Mr. Write (Sweetwater) (12 page)

W
hen Jonas’s eyes raked her up and down, lingering insolently on her breasts, Sarah wished she’d worn a parka instead of a thin tank top. 

But i
nstead of shrinking, or even giving him the slap he so richly deserved, she kept her face and her words impassive.  “Well then.  You have a pleasant day, Jonas.”

Dismissing him, s
he turned away, tugging Bark’s leash to urge him from beneath the bench. But Jonas’s hand snaked out to grab her.

Sarah gasped
at the painful grip, and Bark growled.

Jonas
flicked an annoyed glance at the dog before glaring at Sarah.  “Still an uppity bitch, aren’t you?  Thinkin’ you’re better than us just because you got rich friends and know a bunch of fancy words.  You grew up just as trashy as we did.”

No. 
Sarah’s father had had some troubles, and her family had been poor.  But they weren’t trashy.  It was a very important distinction.

“Take your hand off me,” she said softly.

Her brother’s dog growled louder this time, slowly coming to attention at her side, and after several galloping heartbeats, Jonas backed off.  Physically, anyway.  

“You called the cops on us that night.”
  

Actually, it had been Allie who’d made the call, but Sarah
certainly wasn’t going to point that out.  “Most people call the police when they hear gunshots.”

“Me and
Austin was just havin’ a little disagreement.  Would’ve worked it out ourselves, if you hadn’t gone and been all neighborhood watch on us.  Now Austin’s in jail, and both of us are kicked out of that house we’d been promised. Neither of us is too happy ‘bout that.”

“Maybe you should have considered that before you started waving guns around.”

“Wasn’t hurtin’ anybody.”

The sheer idiocy of that statement had Sarah looking pointedly at his foot.

“Bullet went astray.” He smirked at her.

“
You ignorant ass.”  She lost her temper.  Firing off rounds to make their point might have been how they handled arguments when they were out on that derelict property of theirs by the river, but now they were inside the town limits. Not only was it against the law, but it was downright irresponsible. 

“W
hat if that bullet had hit a passing car or someone walking down the street? Or, God, a
child
riding his bicycle –”

“Or you.”

“What did you say?”

He shrugged his thick shoulders.  “Since we’re talkin’ all
hypothetical.”
He sneered.  “I’m just sayin’ that the bullet could have hit
next door.  Slamming real
hard
and
fast
into
you.”

The heat of her temper cooled as her blood quickly turned to ice.
  Those were the same words, almost exactly the same words, Austin had used… that night.

Only he hadn’t been talking about bullets.

Had Austin told his brother what had happened?  Or had Jonas… overheard?  Either thought – that they’d discussed it, probably laughed about it, or that Jonas had been watching – was repugnant.

And, to her shame, humiliating.

Disgusted with herself, furious with him, Sarah forced herself to a calm she didn’t feel.  If there was anything she’d learned about bullies, it was that they eventually lost interest if you didn’t give them the reaction they were after. 

S
o Sarah laughed instead.  “Well, luckily your brother’s bullet
seemed more inclined to slam into
you.”

Jonas’s face turned red
at the implication. “I ain’t no queer.”

“A boon for the homosexual community.”

Angered either by the comment or by the fact that she hadn’t cowered, his fists bunched, and he took a threatening step toward her.  Bark strained against the leash, snarling.  Mr. Pinckney stepped out the door behind them, keeping Jonas from making good the threat she saw plainly in his eyes.

“Everything okay out here, Sarah?”

Sarah glanced back to where the old man stood, the ebony planes of his face pulled tight in concern.  

“Just fine, Mr. Pinckney.  Jonas here was just leaving.”

“Bitch,” Jonas said under his breath, his gaze never leaving Sarah’s.  “I’m not through with you yet.”

“I believe you are,
” Sarah returned, unflinching, although her heart punched like a prizefighter in her chest.  “Don’t be stupid,” she hissed.  “Unless you want to pay an extended visit to your brother.”

The threat of incarceration
seemed to remind the man that he’d basically just assaulted her on a public street.  Not that he’d done more than bruise her arm. But she could technically press charges, were she so inclined.

He glanced at Mr. Pinckney, then down at the still growling dog.

“One of these days,” he finally murmured “you won’t have other people or stupid dogs around.  We’ll see how tough you are then.”

He stalked off toward McGruder’s, and Sarah eased herself onto the bench.  She told herself it was just to untangle Bark’s leash, but in reality her legs were trembling.  She wasn’t sure how much longer they’d hold her if she tried to stand.

“Good boy,” she whispered to Bark, who licked her hands and her face when she bent to stroke him.  “I’ve got a steak in the fridge with your name on it.”

“You all right?”

Sarah looked up.  Mr. Pinckney blocked the sun, the light forming a halo around his grizzled head.  “My avenging angel,” she said, and he shuffled his feet.  But his tone was deadly serious when he said: “You be careful around that one, young lady.  That one’s trouble, and mean with it.”

“I will.”  She was touched that he’d come to her aid.  He might be half Jonas’s size and nearly three times his age, but he was something Jonas would never be – a gentleman.  “Thank you, Mr. Pinckney.”

When he’d gone, Sarah forced herself to her feet, glancing at the forgotten bag containing the wire brush.  She’d gripped it so tightly that the brush had left indentations in her palm.

“Come on, Bark.”  That she felt like curling up in a corner and shaking couldn’t be borne. She wasn’t a kid any longer, and she had a business to open.   “We have tables to paint.”

For once, the dog came along without a protest.

CHAPTER SEVEN

TUCKER
stared at the email on his computer screen, but couldn’t recall what he’d written.  Something perfunctory.   His fingers typed the words, sailing over the keyboard by rote, but his brain had been engaged elsewhere.

Namely, mulling over the contents of the newspaper articles he’d read.

It had been pretty much like his mom said.  Dark night.  Wet Roads.  But what she hadn’t said was that his dad had to have been traveling at a pretty damn high rate of speed.  The curve he’d missed wasn’t one that ran right up next to the river.  On the contrary, where he’d run off the road, he had to continue on quite a number of yards to make it to the water.  Tucker knew, because he’d found the spot and looked.  There’d been a fence – gone now – but a board fence that should have slowed him.

Had he been in a hurry to get home?  Angry?  Or merely joyriding, testing out the engine, as young men were wont to do?  Hell, his dad had only been twenty-two.

Twenty-two years old.

A kid, really.

The grainy photo the paper had published of the flooded car, juxtaposed with a family shot of him and his parents, made him ache.  Not for the idealized image of the father that he’d always carried in his head, but for the very human man – human enough to drive his car too fast on slick roads – who’d been ripped from the life he was building, far too young.

Closing his eyes, h
e wondered who that young man had been.  Had he preferred ketchup on his hotdogs or mustard?  Had he liked the way rain sounded on the metal roof of his home, a pleasure Tucker had discovered just last night?  Had he been confused by modern art? Enjoyed building things with his hands? Harbored a secret and somewhat embarrassing fondness for old black and white monster flicks?

It killed
him to not know such mundane facts about the man who’d helped conceive him.  Tucker could readily identify the traits he’d picked up from his mom, just as he knew he’d gotten his height, his build and his coloring from his dad.  But without knowing the other stuff, Tucker had to wonder if that young man he’d read about in the paper would have been proud of his son’s achievements. And if Tucker would have achieved so much – or even the same kind of things – had his dad still been alive.

And since he seemed to have
bought a first-class ticket on the maudlin train, Tucker also pondered the fact that one of his great-great grandfathers and his grandmother appeared to have shared a similar fate.  Granted, they’d drowned, respectively, in a flood and after falling off a boat, but that hadn’t stopped the reporter from drawing the comparison. Even speculating about a family curse, given the fact that the river had taken them all.

Like
a southern-fried version of the Kennedys.  Apparently, even small town newspapers weren’t above a little sensationalism from time to time.

But maybe
, Tucker thought wryly, he’d stay away from bodies of water for a little while, just in case.

“Working?”

Eyes easing open, Tucker caught a glimpse of the Mason he was used to.  Hair brushed, rather than matted to his head with sweat, and dressed for something other than manual labor.  Of course, his tan slacks and light blue shirt were more Gap than his usual Burberry, but it was still several notches above the beat-up jeans and T-shirts he’d been living in for the past couple weeks.  Tucker got the feeling he was enjoying portraying himself as just a regular chump.

“Just returning some emails.”

Concern etched an artful line on Mason’s forehead.  His eyes roamed the tattered strips of wallpaper that still clung to the walls, the damaged floorboards Tucker hadn’t yet gotten around to repairing.

Then he turned to Tucker and popped a brow.

“What?  I’ve been focusing on the main rooms.
  The stuff I really use.”

“Oh, yes.”  That British tone was so dry it practically crackled.  “Like the kitchen.
  We know how much you use the kitchen.”

“Laptop,” Tucker pointed a finger at his computer.  “So named because it is portable.
  I don’t have to be in this room to use it.  I can work anywhere.”

“Like… the kitchen, perhaps.”

“Exactly.”  Before Mason could point out that Tucker hadn’t exactly been working on his laptop in the kitchen, either, Tucker diverted his friend’s attention.  “Why are you dressed like that?”

Mason stared at him for a beat, making it clear that
he was well aware of the tactic, but letting Tucker get away with it, this one time.  Then he sighed, and pulling a card of some sort from his pocket, tossed it on Tucker’s desk.

Tucker
took in the creamy paper, the black typeface, the stylized, old-fashioned image of an open book.

Shit.  “That’s this evening
?”

The place next door was having an unofficial opening before their official opening, a kind of
wine and cheese – or maybe tea and cookie – thing, he guessed, for their friends, fellow business owners, neighbors.  Allison Hawbaker had brought the invitation over herself, along with another plate heaped with scones and muffins and various assorted culinary treats.  He got the feeling that she was still a little embarrassed by the fact that he’d seen her brother as he had.

Of course, he and Mason probably would have been issued the invitation anyway, southern hospitality being what it was.

He glanced up to find Mason’s expression bland.  “I take it, based on the fact that you look like I’ve just reminded you of an appointment for a root canal, that you aren’t planning on attending.”

“I’ve got stuff to do.”

“You’ve had
stuff
to do since you came here.  You’re probably going to have
stuff
to do for the next five years, should you stay that long, given the state of this old monstrosity.”

Tucker thought of the meaningless small talk he’d be forced to endure if he went over there this evening.  Not to mention the curious stares and people sucking up because they thought his last name made him important.  “You know I’m no good at that social shit.”

“So just stand there and let me do the talking.  It’ll be like old times.”

“God, no.”

“It’s a
bookstore,
for good Christ’s sake.  Think of it as networking.” 

“No, no and no.”

“You do realize that since coming here you’ve morphed into a bloody caricature.  The melancholic southern recluse facing the demons of a dysfunctional family.  Give you a bottle of whiskey and a bum leg and you’ll be your own Tennessee Williams play.”