Mr. Write (Sweetwater) (17 page)

CHAPTER TEN

“THANK
God that’s over.”

Exhausted
,
relieved, Sarah sat on the Dust Jacket’s front steps with Allie, two bottles of champagne – one non-alcoholic – between them.  The last customer was gone, the food that had a multi-day shelf life was stored, the rest packaged up to be dropped off at the Baptist Church’s food bank.  The trash had been hauled out, the kitchen scrubbed, and the day’s sales tallied.

They hadn’t exactly set the retail world on fire, but they’d generated a little spark.

Sarah kicked off her heels.

“That’s supposed to be my line.”
Tidy at heart – and stone sober – Allie captured the shoe that had flown into the pot of pink bougainvillea, and lined it up with its mate. 

“
You know, I don’t think I fully considered the consequences of setting up shop in the town in which I was raised.  I sold a book today on composting to the man who gave me my first pelvic exam.”

“Doctor Hicks is into organic gardening?  I had no idea.”

“The things you learn.  He seemed particularly interested in the bit about using human urine to increase the compost’s ability to destroy pathogens and unwanted seeds.  Now every time he asks me to pee in that little cup, I’m going to question his intentions.”  

Allie laughed, and Sarah
looked at the starry sky and thought:
This is the reward.
The quiet satisfaction of a job well done.  And the little bumps of doubt, of nerves, and the irritations along the way smoothed by the ease of lifelong friendship. 

“
You know, Al.  I’m glad we’re here.  In this place.”

“Literally or metaphysically
speaking?”

“Both.”

“You know what?” Allie sounded a little surprised.  “I am, too.  There were a couple times today that I thought my head was going to explode, but all things considered, it wasn’t so bad.  Long.”  She took a bracing sip of champagne.  “But not so bad.  I’m going to do that ghost walk,” she added in a rush.  “If you still think it’s a good idea.”

“I think it’s
a great idea.”  And that Rainey already deserved a raise for planting the seed.  Not only would it benefit the store, but it was a perfect fit for Allie.  “I’ll put a blurb up on the website.  Make a few flyers, post them around.  Any idea when you might want to get started?”

“Friday.”

“This coming Friday?  As in, four days from now.”

“I know it’s short notice, but if I don’t do it soon, I’m afraid I’ll lose my nerve.  So… yes.”

“That doesn’t give us much time for the advertising to do its job.  If you waited a week, we could build more interest, draw a bigger crowd.”

“It’s the bigger crowd that worries me.  You’re coming at this from a purely business perspective, so of course you want to maximize potential.  I’m coming at this from the perspective of pure terror.  If only
a couple people show up this first time, I stand at least a small chance of not throwing up.” 

“
Well, then.  Friday it is.  To a new chapter, for both of us.”  She tapped her glass against Allie’s.  “May it be the best damn one yet.”

“
I’ll drink to that.”  Allie did, then nearly cracked her jaw with a yawn. “I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m pooped.”

“Small
business ownership isn’t for weenies.”

“Since I’m not a wee
nie, and since seven a.m. is going to come awfully early, I’m going to call it a night.  No, I’ll lock up.”  She patted Sarah’s shoulder when Sarah started to rise.  “You finish your drink.”

Content to do just that,
Sarah settled back.

G
ardenias perfumed the balmy air, starlight glittered through the trees like diamonds.  And thanks to the wine Allie had commandeered from the Hawbaker’s cellar, her head was pleasantly, mildly fuzzed.

She lifted a hand in greeting as Joey Kieffer came out of the pharmacy across the street. 
Getting something soothing, she guessed, for the baby who’d been cranky with teething when he and his wife had stopped by earlier for some desperately needed caffeine.

And hadn’t that been a kick?   S
eeing Joey the Joker all settled down.  As an accountant – and new father – she doubted he spent his evenings these days soaping windows or rearranging the mayor’s Christmas decorations to make the reindeer look like they were breeding.

Not when he was changing diapers and crunching numbers.

It was good to be home, she admitted.  Good to be back on that original foundation.  Only this time, she had her pilings – reinforced by experience – firmly in the ground. 

T
his time – much like the former class clown – she was building something she could be proud of.

The horn of Allie’s car tooted, and Sarah waved her off. 

And because Allie was right, and morning would be here before they knew it, Sarah hauled herself to her aching feet.

“Shoes,” she said, after she’d gone about halfway down the sidewalk.  And turning around to
retrieve them, snatched up the mostly full bottle she’d left behind, too.  “Nothing like leaving the place looking like a frat house.”

Sarah
picked her way carefully back toward her cottage.  She’d left the porch unlit, but the full moon silvered the sky, brightening it enough for her to go by. 

She identified butterfly weed, Ec
hinacea, variegated society garlic, mostly from its smell.  And was both pleased and grateful, as Mildred’s garden had given them not only an attractive bonus feature for their business, but an interesting new hobby for herself.  She liked nurturing things, watching them thrive and grow.  And digging in the dirt was oddly therapeutic.

Humming, Sarah stepped onto her porch.
 

The wine bottle shattered at
her feet as she choked on a scream.

“God.  God.  Well that’s just lovely.”  Disgusted with herself, and even more so with the pathetic carcass
on her front porch, she took a hasty step back.  A move she regretted the instant the glass shard pierced her heel.

“Perfect.”  She
hissed out a breath, lifted her foot up on a wince.  “I swear, I’m going to skin that animal and make him into a hat.”

“Are you alright?”

Sarah froze. 

She turned her head, made out Tucker’s massive shape
in the shadows.

“Just dandy.”  Great.  She was pretty sure she’d been talking to herself.  And now she was standing here, looking like a flamingo perched on one leg.

She started to put her foot down, but Tucker said “Don’t be stupid.”

“I beg your pardon?” 

“You’ll push the glass in deeper,” he said, and stalked forward. Then he scooped her up like she was a feather-weight, and before Sarah could even react he was plopping her down in the single rocking chair on her tiny porch. 

“Grit your teeth,” he said and with no more warning than that, plucked the
shard from her heel.

“Shit.  Damn.”

“Hell.  Fuck.  Now that we’ve covered all the really good swear words.”  Her eyes watered as he leaned closer, studied the wound, then widened when he whipped off his T-shirt.  “This is bleeding pretty good,” he said calmly, and pressed the soft blue cotton, warm from his body, firmly against her heel.  “You’re going to want to clean it out, apply pressure, but I don’t think it’ll require stitches.”

Sarah could only stare.

“If I’d realized your heel was connected to your tongue, I would have sprinkled broken glass around weeks ago.”

The
wry tone snapped her back. “My tongue works just fine.”

“Hallelujah.”

Sarah waited for the familiar annoyance to spike, but found herself filled with something closer to gratitude.  He had, after all, leapt rather quickly – and competently – to her aid.  “Thank you.  Although I’m sure it wasn’t necessary for you to ruin another shirt.” 

“I guess I could have ripped
a strip of material from your dress, but I figured that’d get me slapped.”

When his eyes met hers, held,
she realized she might be in trouble.  When they shifted to her mouth, she worried she already was.

“You’re crowding me,” she said softly, because it suddenly seemed more difficult to breathe.

He stood up without comment.

“What caused the squeal?”

“What?”

“The noise you made.” He made an impatient gesture with his hand.  “Before you broke the bottle.”

“Were you watching me?”

“I live right there.” 
He tossed her own words back in her face.  “I was on the back porch.  And you were stumbling drunkenly.  It was kind of difficult not to notice.”

“I was
walking cautiously.  And I am not drunk.”

He looked at the remnants of champagne spreading over the floorboards. 

“I’m not drunk,” she repeated, this time with some heat.  She knew her limit very well, and she’d barely finished two glasses.  “I just… Over there.”  She sighed, pointing in the direction of the dead thing.

He turned around, spotted the carcass, and crouched beside it.

“For God’s sake, don’t
touch
it.”

“I’m not.”

“It’s just some poor creature that my cat dragged in.”  He must have gotten out again, the obese little Houdini.  Though how he’d managed that was a mystery.  “I’ll…” call Noah and beg him to come haul the thing away. “Get rid of it later.”

“Your porch have a light?”

“Yes, of course.  But you don’t have to –”

“Switch?”

“Right inside the door.  But –”

“Hand me your keys.”

“Excuse me?”

“Keys.”  He made another impatient gesture with his fingers.

“I don’t have them.”  Her tone turned frosty again.  Rendered aid and a really great bare chest could only take them so far.   “The door’s not locked.”

“
You leave the door to your house unlocked?”

“This isn’t New York.  And I was right
there, across the garden, for the entire day.”

“Christ,” he sai
d, shaking his head as he reached for the knob.  “No, don’t get up.  And keep putting pressure on that cut.”

“Bossy
, aren’t we?” Sarah muttered as he disappeared inside.  The light clicked on and Sarah winced, noting the faint stirrings of a wine headache. 

She pushed his T-shirt against her heel, feeling both annoyed and faintly ridiculous.

When he came back out, resumed his crouch, Sarah risked a sideways glance.  “What is it?” she finally asked.  “A squirrel?”

“Try rat.”
 

Despite herself, Sarah shuddered.  Having grown up around fishermen, she was well used to coming across dead things from time to time
. But it was different when the dead thing had hair.  Even worse, beady little eyes and sharp teeth.

“Look, I appreciate the help, but I can handle things from here.  You don’t… what’s this?” she said after he dug into his pocket, handed her his
cell phone.

“I don’t
know the police chief’s number, and I’m assuming you do.”

She
held the phone in one hand, his bloody T-shirt in the other.  “You want me to call Will.”

“You could dial 911, but I figure you’ll end up talking to Hawbaker eventually.  Might as well contact the man directly.”

Maybe she was a little tipsier that she’d thought, because what he was saying made no sense.  “You want me to contact the authorities.  Because my cat mauled a rat to death.”

“I want you to tell Ha
wbaker to get his ass over here.  Because this rat wasn’t mauled; it was shot.”

BEING
a sensible man, Will recognized the signs of a woman at the end of a short and particularly slippery rope.

Despite
– or maybe because of – that, and the strong affection he had for this friend of his sister’s, he had no problem with pounding a lecture down on her head.

“Don’t you think,” he said mildly “you might have mentioned
your run-in with Jonas Linville before now?”

“To what end?
  Will, it just wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“There’s a rat with a bullet hole on its way to the lab that begs to differ.”

“You don’t know that… okay,” she said when she saw his look.  “It’s likely the two things are related.”

“A
s much as I believe in the concept of innocent until proven guilty,” Will said as he began rooting around in the tiny kitchen, “if a man – particularly an obvious, unoriginal man – admits to having a grudge against a woman for
ratting
him and his brother out for unlawfully discharging a weapon…” He opened a white cabinet, took out a glass. “And then proceeds to suggest that said weapon may have been unlawfully discharged into
her.
Call me crazy, but when a rat with a belly full of lead turns up on her doorstep, that man is going to be pretty high on my list of suspects.”