Free Mr. Write (Sweetwater) by Lisa Clark O'Neill

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.”
    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