Because the heat of temper had begun to simmer, his next words fell like chips of ice. “The house, the lot. Any of it. It’s all tied up in a trust.”
“Bully for you. I gather you were listening in on my conversation.”
“No, I was sleeping. Your conversation assaulted my ears.”
“You were sleeping?” Her eyes went wide with fake remorse. “Gee, sorry to have woken you at” she glanced at her watch “nine a.m. That’s the problem with us working stiffs. Up and at ‘em before noon.”
“And some of us,” he said between his teeth “were working until after three last night.”
“Watching someone else scrape paint must be a real chore.”
The sense of injustice was a whetstone that honed the edge of his tongue.
“Did you ask me?” His tone was silky, lethal. “Did you ask me about selling or leasing that front piece of my property?”
She looked ever so slightly taken aback. But then fire leapt in her eyes and she stormed down off the porch. “Did I ask if you’d lease, or sell? No. ” She aimed a coral-tipped finger at his face, smelling of good coffee and misplaced indignation. “And gee, I wonder why. Could it be because last night I asked if you’d overlook a few cars parked on your property for the space of a couple hours? We saw how well that turned out. But then, as they say, money talks and bullshit walks. I guess I should have offered to pay you.”
He wouldn’t stand for being confused with his grandfather any longer.
“Tucker.” He grabbed her finger and jammed it into his chest. “Not Carlton.”
The raw sizzle of anger snapped, leapt in the breath of air between them. And as their eyes met, locked, edged into a kind of heat that was less welcome.
Tucker stepped back, and Sarah’s next words came out shaky. “Yes, well, it doesn’t really make a difference, does it? You already said you won’t sell.”
“Not won’t. Can’t. I told you, there’s a trust involved. If I tried to sell, or even use the property for commercial purposes – like, gee, a parking lot – it reverts back to Carlton’s estate. I’m sorry about your dilemma, but I’m not letting that happen.”
“Why not? It’ll all be yours eventually.”
The scope of her misapprehension had the hackles rising on his neck. “There’s a little saying about assumption. In this case, however, I’m pretty sure the only ass here is you.”
The heat that ignited in her eyes this time had nothing to do with lust.
“You are such a jerk.” She ground her finger back into his chest.
“At least I don’t make sweeping presumptions instead of just stating my business to someone’s face.”
He hadn’t realized how loud his voice had grown until a door slammed, and the old black woman came out onto the bookstore’s back porch.
“Sarah?”
“I’m fine, Josie. Just having a little neighborly discussion.”
The woman pinned Tucker with a menacing glare before she headed back inside, muttering under her breath, and the skin on the back of his neck prickled. Mason was right. The old lady was a little scary.
“Okay.” Sarah drew his attention back to the conversation. “I made assumptions.” Her chest rose and fell beneath her long-sleeved T-shirt, and Tucker refused to notice that it was magnificent. The chest, not the shirt. The shirt, he suspected, was worn to cover up that damn bruise. “Although let me just state for the record that I might have spoken with you directly if you’d been even the slightest bit approachable.”
Tucker opened his mouth to argue, but was forced to admit that she was right. Never sociable under the best of circumstances, he’d been even more introverted and curmudgeonly since he’d come to Sweetwater. A point Mason had been all too eager to make last night.
Not to mention that since he had the kitchen skills of a… he had no kitchen skills. Living in New York, with a restaurant or a vendor on every corner, it just hadn’t been necessary to learn to cook. An argument he’d stood by, even when his mom had tried to coerce him.
But here, in the wilds of South Carolina, he hadn’t had a decent cup of coffee in weeks.
So he grabbed her mug, and drank.
“Hey!”
God, that was good. “It’s the smell.” He closed his eyes, almost overcome with bliss. “I couldn’t take it any longer.”
“You could have come into the store and asked me for some to my face.”
Unbelievably, Tucker felt the corners of his mouth begin to twitch. “I was afraid you’d brew mine with eye of newt and toe of frog.” He handed her the mug. “Who’s Noah?”
“What?”
“The guy who built your porch?” He ran his hand over the rail, found the workmanship solid. A man who did this kind of work, Tucker knew, would have good, strong hands.
“He’s my brother. But if you’re looking for another carpenter, you’re out of luck. He’s a boat captain, and tourist season is picking up. He only does this kind of thing on the side.”
Her brother. He wondered why that little hitch in his chest felt like relief.
“The old man was right. He does nice work.”
Because she looked off-balance instead of self-righteous, Tucker figured his work here was done. “Good talking to you, Red.” He turned back toward his house. “Let’s not do it again.”
But he found himself fighting back another smile when she shut her front door with a slam.
SARAH had no time to dwell on the parking situation, cranky neighbors or inter-gender dynamics. Opening day had arrived.
Hair sleeked back into a neat French twist, she’d opted to counter its tidiness with a colorful skirt and blouse she deemed both casual and professional. The earrings she wore – dangling amethysts – were a precious legacy from her mom. Doubt and self-pity had been swept aside, replaced with exhilaration. She felt eager, sure of herself – with just the faintest wash of nerves coloring her excitement.
Allie was a blubbering mess.
“What if no one comes. Or God, what if too many people come? All at once. The register.” She stared at the heavy black machine with panicked confusion, as if an alien spacecraft had just landed on the counter. “I can’t remember. I can’t remember how to make it work.”
“Allie.” Cleverly disguised on a shelf that slid out from beneath the non-functional antique, a sleek little computer hummed. “It’s right here. You know how it works.”
“What if I mess up someone’s order?”
“I’ve got the firing squad ready out back.”
Rolling her eyes, Allie sat on one of the stools at the long marble counter. “I’m being ridiculous.”
“A little. But everyone’s entitled to a minute of panic when they’re pushed outside their comfort zone.”
“I don’t think I can upsell.”
“Sure you can. Someone asks for a latte, how about a nice slice of hazelnut cake to go with that? And have you seen our T-shirts? One hundred percent organic cotton. There’s a book on growing organic, just beneath the shirts on display. Local author. You should check it out.”
“Oh God.”
“Allie.” She covered her friend’s tightly clenched hand with hers. “You’ve dealt with thousands of salespeople over the years. You know what works for you, what doesn’t. This is just the flip side of the customer/retailer coin. You’re… oops, minute’s over.”
She walked to the new front door. And met Bran’s grinning face through the glass.
“Good morning!” she said brightly after she’d flipped the latch. Then whispered: “Your sister’s having a crisis. Go order something, and act really impressed with her presentation, efficiency and personable demeanor.”
“I’m not five,” Allie called bad-temperedly from across the room. “No need to behave like this is my first day of kindergarten and I have to be convinced it’ll be okay to sit next to the kid in the corner who’s eating paste.”
“Randy Morrison,” Bran said as he dropped a quick kiss on Sarah’s cheek a
nd sauntered in. “I swear, I don’t know how that boy made it to graduation without his lips being permanently cemented together. Allie-oop.” He scooped his sister off the stool into a swinging hug, making her laugh. “There’s my girl. You keep frowning, it’ll give you wrinkles.”
“You’re supposed to be boosting my self-confidence.”
“I can do that and offer indispensable beauty advice at the same time. Do I get a special prize for being your first customer?”
“You can sign a dollar bill and we’ll hang it on the wall.”
Bran winked at Sarah. “You want my autograph, sweetie-pie, all you have to do is ask. Now let me see.” Hands on hips, he studied the chalkboard menu listing the daily specials. “That iced coffee sounds just fine. And mmm, give me one of Josie’s chocolate orange muffins, if you please.”
“Would you like a T-shirt with that?”
“Would I –” catching Sarah’s look, Bran changed his confused expression to a broad smile. “That’s an interesting thought, Al. How about I go over and have a look?”
After he strolled off, Sarah turned to see Allie efficiently arranging the muffin and a napkin on one of their smaller plates. “Got him to buy a shirt, didn’t I?” she murmured, startling Sarah into a laugh.
“You just played your brother like a violin.”
“Your point?”
“My point,” she said, thinking that Allie had much more acting in her blood than she probably realized “is that you’re a natural.” With that, she went over to show Bran the coffee table book about theater architecture she’d stocked with him in mind.
They stayed busy. Sarah was realistic enough to realize that a big part of that was the novelty – new store, and one being operated in a hands-on way by a Hawbaker, at that.
But she was optimistic enough to believe that at least some of those people who came by for the experience of having Allison Hawbaker serve them their morning cup of joe would come back because the joe was damn good. And because the atmosphere was warm and charming. And because their favorite author had a new book coming out in two months, and Sarah was more than happy to pre-order it, while directing them to other, similar authors whom they might enjoy in the meantime.
They hit a few glitches. There’d been a run on the chocolate orange muffins, leaving a very grumpy acting Chief of Police when his dispatcher snagged the last one. The credit card machine had gone wonky for the best part of an hour in the afternoon. And Carolann Frye’s pre-schooler, Henry, took a blue crayon to three different picture books.
“I’ll be happy to pay for the books, of course,” Carolann said, not looking happy at all. She cast a punishing glance at her tow-headed son, who sat on the colorful rug in the children’s area, looking mutinous. “I can’t imagine where he got that crayon.”
“He opened one of the boxes we have for sale.”
“Oh. Well.” Her flustered tone turned censorious. “I guess you have to expect this sort of thing when you keep crayons right on the shelf where any child could reach them.”
They kept the crayons at adult eye-level. Sarah had plucked the three-year-old from the top of the bookcase, which he’d climbed to reach them.
His mother had been too busy gossiping to notice.
“I’ll tell you what, Carolann.” Sarah didn’t bother pointing out the whimsically painted sign that said unattended children would be given a free double espresso and a puppy. “Since this has been so… traumatic for Henry, how about I sign him up for our children’s book club meeting at the end of the month? No charge.”
“I’m not sure…”
“We’re reading Miss Spider’s Tea Party. We’ll have tea and cookies in the garden – or on the porch if there’s rain – and the children get to dress up as their favorite insect in costumes we’ll be making. And best of all, you’ll have two hours of free time.”
“I don’t have to stay?” Her tone went from wheedling to delighted.
“It’s kind of a mommy’s morning out.” And, Sarah thought as she began to herd the former prom queen toward the register, Carolann would be sure to tell her circle of friends all about it. Just like the moth in the classic children’s book. The slots for the tea party would fill up in no time.
Plus, the woman left with the picture books, the crayons – and Henry – thinking she’d gotten the best end of the deal.
Mentally patting herself on the back, Sarah turned away from the door. And ran straight into Tucker.
“Oh!” She scrambled back, then looked between them at the splash of brown liquid on his crisp white shirt. More liquid dribbled from a crack in his plastic to-go cup. And the look of pure male exasperation on his face had her trying not to laugh.
“At least it was iced,” she said pleasantly.
“If you’re going to try and smooth this over by offering to make me a bug suit out of construction paper, I’m afraid that’s not going to fly.”
“No pun intended?” She reached over and grabbed several napkins from a dispenser on the old breakfront. “You were listening in on my conversations again.” She handed him the napkins, took the broken cup.
“It’s not my fault your voice carries.” He wiped ineffectively at the stain as he followed her toward the counter.
Sarah tossed the ruined drink into the trash. “You’re going to want to soak your shirt in cold water right away.”
“Am I?”
“Unless you want that stain to set.”
He looked at her. Waited a beat. Then reached for the edge of his shirt.
Sarah grabbed his arm. “Ha.” Smartass. “Food service establishment. Health inspectors get so fussy about things like doing laundry in the sink.”
She walked behind the counter, felt the heat of his gaze on the back of her neck.
Not cold after all, she considered, recalling that she’d found his eyes like chips of ice. Not cold, definitely not dumb. She could admit that it had been petty bias on her part that had had her making that assumption.
And, she thought as she went about the business of filling up a new cup, maybe he wasn’t quite as self-serving as she’d initially guessed.
But still a Pettigrew.
She thought about what he’d said about estates, about trusts. And though he’d gone to some effort to distinguish himself from his grandfather, the fact that he had a grandfather with estates and trusts– a grandfather who’d once evicted Sarah’s own family from their home – made him… she wasn’t foolish enough to say that a man like Tucker was out of her league. But her friendships with the Hawbakers notwithstanding, Sarah didn’t exactly mix with his kind of crowd.
He’d grown up in New York City, for heaven’s sake.
And while Sarah considered herself conversant on a wide range of topics – books, as they said, could take you anywhere – her most cosmopolitan experience to date had been a week spent in Atlanta at a bookseller’s convention.
And why, she asked herself as she selected a plastic lid, fitted it over the coffee, was she suddenly concerned about her compatibility – or lack thereof – with Tucker Pettigrew?
Because he wasn’t dumb. Wasn’t cold. Because her temper, never in short supply whenever he was around, wasn’t the only thing that had begun to sizzle.
And unless she was very much mistaken, that heat wasn’t entirely one-sided.
But as attractive as she found him – and it would be stupid to pretend that she didn’t find him surprisingly, compellingly attractive – the fact remained that the only common ground they shared was the line between their properties.
And they’d already argued about that.
Twice.
Sarah hadn’t given much thought to dating since she’d been back in town. But when she did, she’d pick a candidate that she was more likely to make it through an evening without maiming.
“Didn’t expect to see you in here.” She unwrapped a straw, except for the very tip, and stuck it through the lid into the coffee.
“You’re open for business.
I figure you’re going to be less inclined to poison me now, considering those health inspectors you were talking about. Guess you made up for it by ruining my shirt.”
“Guess so.”
And because she simply couldn’t resist, hit the button that would switch the music coming through the speakers from Adele to a selection of Broadway musicals.
She saw it, in his eyes, when it hit him.
Then watched, with surprised delight, as a faint wash of color crept up his cheeks.
She smiled, added a little extra twang. “Here you go.” She passed his drink across the counter. “Y’all come back now, ya hear.”
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.
Mr. Write (Sweetwater) Page 11
