Mr. Write (Sweetwater) (3 page)

“I’m Tucker Pettigrew.  It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”  If there was
sarcasm there, the cop ignored it. 

“Isn’t that interesting?  I wasn’t aware old Carlton had any family left.”

“He doesn’t.”  On this, Tucker was clear.  The bastard may have sired Tucker’s father, but that was as far as their relationship went.  But before Hawbaker could climb any further up Tucker’s family tree, Mason jumped into the fray. Apparently no one had ever informed him that the British were supposed to be reserved.

“Hi.”  He pumped Hawbaker’s hand like a used car salesman, beaming that smile that made birds sing and women sigh and lesser mortals fall to their knees.  “I’m Mason Dixon.  A real good friend of Tucker’s.”

Tucker closed his eyes, because he knew what was coming. 

Sure enough, the cop’s voice lowered to the register of disbelief.  “Your name is Mason Dixon.”

“My mama was from the north, and my daddy had a real peculiar sense of humor.”

Tucker’s eyes eased open when he felt the cop’s narrowed gaze back on him.  He was pretty sure the whole
Tucker Tucker
thing was still fresh in his mind.  So he opened his mouth, but Mason’s was faster. 

“’Course, Daddy didn’t think it was none too funny when that judge drew a line right down m
y middle during the custody hearing.”  He scratched his cleft chin, considered.  “Guess it’s a good thing he and Mama reconciled.”

“So.  That must be your… daughter?” Tucker said loudly, before Mason could
start discussing banjos and farm animals, or break out into
Jimmy Crack Corn,
for God’s sake.

Tucker
gestured toward the little black head attempting to remain hidden behind the curtain next door, hoping for distraction.

That distracted Hawbaker enough that he turned around.

“That’s my sister.”  His brows drew together.  “She’s twenty-eight.”

“What, she’s a midget?” Mason wondered.

“She’s petite,” the cop said through gritted teeth.

“Oh.” He squinted.  “Maybe it’s just that she’s standing next to that ginger Amazon.”

Tucker tried not to be too obvious about kicking Mason’s shin.

“Bloody hell,” the Brit murmured, forgetting himself.  “No need to be beastly about it.”

Tucker was already regretting the impulsive decision to come south, but he’d felt compelled in a way that he couldn’t explain, even to himself.  Maybe it was restlessness, unhappiness.  Maybe it was simple curiosity. 

Sweetwater was a lost puzzle piece, the missing chunk of his life that kept the image from popping clear.

It was
his prologue.

He looked at the tin-roofed cottage next door, with its exposed rafters and wide porch. It was painted the pale
yellow of freshly creamed butter, the window casings brightened with sky blue.  Mossy stuff dripped like ghostly garments from the overhanging limbs of gnarled oaks, motionless in the morning heat.  Flowers abounded – fat blue balls poised like playground bullies over mounds of delicate yellow blooms, and something that resembled little white butterflies perched on slim green wands.

Several
five gallon paint buckets sat on the porch, and an etched wooden sign hung from a wrought iron post, but he couldn’t quite make out the wording from this distance. 

T
ucker glanced past the sign, down the street.  There was a sleepy quality that to his eye made it appear as if even the trees were on valium. 

But instead of porches filled with aimless old men
in rocking chairs, he’d been surprised to find boutiques and galleries painted in candy-colored hues – like gumdrops that had fallen from the hand of a careless, sweet-toothed giant. There were restaurants, bars. Doctors and lawyers and accountants operating out of charmingly dilapidated buildings with their names hung out on a shingle. The old-fashioned lettering on the window of the pharmacy across the street indicated that it had been in business since nineteen-sixty-five.

He had no recollection of any of it.

“Listen,” he began, but Mason said “Is that…
biscuits
I smell?”  His patrician nose quivered with excitement.

Hawbaker’s gaze shifted.  “
If you’re meaning cookies, then yes,” he told Mason.  “They’ve got great coffee, too.  And they’re going to do this thing called a cream tea that –”

“No.”

“Yep.  Josie makes these scones with this really awesome white stuff –”

“Clotted cream,” Mason murmured.  He started to follow the smell. 

“They aren’t going to be open for business for a couple weeks yet,” Hawbaker said before Mason had taken a full step. 

“I’m sorry, did you say
weeks?”

“That’s right.” 
And sizing Mason up, continued. “Though I might be able to score you a
biscuit
, old chap, seeing as y’all are going to be neighbors.”

Mason turned to Tucker.  “It appears I’m outed.
”

“Gee.  And your pseudonym was so convincing.”

“I’ll give you fifty dollars for whatever it is that’s produced that smell,” Mason said to the cop, all pretense of good-old-boy gone.  “Pettigrew here insisted we eat breakfast at some truck stop on the motorway.  Despite the name, I assure you the dining experience was
not
international.”

Hawbaker grinned, but it faded quickly enough when he turned back to Tucker.  “I’m going to go out on a limb, here, and guess that the ‘T’ in Carlton T. Pettigrew stands for Tucker.  Which would make you old man Pettigrew’s… grandson?”

“Only in the strictest biological sense of the word.”

He considered that for a moment. “So
you’re
the slumlord that owns this place.”

“Slumlord?”

“You plan on staying here yourself?”  Hawbaker ignored his indignant tone and nodded toward the house.  “Or maybe you’re just patching the holes in the walls so that your next tenants have a nice, fresh target to shoot up.”

Ah.  So that was Hawbaker’s beef.  As police chief, he certainly wouldn’t appreciate
that kind of thing going on, let alone next door to his sister’s place of business.

“I didn’t know about that until
recently,” he told the other man.  “The lawyer was supposed to be handling the property.” 

“Oh, he handled it, alright.”

From Hawbaker’s expression, Tucker considered there was no love lost between his former attorney and the cop.  

“About that
biscuit…” Mason prodded.

Hawbaker hesitated for just a second.  “Let’s go.”  He jerked his head toward the little
yellow cottage.  “And by the way, welcome to Sweetwater.”  He looked at Tucker.  “Or maybe I should say, welcome back.”

“
WHAT
is Will doing?”
Sarah hissed when she saw the three men start moving toward the front porch.  “He’s bringing them here?
Inside?”

“They’re not dogs,
” Allie said. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”  Sarah watched the dark one with trepidation.  That one was trouble.  She was sure of it.  Then the front door chimed and she followed Allie out of the kitchen.

The blond one – unbelievably, he was even better looking up close – had come inside with Will, sniffing the air as he glanced around.  But his hulking friend had yet to darken the doorway.  Sarah glanced out the window and saw him standing, big hands splayed on narrow hips, frowning at the sign they’d installed the day before. 

The Dust Jacket,
it read in sandblasted wooden letters. 
Books, Coffee & Confections.
   

Will gestured her over.  “Sarah
Barnwell, this is Mason…”

“Pleased to meet you
,” the godlike creature said, ignoring Will’s leading tone.  His eyes were the color of aged whiskey, his hair like spun gold.  And his accent, she noted, was decidedly English.

She took the hand that he
extended. 

“Likewise.  And t
his is my business partner, Allison Hawbaker.”

“Allison.”  H
is considering gaze ran over her from head to paint-splattered toe before he brushed the barest hint of lips across her knuckles. 

“Mason wants a cookie.”

Sarah frowned. Judging from the way he’d just looked at Allie, that’s not all he wanted. “We’re not technically open yet,” she interjected as she glared at Will.

“So tell Josie you’ve got another taste tester.”

“I’m more than happy to pay,” the blond added. 

“No, no.
  As long as you don’t mind being a guinea pig, we’re happy to have your opinion.  Um, Allie?”

When Allie just stood there,
staring, Will muttered “
Brother
” before tugging her arm.

“Why don’t you get that
, Al.”  He shot a hard look at the blond before aiming his sister toward the kitchen.  “And maybe a cup of tea while you’re at it.”

“Tea would be lovely.” 
Mason beamed. 

“Tea.”  Allie looked blank.

“Perhaps the Earl Grey?” Sarah suggested.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Mason demurred.

“No.  No trouble,” Allie managed.

When her friend
finally backed away, tripping over her own feet in the process, Sarah looked back at the god with suspicion.  “So Mason…”

Over the blond’s shoulder, she saw the dark guy step onto the por
ch.  He appeared deeply annoyed for some reason. Or maybe that was just his default expression.  “What brings you to Sweetwater?”

Mason seemed distracted by the scents and sounds coming from the kitchen.
“Oh, I’m afraid I’m just here for a holiday, of sorts.”

“This is a
bookstore
.”

All three of them turned toward the deep voice coming from the doorway.  The dark one stood there, his gra
nite face contorted. Clearly surprised, Mason took in the newly painted shelves on the other side of the room.  “Well, Pettigrew. There’s some irony for you.”

“Pettigrew?”  Sarah frowned.

“Carlton Tucker Pettigrew the Fifth, to be specific,” Mason said, gesturing grandly.  “Your new neighbor.”

Slowly Sarah turned to face the man in the doorway, and in his cold gray gaze saw mutual distaste. 

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, before turning on his heel and stalking away. 

“What happened?”  Allie sai
d, emerging from the kitchen with a loaded tray.

Sarah watched this newest and nastiest Pettigrew incarnation go, all her direst suspicions confirmed.  “I guess Cerberus doesn’t like to read.”

CHAPTER THREE

TUCKER
stood in the middle of the empty room, where neglect hung in the stuffy air like a physical presence.  He yanked the chain over his head, and a ceiling fan began to turn sluggishly, kicking up the scent of Murphy’s Oil Soap.  His lawyer may have fallen down hard on the job, but the cleaning people he’d hired seemed competent.  The place was a wreck, but at least it wasn’t filthy.

The floorboards squeaked, and Tucker noticed some dark areas of water damage when he looked down. 
He sighed. He probably had a leak in the roof.

Tucked under the eaves, th
is room connected to the master bedroom through a side door, and the convenience of it, the smaller dimensions, suggested it had probably functioned as a nursery. Above the dingy wainscoting ran the tattered remnants of a wallpaper border.  Fire trucks and Dalmatians. 

Had he slept beneath those friendly pups as a child, or had they been the decorative whim of one of his tenants
? Had his father’s hands put it up?

He remembered, vagu
ely, a blue blanket with satin edging.  His initials – their initials – stitched into the corner.  Hand-knitted and worn, it was the kind of thing that was passed on for sentimental reasons more than function, an heirloom from father to son.  Tucker’d carried it with him the whole first year they’d lived in New York.

Wondering what had become of that blanket
– and of the little boy who’d needed a talisman – he stood still, waiting for some unseen ghost of the past to reveal itself to him. 

But it was just a room.  Just a house.
  Whether that was a disappointment or a comfort, he honestly couldn’t say.

Tucker looked past the room, out the
long window, where the light was going soft and pink with sunset.  Faded beams of it filtered through the gnarled, bearded oak to lay as shadows on the black soil.  Moving across the floor, he pushed open the sash. There was a ripeness to the air here, something that was both decay and burgeoning life. The tang of salt from marshland, or maybe the river, mingled with the sweet scent of blooming trees.  He inhaled, trying to snatch another memory, but all he got was a vague headache.