Mr. Write (Sweetwater)

by O'Neill, Lisa Clark

  Fists flew, and though they were nearly evenly matched in size, Tucker had the advantage of fury.

  Then fear came – hard and bright – when she saw the switchblade Jonas pulled from his pocket.

  “Tucker!” She tried to scream it, but only managed a garbled sound against the tape covering her mouth. She ripped at it even as she launched herself forward. “No!”

  But the men had rolled out of her reach. She saw the blade come up, flash down just as they splashed into the water.

  “No. No, no.” Heart pounding, Sarah crawled across the mud, scanned the river with eyes gone wide and wild with panic. The current here was lazy, but the water was deeper than it looked.

  Nothing. Just the gentle lap of water against the reeds. “Tucker!” Come on, come on. Now would be a good time to swim like a fish, damn it.

  A hundred scenarios raced through her head – should she run back to the church for help? Dive in? She wasn’t sure she was strong enough to pull him up. Then she thought of the boat, and life jackets, and scrambled toward the dock.

  The sound of the boat engine growing louder barely registered. Until she heard the voice over the bullhorn. “Stop. This is the police. Sarah? Get the hell away from that boat.”

  Sarah waved her arms frantically to show Will she’d heard him. Then she boarded anyway.

  Breath hitching, she flung open benches until she found a life vest. She grabbed it with shaking hands, leapt from the deck to land hard on the dock.

  And resisted wildly when Will grabbed her arms.

  “Calm down. Christ, Sarah. Calm down and tell me what’s happened.”

  “The water.” She gestured toward where she’d watched them roll in. “Tucker’s in the water. They’ve been under for at least a couple of minutes. Jonas has a knife.”

  “Shit. Tolliver, hold my weapon.” He handed the gun to Darryl, whose eyes were wide and dark in his young face. Will yanked off his shoes and grabbed the vest from Sarah.

  A hand shot out of the water and clamped on the edge of the dock.

  “Tucker.” God. Please. She scrambled over, leaned down alongside Will to grasp the slippery forearm. They pulled, and Tucker’s head broke the surface.

  Water sluiced down his face as he sucked in a mighty breath.

  “Get him up, get him up.”

  “Give me your other hand,” Will told him.

  “Can’t,” Tucker wheezed. “Holding… Linville.”

  “Hell.” With one hand anchored onto the dock, Will jumped into the water. “I’ve got him,” he told Tucker. “Darryl, help me haul him out.”

  More concerned with Tucker, Sarah made a grab for his other hand. Together, they managed to get him on the dock, where he lay beside her, gasping.

  “Are you okay?” She ran her hand over his dripping hair, his heaving chest. Tears coursed another river down her muddy cheeks. “I thought you’d drowned. I thought I’d lost you.”

  “Broke the curse.” The words sounded like they’d been scraped from somewhere deep in his throat.

  “What?”

  “Dad. Grandma. Great-great grandfather. All drowned. In the river. Is that asshole breathing?”

  Reluctantly, she glanced behind her to where Will – soaked to the skin – was performing CPR on Jonas while Darryl radioed for an ambulance.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Did she care that he wasn’t breathing? That he was laying, pale as wax, not five feet behind her? He’d tormented her. Tried to abduct her. Tried to rape her.

  She couldn’t think about that right now.

  “You were under so long,” she said as she turned around. “I couldn’t find you. I… oh God, Tucker. You’re bleeding.” She stared at the rapidly spreading stain on his shoulder. “He stabbed you. Let me see how bad it is. Darryl, you tell that ambulance to hurry the hell up!”

  “Sarah.” Tucker fumbled for the hand she was using to press the end of her dress against his shoulder. “Sarah, I’m okay. He just – ouch, damn it. That hurts worse than it did when he grazed me.”

  He struggled to sitting, captured her face in his hands. “I’m okay. He grazed me. Look at me,” he said when she tried to shake her head, to look at his arm. “You didn’t lose me. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I was so scared,” she whispered, breath hitching as she buried her face against his wet neck.

  “Tell me about it. If the bastard’s not dead, I’m going to kill him.”

  “Not for me. Or not just for me.” Although she’d been terrified when it was happening. “For you.”

  He reached out to brush a tear from her cheek with his thumb, and Jonas started coughing behind them.

  She turned as Will rolled him onto his side, and Jonas heaved up half the river.

  “He’s not dead,” Will said, and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to kill him, Tucker, as I’d just as soon not have to resuscitate him again.”

  The ambulance siren screamed closer, and Jonas gave a weak groan. “You,” Will told him in disgust, “have the right to remain silent.”

  “TUCKER?” Sarah called from the bottom of his steps.

  “Up here.”

  She followed his voice up the stairs, into the room Mason had been using. The air conditioner was silent, and late morning light filtered through the vintage lace curtains to lie like golden spider webs across the floor. Her gaze drifted past the empty bed – now neatly made – toward where Tucker stood, examining a tall dresser.

  The look on his face – sad, broody – tugged at her heartstrings. When he looked up at her, smiled, those strings wrapped her love for him up in a bright, shiny bow.

  “Hey. Mason get off okay?”

  “He’s on his way to New York as we speak.”

  “Good.” But she felt a little pang. “I know you’ll miss him.”

  “Mmm. My dad made this.”

  “What?” She tilted her head at the non-sequitur.

  “This highboy.” Tucker ran his palm over the smooth wood – pine, she thought – of the simple, but sturdy dresser. Then he opened the top drawer. “Mason found it when he was packing.”

  When he gestured, Sarah came over to peer into the drawer’s recesses. There in the back were the initials CTP and the date. Sarah calculated. Tucker would have been one year old.

  “I think he must have made it for me. For my nursery.”

  Sarah squeezed his hand. They’d lain in bed for hours last night – after giving their statements and a detour to the emergency room so Tucker could get stitches and a tetanus shot – talking about… everything. She knew that the empty spot where his relationship with his father should have been was a hole he struggled to fill.

  “It’s beautiful. I can see where you get your talent.”

  He stared at the open drawer for a moment. “My mom must not have been able to bring it with us. It wouldn’t have fit in the car. I, uh…” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. Cleared his throat. “When I started to take an interest in carpentry, in building stuff, I made this little wooden box for her for Mother’s Day. Didn’t turn out too bad. Until I painted a… I guess you could tentatively call it a flower on top.”

  “I take it art is not one of your hidden talents?”

  “Not unless it’s so well hidden as to be completely obscure.”

  “That’s a relief. I was starting to worry that you were perfect.” When he slanted her a narrow look, she laughed. “Continue with your story.”

  He looked at the chest again. “She cried. When I gave her the box, she cried. I assumed it was just a normal mom thing, but… I remember that night I heard her crying in her room. I could tell she was trying to keep it quiet, but the walls were like tissue paper. I still remember thinking Wow, she must really like that box. And so I started building more things, you know, to please her. And now I realize that she must have been sad. Because it reminded her of my dad.”

  “No.” She squeezed his hand again. “It made her
proud. Sad, too. But really, really proud.”

  “You’re probably right.” He shut the drawer. “You know, my grandfather didn’t care for the fact that my dad was doing things like this. Working with his hands, I mean.”

  “All the more reason to be happy that you inherited that particular skill.”

  Tucker turned her in his arms. Sighing, Sarah nuzzled against him.

  “You haven’t said anything about my grandfather’s role in what happened.”

  Sarah sighed. They’d learned from Will that Carlton had called nine-one-one stating that Jonas Linville had accosted him while he was enjoying a drink in his garden, and left by boat only when Carlton agreed to transfer funds to Linville’s bank account in exchange for some note that was supposedly written by Carlton’s son. According to Will, Carlton claimed Linville had been “raving, clearly unstable,” and Carlton had been frightened into going along with him because “the boy had a gun.”

  “You think your grandfather double crossed him.”

  “I have no doubt. And anything Linville says to the contrary will be colored by the fact that he’s been charged with any number of nasty crimes. Carlton hedged his bets. He could have simply paid the asshole off. It likely would have been less sticky for him, especially if Linville learned about the damn note from eavesdropping on our conversation out at the old library. But it also diminishes Carlton’s sense of control. Why shoo a cockroach away when you can squash it?”

  “Your account of the note backs Jonas up.”

  “Which is a hell of a catch twenty-two, isn’t it? And anyway, the note’s gone. My grandfather can claim he never saw it, but I know he destroyed it.”

  He sighed, then kissed the top of her head. “On second thought, I don’t want to talk about this right now. I have a couple things for you. Well, one of them’s for Allie. Come here.”

  He took her hand, tugged her toward his office.

  “First.” He picked up an envelope from his desk. Allison had been written across the front in elegant script.

  “What’s this?”

  “From Mason. And don’t even ask what it’s about. I don’t know. But I’d appreciate it if you’d give it to Allie, so that I don’t have to say something like my friend asked me to give this to you and feel like I’m back in junior high.”

  “Okay.” Her lips quivered.

  “And second,” he hesitated just a moment before picking up a large stack of papers from the desk. When she’d taken it from him, scanned the first few sentences, her heart gave a single lurch.

  “Is this your latest manuscript?”

  “Yeah.” He stabbed a hand through his mane of messy hair. “I thought you might like to read it.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “It’s, uh, it’s about this guy – kid really. Twenty years old, star wideout for his college team, looks like he’s going to go pro. Has his whole life ahead of him. He and his girlfriend – pretty serious girlfriend – end up in a car wreck.”

  “Oh.” Her lurching heart sank a tiny bit. “I guess it’s bad.”

  “Wouldn’t be much of a story otherwise. He ends up in a wheel chair. Battles depression, addiction to both alcohol and prescription drugs. Even attempts suicide.”

  “That’s… tough.”

  “The girlfriend – love of his life, really – she dies. In the wreck. Bleeds out before help can arrive. And he can’t get to her to try and stop the bleeding.”

  “Because he’s paralyzed.”

  “Exactly.”

  Just go ahead and shoot her now. “Well. I’m sure it’ll be really moving.”

  “He turns it around, of course. He gets involved with this football team. Underprivileged kids. One of the boys, in particular, they really form a connection. And the more time he spends with the kid, the more he starts to fall for the kid’s single mother.”

  “That’s a nice way to tie it up.”

  Looking pleased with himself, Tucker leaned against the desk. “I thought so. At least, I thought so until someone said something about refrigerators, and the damn girlfriend’s hand kept twitching every time I tried to kill her off.”

  “You…what?”

  He nodded at the manuscript. “Damnedest thing. She just wouldn’t give up, no matter how many times I tried. So she lived. He lived. Bitter about it, enough that he pushed her away every time she tried to be there for him or support him. But they lived, both of them. And she goes on to make her own mistakes, has a child with a man who isn’t fit to take care of himself, much less a mate and a child. So she raises that child alone. And after much debate and foot-dragging – and against her better judgment – one day agrees to let him try out for the football team.”

  Her smile simply bloomed. “You didn’t kill off the girlfriend.”

  “I didn’t kill off the girlfriend. And you know what? She’s one of the best characters I’ve ever written. I’m in love with her. I gave her red hair.”

  “You…” Tears sprang up before she could stop them. “Damn it. I swear, I’ve watered on you or near you more than all the other men of my acquaintance put together.”

  “Surprisingly, I don’t mind it.” He picked up another sheet of paper from the desk, laid it on top of the manuscript. “I’m hoping you’ll keep watering on me for the next fifty or so years.”

  When the words sank in, one of those tears spilled over to fall onto the paper.

  “Tucker.” She looked at the dedication again. For my wife. I had the roots. You showed me how to make them bloom.

  “I was going to wait until just before publication, sort of spring it on you. Figured you were less likely to balk if it was going into print. But after yesterday, when I thought about what could have happened… I realized I didn’t want to wait.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Yes would be a good starter.”

  Her lips quirked at the testy tone.

  “I didn’t realize there was a question.”

  “What, changing the damn story, dedicating it to you isn’t enough? Fine, fine,” he said when she narrowed her watery eyes. “I love you. Will you chuck your good sense to the wind and marry me?”

  She laughed. She couldn’t help it. Then she leaped at him with enough force to knock him back on the desk. Papers went flying. “I love you, too.” She covered his face in happy kisses. “So much. Yes. I would love to chuck my good sense.”

  “Smartass.” But the look in his eyes was tender. “I have a ring in the desk drawer, if you’ll let me up to get it.”

  “I kind of like you like this.” She stroked his hair back from his face. “Tucker. I don’t have the words to tell you what you mean to me.”

  “That’s okay. I’m a writer.” The kiss he gave her spun out until love shimmered around them. “Leave the words to me.”

  Thanks for reading! Connect with me online at:

  www.lisaclarkoneill.com

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/LisaClark-ONeill-Novelist/287773574604107?fref=nf

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/LisaClarkONeill

  If you haven’t yet read my Southern Comfort series, you can download a free sample of Book One, SERENDIPITY, here: http://www.amazon.com/Serendipity-Southern-Comfort-Clark-ONeill-ebook/dp/B008YMC8HY/ref=pd_sim_kstore_5

  And here is a sneak peek at Book Two in the Sweetwater Trilogy.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ALLISON Hawbaker looked up as the overhead light flickered and then went out, leaving her alone in the dark bathroom, clutching a toilet brush.

  She tried not to think of it as a metaphor for the current state of her life.

  “Allie!”

  “Coming!” she answered the slightly panicked call of her employee, Rainey Stratton. Rainey was re-shelving the educational books that were strewn about the Dust Jacket’s children’s section following the departure of one Kirby Abbott and her three pre-school aged offspring. Judging from the state of the floor when Allie had come in to clean the bathroom, Kirby needed to skip
phonics and work on teaching her four-year-old twin boys better aim.

  Dropping the toilet brush in the general vicinity of the corner, Allie snapped off her rubber gloves and felt her way along the wall. Placing fixed shutters over the window in the bathroom so that they could add an extra stall had seemed like a great idea when she and her business partner were renovating the old house into a bookstore/tea room. But getting stuck in the dark little box during an electrical storm was causing her to reconsider that position.

  Finally, she located the doorknob by bumping into it with her hip. Rubbing the spot, she yanked open the door, gulping air like a landed trout.

  “Allie, is that you?”

  “No, it’s Freddy Krueger.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  Allie followed the sound of Rainey’s indignant voice until her eyes finally adjusted. She could just make out the younger woman’s tall, lithe form cowering beside a bookshelf.

  “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark.”

  “Hey, everyone knows that thunderstorms coupled with power outages are two of the three necessary conditions to bring forth deranged, hatchet-wielding serial killers from… wherever it is that they hang out otherwise.”

  “Starbucks?”

  “Sure, poke fun. You won’t be laughing when the hatchet-wielding maniac chops through the door.”

  Amusement tamping down her own discomfort, Allie slowly edged toward the counter. She was pretty sure they had some candles in one of the drawers. “And what’s the third condition to bring forth this hatchet-wielding maniac, might I ask?”

  “Teenagers having sex.”

  “Well, since you’re the only one of us within spitting distance of that age bracket, and as far as I can tell, you’re not currently in flagrante delicto, I think we’ll be okay.” Allie bumped into the edge of the counter, hitting the same spot on her hip. Swallowing a curse, she went around the back, opening the drawer she thought might hold candles.

  “I’m barely twenty. And anyway,” Rainey admitted. “I was thinking about having sex.”