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

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