Mr. Write (Sweetwater) (47 page)

“Is this your latest manuscript?”

“Yeah.”  He stabbed a hand through his mane of messy hair.
  “I thought you might like to read it.”

“I’d love to.”

“It’s, uh, it’s about this guy – kid really.  Twenty years old, star wideout for his college team, looks like he’s going to go pro.  Has his whole life ahead of him.  He and his girlfriend – pretty serious girlfriend – end up in a car wreck.”

“Oh.”  Her
lurching heart sank a tiny bit.  “I guess it’s bad.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a story otherwise.  He ends up in a wheel chair.  Battles depression, addiction to both alcohol and prescription drugs.  Even attempts suicide.”

“That’s… tough.”

“The girlfriend – love of his life, really – she dies.  In the wreck.
  Bleeds out before help can arrive.  And he can’t get to her to try and stop the bleeding.”

“Because he’s paralyzed.”

“Exactly.”

Just go ahead and shoot her now.  “Well.  I’m sure it’ll be really moving.”

“He turns it around, of course.  He gets involved with this football team.  Underprivileged kids.  One of the boys, in particular, they really form a connection.  And the more time he spends with the kid, the more he starts to fall for the kid’s single mother.”

“That’s a nice way to tie it up.”
  

Looking pleased with himself, Tucker leaned against the desk. 
“I thought so.  At least, I thought so until someone said something about refrigerators, and the damn girlfriend’s hand kept twitching every time I tried to kill her off.”

“You…what?”

He nodded at the manuscript.  “Damnedest thing.  She just wouldn’t give up, no matter how many times I tried.  So she lived.  He lived.  Bitter about it, enough that he pushed her away every time she tried to be there for him or support him.  But they lived, both of them.  And she goes on to make her own mistakes, has a child with a man who isn’t fit to take care of himself, much less a mate and a child. So she raises that child alone.  And after much debate and foot-dragging – and against her better judgment – one day agrees to let him try out for the football team.”

Her smile simply bloomed.  “You didn’t kill off the girlfriend.”

“I didn’t kill off the girlfriend.  And you know what?  She’s one of the best characters I’ve ever written.  I’m in love with her.  I gave her red hair.”

“You…” Tears sprang up before she could stop them.  “Damn it.  I swear, I’ve watered on you or near you more than all the other men of my acquaintance put together.”

“Surprisingly, I don’t mind it.”  He picked up another sheet of paper from the desk, laid it on top of the manuscript.  “I’m hoping you’ll keep watering on me for the next fifty or so years.”

When the words sank in, one of those tears spilled over to fall onto the paper.

“Tucker.”  She looked at the dedication again.  
For my wife.  I had the roots.  You showed me how to make them bloom.

“I was going to
wait until just before publication, sort of spring it on you.  Figured you were less likely to balk if it was going into print.  But after yesterday, when I thought about what could have happened… I realized I didn’t want to wait.”
 

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Yes would be a good starter.”

Her lips quirked at the testy tone.

“I didn’t realize there was a question.”

“
What, changing the damn story, dedicating it to you isn’t enough?  Fine, fine,” he said when she narrowed her watery eyes.  “I love you.  Will you chuck your good sense to the wind and marry me?”

She laughed.  She couldn’t help it.  Then she leaped at him with enough force to knock him back on the desk.  Papers went flying.  “I love you, too.”  She covered his face in happy kisses.  “So much.  Yes.  I would love to chuck my good sense.”

“Smartass.”  But the look in his eyes was tender.  “I have a ring in the desk drawer, if you’ll let me up to get it.”

“I kind of like you like this.”  She stroked his hair back from his face.  “Tucker.  I don’t have the words to tell you what you mean to me.”

“That’s okay.  I’m a writer.”  The kiss he gave her spun out until love shimmered around them.  “Leave the words to me.”
 

Thanks for reading!  Connect with me online at:

www.lisaclarkoneill.com

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If you haven’t yet read my Southern Comfort series, you can download a free sample of Book One, SERENDIPITY, here: 
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And here is a sneak peek at Book Two in the Sweetwater Trilogy.

CHAPTER ONE

ALLISON
Hawbaker looked up as the overhead light flickered and then went out, leaving her alone in the dark bathroom, clutching a toilet brush.

She tried not to think of it as a metaphor for the current state of her life.

“Allie!”

“Coming!” she answered the slightly panicked call of her employee, Rainey Stratton.  Rainey was re-shelving the educational books that were strewn about the Dust Jacket’s children’s section following the departure of one Kirby Abbott and her three pre-school aged offspring.  Judging from the state of the floor when Allie had come in to clean the bathroom, Kirby needed to skip phonics and work on teaching her four-year-old twin boys better aim.

Dropping the toilet brush in the general vicinity of the corner, Allie snapped off her rubber gloves and felt her way along the wall.  Placing fixed shutters over the window in the bathroom so that they could add an extra stall had seemed like a great idea when she and her business partner were renovating the old house into a bookstore/tea room.  But getting stuck in the dark little box during an electrical storm was causing her to reconsider that position.

Finally, she located the doorknob by bumping into it with her hip.  Rubbing the spot, she yanked open the door, gulping air like a landed trout. 

“Allie, is that you?”

“No, it’s Freddy Krueger.”

“That’s not funny.”

Allie followed the sound of Rainey’s indignant voice until her eyes finally adjusted. She could just make out the younger woman’s tall, lithe form cowering beside a bookshelf.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark.”

“Hey, everyone knows that thunderstorms coupled with power outages are two of the three necessary conditions to bring forth deranged, hatchet-wielding serial killers from… wherever it is that they hang out otherwise.”

“Starbucks?”

“Sure, poke fun.  You won’t be laughing when the hatchet-wielding maniac chops through the door.”

Amusement tamping down her own discomfort, Allie slowly edged toward the counter.  She was pretty sure they had some candles in one of the drawers.  “And what’s the third condition to bring forth this hatchet-wielding maniac, might I ask?”

“Teenagers having sex.”

“Well, since you’re the only one of us within spitting distance of that age bracket, and as far as I can tell, you’re not currently in flagrante delicto, I think we’ll be okay.”  Allie bumped into the edge of the counter, hitting the same spot on her hip.  Swallowing a curse, she went around the back, opening the drawer she thought might hold candles.

“I’m barely twenty.  And anyway,” Rainey admitted. “I was thinking about having sex.”

“Like that’s something new?”  But since thinking about having sex was the closest Allie’d come to the actual deed since her fiancé called off their engagement well over a year ago, she slammed the drawer – which was empty except for Rainey’s purse – a little harder than necessary. 

“Are you looking for candles?” Rainey said, gingerly picking her way closer.  “Because I think Sarah took those home with her a couple of weeks ago.”

Allie’s shoulders sagged with exasperation.  “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I just did.”

Sarah Barnwell – Allie’s business partner and best friend since grade school – had probably taken the candles to use for a romantic dinner with her fiancé.  Irritation flared, but was quickly doused.  In the months since Tucker Pettigrew had moved in next door to the Dust Jacket, Allie’d never seen her friend happier.  The curmudgeonly author with the surprisingly squishy center was Sarah’s match in almost every way.  And Allie had come to think of Tucker as a brother.  

Not that she needed another one, considering she had three of her own. With whom she was currently living. And sadly,
that
fact wasn’t the biggest contributor to her sexless state.

She really needed to get a life.

Jumping at a noise beside her, Allie glanced out the window, where the gnarled limb of a live oak tree scraped its bony fingers against the glass.

“God, that sounds creepy,” Rainey whispered.

Since the little hairs on the back of Allie’s neck were standing at attention, she couldn’t disagree.  The rain hadn’t yet started, but the wind blew in angry gusts and thunder rumbled, like the mean-spirited cackle of some ancient, pissed-off god.  From the looks of things, the entire block was without power.  Absent the occasional strike of lightening, the neighborhood appeared black as a tomb.

During one of those strikes, Allie caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the counter. Wide blue eyes stared out from a pale oval face caught between chin length black hair and a dark blue blouse. She looked like a disembodied, floating spectral head.

The limb blew against the glass again, and Allie jumped.  “And now you’re just spooking yourself,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Allie said, opening the drawer again and taking out Rainey’s purse.  “Why don’t you go on home.” The younger woman lived in an apartment just a couple blocks over.  “Who knows when the power will be back on?  We can’t do any more tonight anyway, and I’d feel better if you left before it gets really nasty.”

Rainey hesitated.  “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.  Thanks, Allie.”  She grabbed her purse.  “Ten to one my roommate is already roasting marshmallows in the fireplace.  Last time the power went out we ended up with her entire Abnormal Psych class at our place making s’mores.”

“Sounds crazy.”

“Hardy har har.  See you Monday.”

“Be careful walking home.”

Rainey’s long legs ate up the distance to the front door just as another bolt of lightning flashed outside. She hunched her shoulders, then gave a little finger wave before closing the door behind her. 

Allie sighed.  Oh, to be that young. When life’s little inconveniences were merely another excuse to party.

Realizing that this particular inconvenience put an effective end to her workday, Allie decided to take her own advice and leave before the storm got worse.  Having the traffic lights out would be bad enough, but once the rain set in, the drive home could turn treacherous. Her family home sat on a bluff overlooking the Sweetwater River, but the roads leading there tended to flood.  After all, they didn’t call this the Lowcountry for nothing.  Most of Sweetwater sat about fifteen feet above sea level, at best.

Abandoning the search for candles, Allie pulled her key ring from the pocket of her sweater.  And rolled her eyes heavenward.  She’d forgotten all about the miniature penlight on the ring, courtesy of her older brother Will, the family Boy Scout.

Well, technically he was the Chief of Police. But he had that “Be Prepared” thing bred into his marrow.  Switching on the surprisingly strong beam, Allie headed toward the front door, needing to lock up before grabbing her own purse from the office and heading out the back.  She bounced the light along the floor, recalling, for some unfathomable reason, the shadow animals she and Sarah used to make as kids.  Allie stuck her free hand in the beam, elevating two fingers while curling the rest.  Was that the dog?  Hmm. It looked more like a rabbit. Maybe you had to use two hands to form the dog. 

She’d have to see if Sarah had stocked any shadow puppetry how-to books in the children’s section. 

Allie’d just about reached the door when it burst open on a gust of wind.

“Aaahh!”  Stumbling back from the large, dark shape framed in the doorway, Allie crashed into one of the bistro tables, promptly falling onto her butt.  The table rocked, then tipped ominously, but was righted before it could crash down onto her head.

“Well hell, Al, don’t go braining yourself,” said a familiar voice. “It’s just me.”

The voice’s owner steadied the table.  Relief swamped her, followed quickly by irritation.  In retaliation, she shined the beam of the penlight directly in her brother’s face.

“Cut that out.”  Will lifted his arm to protect eyes the exact shade of blue as her own.  “If you’d been aiming that thing toward the door, like a reasonable person, instead of making weird hand signals at the floor, you would have seen me through the glass.”