalgic appeal of an old-fashioned missive.

  Inspired, Mason swung his legs off the bed, planted his feet on the worn wooden floor. And naked, he started for the closed bedroom door.

  Awkward, if Tucker decided to come home, and found Mason rummaging through his desk for paper. Even worse if he’d brought Sarah along.

  He doubted it was likely, as it was already well past midnight, but better to be safe.

  Sidestepping to the lovely old highboy he and Tucker had discovered abandoned in the attic, Mason pulled on a pair of shorts.

  The hall was black as the grave, as he hadn’t bothered to leave any lights burning when he’d turned in. And the switch – naturally – was located at the opposite end.

  Stretching out his arm, Mason felt his way down the wall. It was cool beneath his hand, remarkably smooth. Tucker had done a – what was that term he favored – bang up job repairing the cracks and crumbles in the old plaster.

  Truly, as much as Mason enjoyed taking the piss out of him about it, the old house was going to be a showplace when he was through with it. Mason hoped to come back and see that. Mason hoped to come back for any number of reasons.

  Not the least of which had sent him stumbling down this cave-like hall, in search of paper.

  When he saw the dim glow of light from beneath Tucker’s office door, Mason decided it was provident he’d pulled some clothes on.

  Surprising that Tucker had come back – even more surprising that Mason hadn’t heard him. But Mason knew Tucker was nearing completion on his manuscript, so perhaps he’d been inspired to write.

  Reluctant to interrupt, Mason paused outside the door. He should wait until morning. Of course, the fifteen seconds it would take to say “may I borrow some paper” would hardly break Tucker’s concentration. And Tucker wasn’t likely to inquire as to Mason’s purpose, especially if he was
working.

  And it would be better, at any rate, than dithering in the hall.

  Raising his hand to knock – just in case – Mason noticed that the light seemed to shift away from the door. Maybe it was simply the glow from Tucker’s computer, and he’d adjusted the screen, but now that he thought of it, Mason didn’t hear the clack, clack, clack of the keyboard.

  Maybe Sarah had come back with him, and they were doing… something in the office. With a torch.

  At the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, followed by a ripe, muffled curse – of the masculine variety – Mason abandoned caution and turned the knob.

  “What the hell are you doing, Pettigrew? Herding elephants?”

  He leaned against the door. The light had gone out, but he noticed it a moment too late.

  Then pain exploded behind his ear, and everything went dark.

  TUCKER held onto Sarah’s hand as they sat in the hospital waiting room.

  He could feel it, her hand. He couldn’t feel his legs, his arms, couldn’t tell if his heart was beating. But he could feel her hand. It was warm.

  “He’s going to be alright,” she murmured.

  Tucker nodded. What else could he say? His mom had thought she’d be fine, too, when she’d slipped and hit her head.

  She’d slipped. The kind of accident that happened every day. She hadn’t been beaten over the head because she’d startled an intruder. Hadn’t lain unconscious for God knew how long before wandering, bloody and in pain, out the door of the friend’s house where she was staying because she was too confused to remember the number to call for help.

  And she’d died anyway.

  “You should drink some of that.”

  When Sarah gestured, Tucker looked down at the Styrofoam cup in his hand. Coffee. He had no idea how he’d gotten it. It was hot – should be hot, if the steam rising from it was any indication. But he didn’t feel it.

  All he felt was Sarah’s hand.

  “Sarah!”

  At the sound of her name, they both looked up. Allie – pale as a sheet – hurried over. She dropped into one of the ugly gray chairs. Her shirt wasn’t buttoned right, but Tucker couldn’t feel his tongue to tell her.

  “I was watching an old movie in the den. Couldn’t sleep. I don’t know why people think watching TV helps with insomnia, but anyway… Will came through on his way out. Have you heard?” She reached out, touched his arm. “Do we know anything yet?”