Mr. Write (Sweetwater) Read online

  “Scary?” Sarah suggested, checking out the man she’d spotted earlier. He looked even bigger and darker in the sun-drenched morning, like he’d sucked up all the light around him. A human black hole.

  “He’s not that bad,” Allie said mildly, and Sarah wondered if Josie was right.

  Had she gotten cynical? Or had she allowed her ill-will toward both Pettigrew and his former tenants – particularly Austin – to cast a shadow on what could be a perfectly pleasant man. After all, it wasn’t like her to make such a snap and biased judgment. She studied him again.

  “He looks like he eats puppies for breakfast.”

  “I bet if he shaved, and cut his hair, he wouldn’t look quite so threatening. In fact,” Allie tilted her head “he’s… crap.” She dropped from the chair, crouching into a fretful ball beneath the window. “He saw me looking.”

  Sarah and Will both lifted their gazes from the tiny woman on the floor to the enormous man outside. Sure enough, there he stood, feet braced apart, brawny shoulders thrown back, dark head lowered like an angry bull. He was too far away for her to see his eyes clearly, but Sarah gathered they weren’t dancing gaily with amusement.

  “Well now. This is just exactly how I like to introduce myself to new Sweetwater residents.” Will lifted the water bottle in mock salute. “Thank you, ladies.” He glowered down at his sister. “It would appear that I now have to go smooth things over with your new neighbor before he starts calling my own office to complain.”

  TUCKER Pettigrew watched the man step off the back porch of the place next door, and resigned himself to social interaction. The uniform said cop.

  He probably should have resisted the urge to engage any of them, in any fashion, but he was annoyed. Bad enough that the redhead had been blatantly staring at him for the better part of the morning, but she’d managed to draw a crowd. After he’d gotten the mattress and box spring in place on the bed frame, he’d come back out to find that two dark-haired individuals had joined her at the window.

  He doubted it went beyond what he thought of as a typical small town mindset – infatuation with one’s neighbor’s doings – but regardless, it was irritating as hell. Did he look like he wanted to encourage attention? He should have moved in the middle of the damn night.

  The same way he’d left this town almost thirty years ago.

  Of course, equally plausible, they could care less about him, and had merely been drawn to the spectacle that was Mason Armitage.

  Tucker sighed.

  Mason had insisted that no one in this little backwater would possibly recognize a British thespian were one to bite the local citizenry on its collective ass, so Tucker had allowed him to tag along. But now here he was, stupidly giving Mason the opportunity to take his shirt off in a semi-public forum.

  Mason – poor, beleaguered creature of beauty that he was – was used to people running into walls when they got their first look at him. He probably hadn’t even noticed that there were now three individuals next door, staring.

  Well, two of them were still staring. One of them was walking this way.

  “Hey there.” The cop, about Tucker’s height, which put him a few inches over six feet, lifted a hand in greeting as he hopped off the porch. Tucker sized him up, all easygoing smile and lanky limbs, and eyes that looked like he’d just climbed out of a hammock.

  The police in New York would chew this guy up and use his shinbone to pick their teeth.

  “Hello,” Tucker said as the man ambled toward him, wending his way around some kind of bushes with nearly fluorescent white blossoms. The breeze picked up, and Tucker caught a whiff of the flowers’ perfume.

  “Will Hawbaker. I’m acting Chief of Police here in Sweetwater.” The guy stuck out his hand and Tucker shook automatically, but something had stirred in his memory. The accent, the cadence of the man’s speech was familiar, but Tucker had been prepared for that.

  It was the smell, he realized. Glancing back at the flower, he had a flash of a small woman with light hair, smiling as she plucked one from the bush.

  His heart squeezed, and the blurred image faded away.

  He turned back to the cop. “Acting Chief?”

  “Open heart surgery,” the other man explained. “I’m filling in until Chief Harbin comes back.”

  “Ah.” A beat passed, and the cop said “You never mentioned your name.”

  Tucker was hoping that he wouldn’t have noticed. “Tucker.”

  Hawbaker’s head tilted to the side. “Would that be your first name, or your last?”

  Tucker thought about this for a second. “Both.”

  “Tucker Tucker.”

  “Well.” He considered that absurdity. “Generally not at the same time.”

  Something in the cop’s eyes suggested he might not be quite as easygoing as Tucker initially guessed. “Judging by your accent, Mr. Tucker, I’d say you’re not from around here.”

  “New York,” Tucker agreed, and Hawbaker’s expression clearly said well that explains it.

  “Hey Pettigrew.” Tucker winced as Mason’s stage-trained voice boomed from inside the belly of the truck. It echoed off the metal sides so that Tucker’s last name bounced around as clearly as a shiny red ball between them. He’d hoped to keep that to himself for oh, say, an hour or two, until he’d had a chance to get the lay of the land. No telling what kind of reaction his arrival would generate.

  Apparently it was something of a big deal to be named Pettigrew in Sweetwater.

  “Are you going to fanny around all morning?” his own personal albatross bellowed. “Let’s get on with it before I’m totally knackered. This heat is bloody… oh.” He emerged from the yellow beast, his sour expression shifting into something beatific as seamlessly as the tide. “Mornin’ Officer.” And there went the accent. “Didn’t see y’all there.”

  The cop was definitely awake now. “Pettigrew?” he glared at Tucker.

  “Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to tell me your name again.”

  Tucker knew his rights, and the fact was Hawbaker was basically trespassing without cause or consent. But he reminded himself that this was Sweetwater, South Carolina and about as far from New York as he could get, culturally speaking. Telling the top cop – acting or not – to go to hell was probably frowned upon in these parts. Plus, he’d come here for a change of pace, some quiet. Maybe even some peace. Landing himself in the local pokey would be a rather antithetical start.

  “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 my 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 M
ason 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.

  Tucker 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 this is my business partner, Allison Hawbaker.”

  “Allison.” His 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 porch. 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 f
rom the doorway. The dark one stood there, his granite 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 said, 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, this 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, vaguely, 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.