Mr. Write (Sweetwater) (8 page)

The image of a naked, wet and dripping Tucker Pettigrew flashed into her head before Sarah could stop it.

“The friend – Mason – is both gorgeous and temporary.  Tucker Pettigrew is a pain in the ass.”

“Uh-oh.”  He took in the
two houses’ proximity.  “No neighborly chats over the backyard fence, huh?”

“We’ve chatted, all right,” she muttered.  “Let’s just say we have very different definitions of
neighborly.”

“Is that… a
sheet
over his window?”

Before
she could answer, a loud repetitive beeping assaulted their ears.  Sarah peered around Bran’s shoulder to see a big truck with the words
Stratton Construction Rentals
painted on the side.  It was backing a very large, very ugly brown dumpster toward them.

“Hey!” Sarah called and the truck stopped just before it took out
the bed of lantana she’d recently finished planting.

A dark head popped out the passenger window of the cab, and Doug Stratton pushed up the bill of his ball cap.  “Hey Miz Sarah.  Oh, and hey Bran.  Heard you were coming back.  Sorry about that.”  Rainey’s older
brother gestured toward the flowers.  “Truck got away from Jimmy a little bit.”  A freckled arm waved from the driver’s side window.  Jimmy Stratton, presumably.  “Don’t you worry.  We’ll fix it.”

The truck pulled forward, correcting its crooked path, and Bran
murmured “My God, they’re letting infants drive now?”

“Doug’s
twenty, and Jimmy’s been able to buy beer legally for a couple years.  We’re getting old, Bran.”

“
Shit.  Don’t remind me.”

“What really concerns me is where they’re putting that dumpster.  Surely not…”  Sarah trailed of
f as the truck stopped again.  And this time the hydraulic mechanism that controlled the flatbed began to rise, preparing to deposit the dumpster exactly where it would be the most obtrusive.

“What?” she practically yelled.  “No!  No, no, no.  No.”

“This should be good,” Bran chirped, strolling behind her as she darted toward the truck.

“Doug.  Jimmy, stop. 
Stop.” 
She held up her hands, and Doug climbed out of the cab.  He ambled closer, but pulled up short, his eyes going wide as platters. 

“
Um.” His cheeks turned red.  “Something wrong, Miz Sarah?”

“You can’t put that dumpster there.”

Puzzled, the young man pushed up the brim of his cap to gaze at the clipboard he carried.  “Says here it’s supposed to go to one-one-one Boundary Street.  This is the Pettigrew place, isn’t it?” 

“
Well, yes, but –”

“Is there a problem?”

Sarah cringed at the sound of the voice.  Deep and gravelly with sleep, it skittered across her nerves like loose rocks tumbling down a mountain.  She turned in time to see Tucker Pettigrew step off his verandah.  He’d hitched on jeans and a rumpled shirt the same color as his eyes. Barefoot and wearing yesterday’s beard, he looked like a conquering Scottish warlord who’d just rolled off the last village virgin.

Putting that thought out of her mind,
Sarah took a breath, determined to keep this civil.  “I was just suggesting to Doug here that this might not be the best place to put your dumpster.”

Tucker
stopped on the opposite side of the crushed oyster shell drive on which the truck idled.  “This is my property.”

“And this.”  She forced a tight smile.  “Is my property.
  You’ll notice how close the dumpster would be if you put it over
here
.
”

Tucker scratched the
dark stubble along his jaw.  “This is my driveway.  And that,” he pointed toward the shiny black pickup Sarah had seen him driving the past few days “is my truck.  If I put the dumpster over
there
, I won’t be able to move my truck in and out of the driveway.”

“That,” she pointed to the Dust Jacket’s back porch
, strewn with their charming new bistro tables “is my business.  This,” she gestured to the dumpster “is an eyesore.  If you put that eyesore right next to my business, it’ll be like a big, steaming pile of dog doo right in the middle of the parlor rug.”

Behind her, Bran snorted out a laugh, which he
quickly turned into a cough when Tucker glared at him.  Jimmy Stratton leaned out of the cab of the truck.  “Are we puttin’ this dumpster down or not?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Tucker transferred his glare to Sarah.
 

“Look, I’m not trying to be unreasonable,” she said
in what she hoped was an equable tone. “But our grand opening is next week.  We’re bringing in extra tables to take advantage of the garden, and surely you can understand that a big construction dumpster isn’t exactly the kind of ambience we want to convey.  Now, if you put it over there in that pine straw, on the other side of that tree, you can get your truck in and out, you won’t have to worry about it killing your grass, and it’ll still be convenient for your people to get to.”

He seemed to find that
mildly amusing.  “My people.”

She waved her hand, and h
is gaze went sharp, gray eyes tracking the movement of the coffee cup.  “Your contractors.”

She shifted the cup
.  His gaze followed.  She brought the cup to her mouth and took a sip.

Interesting.

“Would that be a problem for you, Doug?” she said to the young man.

“Huh?”

“The dumpster?”

The kid
’s head jerked up.  Then ducked nervously toward his clipboard when Tucker’s brows crunched in a mighty scowl.  “Um, yes.  I mean no.  It wouldn’t be a problem to put the dumpster over there.  That’s to say, if that’s where you want it.  Mr. Pettigrew.  Sir.”

Tucker
snatched the clipboard from Doug’s hands.  “Fine.”  He scanned the printed page, scrawled his name along the bottom.  Then sneered at Sarah.  “Look Ma.  No Pictures.”  And slapping the paperwork back at a startled Doug, turned on his heel and left.

“That was fun,” Sarah grumbled, thanking the Stratton
s before she turned around.  And saw unbridled delight dance across Bran’s face. 

He patted a hand to his heart. 
“I haven’t seen that much testosterone in one place since the high school locker room after a football game.”

Sarah rolled her eyes.  And refused to admit that she’d definitely noticed. 
“Did you see him checking out my coffee?  Drool was practically rolling off his chin.  Maybe that’s why he’s so damn grumpy.” She took another sip.  “Lack of caffeine.”

Bran’s chuckle was low, and just a little evil.  “I don’t think he was fixated entirely on the coffee.”

Sarah opened her mouth to ask what he was talking about, then terrible realization dawned.  “Oh no.”  She looked down, to where her unfettered breasts shifted beneath her thin camisole.  Her very, very thin camisole.  “Crap.  I look like little orphan Annie doing a burlesque.”

“I don’t think
the Stratton boy minded.  Neither did your Pain In The Ass.”

“He’s not
my
anything.”

“If you say so.”

God, how humiliating.  Some professional reputation she was establishing.  “You don’t have to look quite so entertained.”

“Why not?  This is Sweetwater.  It’s not like there’s a whole lot else goin’ on.”

Sarah considered that she’d shared his opinion. Right up until the night she’d come home.  “That’s what you think.”  She handed Bran her empty coffee cup, and went to get dressed.

TUCKER
scowled as he checked the street signs, turning right onto River Road.  As if this morning wasn’t bad enough, he now had a raging and wholly unexpected case of sexual frustration.

Not that he hadn’t noticed the redhead before – at
just a few inches shy of six feet, she was kind of hard to miss.  But he’d been distracted and annoyed the first time he’d seen her.  He’d been distracted and annoyed the second time, too, not to mention embarrassed.  But even though it had been dark, he hadn’t been distracted enough not to notice the yard of leg sticking out from beneath that skimpy robe.

This morning he’d been distracted and annoyed – there seemed to be a pattern developing – but he’d gotten a whiff of her coffee, which had nearly brought him to his knees
. And he’d finally woken up enough to notice her breasts.

His mouthy neighbor had very nice breasts.

The Stratton kid had certainly noticed, Tucker thought with disgust.  He’d been tempted to smack the boy upside his head and tell him to roll his tongue back in.  Which was ridiculous.  What did he care who looked at Sarah’s… attributes?

And besides, the mouthy factor cancelled out said attributes.  It may have been
a while since he’d been with a woman, but he wasn’t so desperate as to get involved with a ball-buster.  He preferred his women sweet. Like Allison Hawbaker. 

Although he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have quite the same reaction if it had been Allison Hawbaker in that see-through top.

Thinking of the Hawbakers made Tucker wonder exactly what Carlton had done.  No doubt something completely underhanded.  Manipulating people toward his own ends was his grandfather’s specialty.  Rage simmered, but Tucker brought it under control.  He wouldn’t let the old man push his buttons.

Nearly missing th
e turn-off, Tucker slowed his truck, checked the rearview mirror, and then threw the gearshift into reverse. 

And started down the oak-lined lane to River’s End.

Situated
where the Sweetwater River spilled lazily into the sound, his grandfather’s house rose like some kind of church gone awry. 

A
n arcade of Gothic arches made the porch appear more sacrosanct than welcoming, while its many gabled dormers formed a row of perpetually judgmental eyes.  Morning had burned through the worst of the river’s fog with its rosy fingers, brushing the metal roof with an ethereal glow.  Even the majestic oaks had been pruned into submission, and orderly rows of pure white flowers sat motionless in their earthen pews. 

And the river ran behind it all, a snake
of green in this perfect garden. 

It was somehow awful in its
cold beauty, like an avalanche or a calving glacier – the kind of thing you wanted to admire from far, far away.

His father had grown up in this house.

The photo of the laughing, warm-eyed man his mother had kept beside her bed bore little resemblance to anyone who should spring from
this
environment.  This was the stuff of dark romance, where nature is sinister beneath its beauty, and humans, inside their pious shells, full of evil deeds and destruction. 

Or at the very least, prone to
a brooding sort of solitude.

Someone, actually, like him.

And because that realization further disgusted him, Tucker yanked his keys from his vehicle’s ignition.  Thinking he
belonged
here was just exactly what the old man wanted.

And Tucker had already had enough of that shit.

Squelching the urge to cross himself as he stomped up onto the pristine porch, Tucker leaned heavily on the buzzer.  He only hoped he’d get the old jackass out of bed.

When an elf-like elderly woman answered the door, he put a lid on his disappointment.

“Oh!” she said, and he realized the sight of him – all six plus feet, two hundred pounds of him – scowling on her doorstep, might not have been the most pleasant way to start the day.  

“I’m sorry to disturb you.”  He used the voice reserved for speaking to frightened animals and small children.  “But I need to see Carlton Pettigrew.  Now.”

Her enormous blue eyes widened even further in her tiny, wrinkled face.

“Please,” he thought to add.

She surprised him with a laugh, a musical tinkle of sound.  “You must be Tucker.  Please.  Please come in.”   

“And you know this… how?”

Her gaze drank in his face.  “You have your father’s eyes,” she finally told him.

Yeah.  He kind of didn’t think so.
“You knew my father?”

“Of course.  Been here over fort
y years, haven’t I?  Beautiful, happy child and a fine, fine young man.  I could see him, in you, in the photographs your mother used to send me.”

“I’m sorry.”  Tucker’s feet wouldn’t move, mired as they were in his confusion.  “I feel like I should know something about this, but… my mother sent you photos?”  He felt the familiar lump form in his throat.

“Eventually, she did.  Oh, child.”  She reached her gnarled hands out, and covered his.  Her touch was surprisingly warm.  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am for your loss.  Your mother was just such a lovely person.” Her eyes shone with tears.  “Well this is silly, isn’t it, us conversing in the doorway?  Won’t you please come in?  I have a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen, and the blueberry biscuits should be about done.”