Mr. Write (Sweetwater) (9 page)

Feeling like an over-grown Hansel, Tucker stepped across the threshold. 

And immediately caught his breath.  The entrance hall was huge, capped off by a sky-painted dome that had to be four stories high.  A stringer staircase seemed to float along one curving, plaster wall, and the gazillion-armed chandelier looked like it could light an entire football field.  The floor was polished marble, the wood moldings elaborate, and unless he was missing his bet, hand-carved.

Damn
.

Not that Tucker hadn’t seen
plenty of outrageously impressive structures before.  He had. Up close and very personal.  But this was a little town in South Carolina, for God’s sake.  And this place was an architectural gem, no doubt about it.  When he considered the money that had to go into the upkeep of something like this…

His mouth tightened as he followed the little old woman.  He remembered his mother quietly sitting at their tiny kitchen table, rolling pennies, so that she could go to the market and buy bread.   

“I’m sorry,” he said, as they passed a series of parlors and conservatories and whatever the hell all those useless formal rooms were called. “But I’m afraid I didn’t catch you name.”

“Oh!”  She laughed again,
a rusty tinkling sound.  “I’m Anna Mae.”

They’d finally arrived at a large but surprisingly cozy kitchen.  “I’ve been the head housekeeper here for years.”  She gestured to the banquette built against a span of windows
.  Tucker hesitated, but then folded himself behind the table to have a seat.  “Cream and sugar, hon?”

He looked up to see her holding a carafe over a stoneware mug. 
Coffee.  Thank God.  “No.  Thank you.” 

“Biscuits’ll be just another minute,” she told him as she poured, and Tucker realized that the kitchen smelled… God, really familiar.  It gave him the weirdest sense of déjà vu.  “Did I… was I ever…”

When he ran out of verbal gas, she sat his coffee down in front of him with a reminiscent smile.  “You used to like to sit there, right in that spot, with a big ole’ biscuit with extra icing.  ’Course you drank milk in those days.”

Tucker stared.  She couldn’t possibly have known he was coming.  He hadn’t known it himself until this morning. “You don’t really seem surprised to see me.”

To his utter horror, tears filled her eyes.  “I didn’t mean to –”

“No, no.”  She waved him off, pulling open the oven and unloading a pan of steaming biscuits. He could almost taste them, the scent memory was so strong.  “When I heard you were in town I knew it would be but a matter of time before your granddaddy found a way to get you over here.
  He’s been tryin’ for some time, you know.”

Tucker did
.

He’
d been nearly thirteen the first time – that he remembered – that he’d met his father’s father.  His mother had been tense and thin-lipped for weeks, until she finally told him that his grandfather wanted to see him.  Tucker hadn’t even been aware he’d
had
a grandfather, but then she’d explained about the fancy estate in South Carolina, the piles and piles of money.  All of it Tucker’s birthright.  And that he absolutely, with her blessing, was entitled to it, if that’s what he wanted.  But he had to hear his grandfather out.

Like any normal kid
, especially one who’d grown up in near poverty, Tucker was elated at the prospect. Until he’d gone to meet the old man.  And realized that birthrights didn’t come for free.

“He wanted me to leave New York.  Go to some boarding school in Charleston and spend my vacations and holidays
here, with him.  And my mother wasn’t invited.”

“I know.”  The old woman’s voice softened with sympathy.  “And
you
refused.”

Not that it had been that easy.  Tucker stomped around, locked himself in
his room, accused his mom of ruining his life.  It shamed him now, to remember. 

B
ecause if anything, his mom had saved him.  At tremendous expense to herself.

“He doesn’t understand men like you,”
Anna Mae told him.  “Men like your father.  Men who can’t be bought or coerced.  Did your mother…” here she hesitated, and Tucker found himself waiting almost breathlessly to hear what she would say.  “Did she ever tell you the story of how she met your father?”

And Tucker realized with clarity that this was why he’d felt so compelled to come to Sweetwater.  His mom had told him about his dad, lovingly recycling the same warm, funny anecdotes, over and over.  But Tucker had always known there were parts too painful or private for
the retelling.

“She told me
,” he cleared his throat, “that she spilled soup all over his lap.”

Anna Mae
’s eyes lit at what was obviously the memory.  “It was a dinner party.  The very first night she worked here.”

“Here?”  His coffee mug
nearly slipped from his hand, so he lowered it to the table.  He’d always gotten the impression that they’d met at some kind of restaurant.  “Mom worked… here?”

“Not for long.”  Those
faded blue eyes danced merrily.  “Your father saw to that.”

“
Anna Mae!  Anna
Mae!”

Tucker jumped as a disembodied voice filled the kitchen.

“That would be your grandfather,” she sighed, nodding toward a speaker built into the wall.  “Wondering why I’m taking so long with his breakfast.”

Tuck
er had nearly forgotten that it was the old man he’d come to see.

“Let me show you to the gentleman’s game room,” she said as she rose.  “I’m sure that’s where he’ll want to
meet with you.”

TUCKER
stared at the withered man perched on the settee, trying to reconcile him with the memories he had of his grandfather.

The eyes were still the same – cool, intelligent, condescending – but otherwise the past twenty
years hadn’t been kind.  His big frame was stooped, his skin spotted and lined.  But then, the man was
eighty-three years old.

I
t was also possible that Gramps was an even
bigger
prick now than when he’d given Tucker that whole “responsibility to the Pettigrew name” speech, back when Tucker was a kid.

Guess that laid waste to the myth about people mellowing with age.

“Those papers?”  Tucker said now, trying not to be creeped out by the dead animal heads staring at him from the walls, looking every bit as surprised and annoyed as himself to find themselves there.  “I’m not sure what bullshit you’re trying to pull, but we work this out right here.  I’m not going to be dragged into court, have my life turned into a sideshow.”

Carlton T. steepled his papery hands. “If you’ve bothered to consult your attorney –”

“I fired him.”

For some reason, t
his made the old man smile.  “I’m assuming that was in response to your recent tenant… issues.”

“None of your business.”

“Regardless, the trust agreement states that –”

“
It’s an irrevocable, generation-skipping trust,” Tucker interrupted.  His lawyer had been clear on this, at least.  Just as Tucker had been clear that the generation-skipping aspect hadn’t been chosen for its tax benefits, but as a dart aimed at Tucker’s father. 

“
You effectively removed your right to any incidents of ownership when you transferred the Boundary Street property to me.  Meaning, it’s mine, and you can’t quibble about it just because I don’t bow and scrape and offer to kiss your damn ring.  You’re my grandfather, not my king, and I don’t give a shit about your empire.”

A clock ticked in the silence.

“Your mother,” the old man finally said “benefited personally from those incidents of ownership.  As interim trustee, that opened her to breach of trust.”

This was the part of the
ridiculous lawsuit that really boiled his blood.  “My mother,” he said through clenched teeth “is dead.”

“I know.”  His grandfather didn’t even blink. 
Hadn’t offered one word of condolence.  “Which is why I’m forced to sue her estate.”

Tucker laughed, completely without humor. 
“I’m
her estate, you jackass.  A fact of which you’re well aware.  As you’re aware of the fact that she only began to rent the house out so that she could send me to a decent school
.  I
benefited. 
I
was the minor beneficiary who was legally entitled to any incidents.  You’re suing
me
on behalf of
me.
” 

“
Then it should be no problem to provide documentation to that effect to your new attorney.  Unless, of course, your mother –”

“
She never cared about the damn money.”

Realizing that he’d come out of his chair, Tucker took a ragged breath to get hold of his temper.  Losing it was just giving his grandfather what he was after.  Or part of it, anyway.

Tucker shook his head in disgust.  “You had years to file this lawsuit if you really thought that the terms of the trust were being violated.  The only reason you’re doing it now is because I’m here in your backyard, and it pisses you off that I’m still not willing to play footsies.”

“Such a way with words,” Carlton said drolly.

A barb, but Tucker ignored it.  “Drop the lawsuit.  Then I’ll stay out of your way, you stay out of mine, and we’ll both pretend that the little inconvenience of a shared bloodline doesn’t exist.”

“You could still have it all, you know.”

Tucker paused, halfway to the door.  “Have I given you the impression that I’m interested?”

“I simply thought, without your mother around to… cloud your judgment –”

Tucker slowly turned.  “In deference to your advanced years, I’m going to assume that of the two of us,
you
are the one with the fuzzy judgment.  My father grew up with all this.”  He gestured around the elaborate, antique-filled room.  “And
he
was willing to give it up to be with her, even when you tried to keep them apart.  Yeah, I know all about that.  And before you start thinking that she was badmouthing you all those years, I was able to put that together for myself.  Mostly by the way you acted.  If it had been up to her, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have even known you existed.”

Carlton T. rose
, and moved slowly toward the fireplace, though his pace was more deliberate than due to age.  A tactic, Tucker suspected, to prove that he was still in charge. 

E
xamining the fancy bric-a-brac that lined the intricately carved mantel, he picked up a framed photograph of Tucker as a very young child.

It didn’t really surprise Tucker to see it there
, among the heavy candlesticks and collection of antique pistols, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think it had anything to do with sentiment. 

Carlton was the kind of man who liked to look at his possessions.

“You think you know what happened.”  He ran his finger along the silver frame.  “I should think that you, of all people, would realize there are two sides to every story.” 

“I know enough.”  It was a lie, but Tucker was damned if he’d ask his grandfather to fill in the blanks.  “Now if you’ll excuse me.  I have to see how my new plaster is setting up.”

“The Boundary Street property can’t be sold.  Or used for commercial purposes.”

Was that what had the old man worried?  That Tucker w
as planning to fix it up and unload it?  That he’d be out from under his thumb once and for all?  “I’ve read the trust agreement,
Grandpa
.
”

Carlton sat the frame back on the mantel, his
eyes like ice.

“You
are
in my backyard now, Tucker.  It would serve you well not to forget it.”

CHAPTER SIX

ALLIE
bumped into the table.  She lowered the stack of cardboard boxes she carried just in time to see Sarah’s neatly arranged display of local interest books topple.

“
Here, let me get those.”

The boxes were lifted from her arms, and Allie blinked up into the lov
ely face of their new salesgirl/barista.  Rainey Stratton wasn’t quite as tall as Sarah, but she still had a good several inches on Allie.  Allie was starting to feel like a hobbit who’d wandered into Amazonia by mistake.  “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

They’d been going gangbusters the past few days, getting everything ready for the grand opening, and even though they hadn’t intended to hire any additional help until they saw how things were going, Rainey had been a godsend.  She was funny, personable, intelligent and not afraid to jump in with both feet.

Rainey sat the boxes in front of the bookcase Allie’d been headed toward, and then bent to help her pick up the mess on the floor.