Mr. Write (Sweetwater)

by O'Neill, Lisa Clark

  Unless you were fortunate enough to indulge in that other perfect sunrise sampler: sex and more sleep.

  But since that plate had been whisked away from the table before he’d even had a chance to taste, Tucker resigned himself to the coffee. And whatever little chunk of his hide he’d have to give up in order to get some.

  The old lady rose from where she’d obviously been loading stuff into the display case, and Tucker stopped in his tracks. He glanced around, but since he’d intentionally gotten here just as they opened, he was the only one in the store.

  He tried a smile. “Good morning.”

  She fixed a look on him that he would swear was meant to do him physical harm, before muttering something and walking into the back. A moment later, Sarah came through the same door.

  She’d done something to her hair that made it hang straight as rain over her shoulders. Tucker found himself both baffled and annoyed that he’d noticed her hairstyle again.

  “You’re certainly up early,” she said. “Hoping to get the worm?”

  “Hoping to get coffee.”

  “To go?”

  Screw it. “For here.”

  “Black?”

  “You read me.”

  She paused in the act of reaching for a mug. “As a matter of fact.”

  That, to his chagrin, had actually been some kind of fatigue-induced Freudian slip. But he might as well follow up.

  “When? After you stormed out last night?”

  “I walked out, rather sedately, as – and I believe I mentioned this – I was trying to get home ahead of the actual storm.” The calmness of her reply made his own stomach jumpy.

  “Look. Am I supposed to feel, what, guilty” stupid “for not mentioning the fact that I’m an author?”

  “I don’t know, Tucker. Are you?” She poured coffee from a fresh pot. “Although, I have to say – speaking as a bookseller, you understand. I have to say that it’s an odd business strategy for a writer to basically boycott the bookstore he’s moved next door to.”

  “I haven’t boycotted you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Would you stop being so fucking reasonable?”

  She settled the mug onto a sturdy saucer, smiled. “As a bookseller, I’ve found it’s a better business strategy not to tell customers to go to hell.”

  “Damn it, Sarah –”

  “Fine.” Shoving a waterfall of red out of her face, she abandoned all pretense. “You were visibly annoyed the first time you walked in here. You resisted overtures, ignored invitations. You acted like our very presence was some kind of personal trial. I don’t get it. Unless our little store is just too bourgeois for your tastes.”

  “I thought we covered this last night, but apparently you’re a slow learner. I’m not some damn elitist snob. I…” he wasn’t going to use his mom’s very sudden, very unexpected death as a sob story. He just wasn’t. “I had my reasons for being unsettled when I first got here.”

  “You sat there, asked me why books. And said nothing.”

  Because the answer she’d given had been so close to his own. And it had moved him. “So?”

  She threw up her hands. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Would you like a scone with your coffee? The apricot-white chocolate is the special today, and believe me when I tell you that it is nothing short of divine.”

  Tucker figured he had two choices. He could say yeah, sure, accept the wall of professionalism she’d erected between them, drink his coffee, eat his scone, and then leave.

  And whatever they’d started last night – or hell, several weeks ago – would die a quiet death.

  Probably better that way. Certainly easier.

  But he’d never been one to take the easy route.

  “You don’t have it stocked.”

  “What?”

  “Heartland. I –”

  “Sorry, sorry, I know I’m late.”

  Tucker turned around to see Allie bustling through the door behind him. Clearly flustered, she stopped when she noticed him, pinking up a little when she glanced between him and Sarah. “Good morning, Tucker. Sarah, I’m so sorry. I seem to have forgotten to set my alarm.”

  “The flogging will commence shortly.”

  “Ha. Well.” She flushed again when she glanced in Tucker’s direction. “I’ll just…” she gestured vaguely toward what Tucker thought must be the office. “Nice seeing you, Tucker.”

  When she’d fled – there was no other word to describe it – Sarah turned narrowed eyes on him. “What was that about?”

  “Damned if I know.” He’d seen her a number of times since their encounter in McGruder’s, and while she’d been a little uncomfortable, maybe a touch embarrassed, he’d thought she was well over it by now.

  Then Tucker thought of the plates of cookies and scones, of the containers of Tupperware in his fridge. Of the fact that Mason had taken off without a word last night, that the door to his bedroom had been closed this morning.

  “That bastard.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Tucker waved it away with his hand. He’d deal with Mason later.

  He stepped up to the counter, took the coffee she’d poured, and drank half of it down where he stood.

  “That has to be hot.”

  “Don’t care.” He choked a little, felt his eyes water. And took a smaller, more reasonable sip. “More.”

  She topped it off, and this time sat a little pitcher of cream, some packets of raw sugar on the counter.

  Tucker slid onto a stool. “How’d you know?”

  “The past few days, Mason would come over early, get two large coffees, black. Later, he’d be back, switching to tea for himself, and to sweet and light on the coffee. By noon, or thereabouts, the coffee was inevitably iced.”

  “Observant.”

  “Pays to be so, if you’re going to run a business that focuses on customer service. That personal touch can make the difference between someone coming back or going somewhere else.”

  Tucker thought that that was true on several levels. And because he did, he watched her as he ripped open one of the little packets of sugar. “There was a deli, just down the block from my apartment. When I write – when it’s going well, anyway – sometimes I forget stuff. Laundry in the washing machine, appointments. Food. The guy who ran the place, he’d send one of his delivery kids over with sandwiches and coffee periodically, when he knew it had me gripped.”

  “Nice of him.”

  “Yeah. I framed in a few booths for him when he wanted to add more seating, and after I was published, talked another author I know – he wrote a book about the art of the deli sandwich – into doing a publicity thing there. A little outside the box, but it brought in some new business for both of them.”

  She passed him a spoon rolled into a napkin. “Is this your way of offering to barter services, Tucker?”

  “This is my way of admitting that I haven’t exactly been easy to live next door to. And to tell you that that hasn’t always been the case. I’m broody, I’m temperamental and I don’t have much use for many people, but I’m not…” What, now he was auditioning for neighbor of the year? “Look, I didn’t say anything because unless you’re deaf and blind, you realize I’m… interested. On a personal level. Though damned if I can figure out why.”

  “You silver-tongued devil, you.”

  “You want to tell me the heat between us hasn’t made you wonder if you’d developed a brain tumor you weren’t aware of?”

  “You might want to get to the point.”

  “The point” he dumped cream into his coffee “is that I noticed, the last time that I was in here, that you didn’t have my book in stock. I’m pretty new, you’re a small store, so no big deal. But if I brought it up while – as you so astutely observed – I was hitting on you, then that could only go one of a couple ways. You think I’m using the fact that I’m a writer to hit on you, which makes me a cheeseball. Or along those lines, yet infinitely slimier: I’m hitting o
n you because I’m a writer and I want you to promote my books. And worse, at least from my perspective, I say ‘Hey, guess what, I’m a writer, but I noticed you don’t carry my book,’ and you say: ‘Yeah, because it sucks.’ Then I’m obliged to crawl away with my tail between my legs, forever prevented from hitting on you again.”

  She stared at him for several heartbeats.

  “And here I thought what was going through your head last night was more along the lines of I like the way your boobs look in that dress.”

  “That, too. But seeing as how your boobs are terrific, I’ve yet to see an article of clothing in which I didn’t like the way they look.”

  “You know,” she observed as he stirred his coffee. “I probably shouldn’t find that sort of comment appealing.”

  “Why not? It’s straightforward. No point dancing around the fact that we make each other hot.”

  “Do we?” She took an apricot scone from the display case, all but slapped it onto a plate.

  Tucker considered. Decided what the hell. And reached a hand across the counter to cup her cheek. “You tell me.”

  And kissed her.

  He tasted her annoyance, but that only made it sweeter when she made a kind of helpless sound deep in her throat. She wanted him, but wasn’t necessarily happy about it. That was okay. It put them in the same boat.

  And the boat they were in, he decided as he angled his head, took the kiss a little deeper, was currently rocking. On good, healthy waves of lust.

  “Mmm. Stop. God.” Blurry-eyed, Sarah pulled away, braced herself on the counter.

  Tucker leaned back, sipped his coffee. “You were saying?”

  She scowled. “That you are an arrogant, overbearing man.”

  “Curled your toes.”

  “You most certainly…” she looked down, jerked her gaze back up. “You can’t even see my toes.”

  “I guess it was my toes, then.”

  The laugh simply sprang out of her, like a fistful of bright flowers. “Jesus.” She pressed her fingers into her eyes. “This is a place of business. Not the backseat of your car.”

  “I don’t have a car, I have a truck. It has no backseat.”

  “Oh, quit nitpicking, Mr. Wordsmith.”

  When she simply strolled off, disappearing through the door Allie had closed earlier, Tucker wondered if he’d misjudged.

  Had he pissed her off? Or worse, he thought, as he considered what he’d overheard the night they’d found the dead rat, had he somehow frightened her?

  The thought made the scone he bit into turn to sawdust on his tongue.

  But she was back a few moments later, a paperback book in her hand.

  A paperback book he recognized.

  She laid it on the counter. Slightly battered, with a few pages dog-eared, it was obviously a personal copy. “I read your book, C. Tucker. Last year, after a client of the bookstore I managed asked me to order in a copy for her.”

  The sawdust formed a lump as he swallowed. “Okay.”

  “Not going to ask me what I thought?”

  “I figure you’ll tell me without prompting. People usually do.”

  “Which I imagine is either gratifying or annoying, depending on the circumstances. And, knowing how you feel about your privacy, I’m guessing part of the reason you use a pseudonym.”

  “You’d be right.”

  “The other part,” she tilted her head “has to be a sort of up yours to your grandfather.”

  “Two for two. I don’t need his money, and I certainly don’t need his name.”

  She waited a beat, then told him: “My respect for you at this moment is such that I’m tempted to pick up that kiss where it left off.”

  “This is a place of business,” he reminded her. “But my bed will be available later.”

  “I said kiss.”

  “I’m very good at deciphering subtext.”

  She tapped a long, tapered finger on his book. “You’re very good at writing it, also. The subtext I got from Heartland is that life is very often unhappy, frequently unfair.”

  “Shit happens. It’s how you deal with it that matters.”

  “It broke my heart when Jolene died.”

  “It broke Hank’s heart, too.” And had left some scars on Tucker’s. “They got dealt a raw hand.”

  “First the war kept them apart, while she married another man and bore Hank’s illegitimate son. He’s nearly killed – she believes he has been – and he comes back wounded, physically, emotionally. He’s destitute, homeless. She discovers him living on the street.”

  “I’m familiar with the plot, Red.”

  “But they suffered through all of that – their bond intact. And then she’s murdered by the man she married.”

  “And Hank,” he continued, feeling a stir of defensive annoyance “was able to rise above the circumstances, his grief, and finish the job of raising their son.”

  “Women in Refrigerators Syndrome.”

  Women in… “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, technically that term applies to comic books, but basically it refers to the death of a female character as a plot device. It’s used as a catalyst for the male protagonist’s growth, which is all well and good, except for the fact that, you know, the heroine dies.”

  He thought of the hours – hundreds and hundreds of hours – he’d labored over that manuscript. Of the countless rejections, endless revisions. The times he’d felt like beating his head against his keyboard. Beating his keyboard against the wall.

  He thought of the four years it had taken to fight his way through the industry’s bullshit, whims and red tape.

  “Maybe you should limit your reading material to Disney.”

  She let out an exasperated breath. “So like a man. If it has a happy ending, it must be a fairy tale. I liked your book, Tucker. Very much. You’re a gifted writer. I didn’t stock Heartland because on a business level, I was trying to keep my inventory fairly small to start. Beach season is upon us, and romances and thrillers are easier sells. And like you said, you’re fairly new. And because on a personal level, it… well, as much as I liked it, I hadn’t planned on reading it again, simply because it left me sad. But I already have your next book on order. The early press it’s been getting is solid.”

  He didn’t know whether to feel irritated, grateful or chastised. “Okay.”

  “Funny how that skill with language doesn’t translate to the spoken word. And by the way?” She spun the book around, pointed to the author photo which still made him cringe. That stupid smile made him look like the next order of business was selling the reader a used car. “Victoria is full of shit.”

  “Who?”

  “More points for you. Victoria Hawbaker – Harlan’s ex-wife. The woman who was fawning over you as I left last night.”

  “Ah.” The very hot blonde who’d left him cold. All the right lines, no subtext.

  “No way she recognized you from this photo,” Sarah said with the same kind of venom that had both surprised and amused him last night. “You’re not frowning, you’re clean-shaven and someone must have held you down and sheared your head like a sheep. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were civilized. And if Torie read your book, it was only because she researched your background and found out that you’re an author.”

  “And why would she do that?” He started to pick up his coffee, but Sarah snatched it away. “I was drinking that.”

  “It’s gone cold.” She dumped it, poured him a fresh one, making it difficult to complain. “She would do that because you’re a Pettigrew. And she’s a gold-digging bitch.”

  “This particular vein is tapped.”

  “Of which she is either unaware, or she thinks she can bring you around, convince you to make nice with Grandpa. Then work herself into the family fold.”

  He studied her face. “You’re not kidding.”

  “Talk to Allie about what Victoria did to Harlan.”

 
“I’d rather talk to you, if it’s all the same. And not about Victoria. Pen?”

  “What?”

  “Do you have a pen?”

  “Sure.” With a puzzled look for the change in subject, Sarah dug out a pen from beneath the counter. Tucker glanced around, snagged an extra coffee sleeve from the basket, and scrawled his cell number before passing both the sleeve and the pen across the counter.

  “What’s this?”

  “What’s it look like? I don’t always come to the door, but if you are interested in picking this up where we left off, just text me.”

  “A booty text. How romantic.”

  “You want romance, read a novel. You want your toes curled, you know how to get ahold of me. What happened to your hand?”

  “What?”

  “Your hand?” he indicated the bandage across the top.

  “Oh. That.” She frowned. “Useless got out again last night, and I found him hiding under a bush. He scratched me. I guess he was scared of the storm.”

  Tucker swallowed his opinion of her varmint, and when the front door opened again, he turned his head to see Allie’s older brother come through it.

  And settle his gaze on him. “Mornin’ Sarah. Pettigrew.” Those cop’s eyes narrowed. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

  WILL bit through the dusting of crystallized sugar on top of his muffin, into a plump piece of fruit.

  And tasted childhood. Nobody made a blueberry muffin like Josie.

  He’d bypassed the fancier special in favor of the good, old-fashioned basic. Will figured that pretty well summed him up. He was a chunk of granite in a family of polished marble. Not quite as elegant, not quite as smooth. But, he liked to think, solid as bedrock.

  But enough about him.

  He eyed the man sitting across from him, the man taking up most of the corner into which their little table was tucked. The man whose arrival – as Will had suspected – seemed to be stirring up some sediment on the bottom of the Sweetwater pond.

  “How’s small town life treating you?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Big change.”

  “You could say that.”

  Will chewed. Swallowed. Gestured with his chin. “That eye looks a little tender.”