Read Online Mr. Write (Sweetwater) by Lisa Clark O'Neill - Free Book Online

bullies, too.  Austin Linville chief among them.  But Austin, at least, was in jail. 
    And neither she nor Bran was an easy target any longer.
    “ Thank you for the postcards, by the way.  Your theater troupe really got around.  Although I nearly had a heart attack when I got the one from Amsterdam. I didn’t realize that was even anatomically possible.”
    He grinn ed and sipped his coffee.  “Thought you’d appreciate that.”  He studied the screening tool she’d tossed down just before he’d kissed her, and gestured toward the porch.  “You did this yourself?”
    “The repair, yes, the construction, no.  That’s a little bit beyond my skill set.  Noah put it on for me.”
    Bran shook his head.  “I still can’t believe you’re living in Aunt Mildred’ s shed like some crazy relation in a Faulkner novel.  Although.”  He wiggled his eyebrows toward the house next door.  “I hear the view isn’t so bad.”
    The image of a naked, wet and dripping Tucker Pettigrew flashed into her head before Sarah could stop it.
    “The friend – Mason – is both gorgeous and temporary.  Tucker Pettigrew is a pain in the ass.”
    “Uh-oh.”  He took in the two houses’ proximity.  “No neighborly chats over the backyard fence, huh?”
    “We’ve chatted, all right,” she muttered.  “Let’s just say we have very different definitions of neighborly.”
    “Is that… a sheet over his window?”
    Before she could answer, a loud repetitive beeping assaulted their ears.  Sarah peered around Bran’s shoulder to see a big truck with the words Stratton Construction Rentals painted on the side.  It was backing a very large, very ugly brown dumpster toward them.
    “Hey!” Sarah called and the truck stopped just before it took out the bed of lantana she’d recently finished planting.
    A dark head popped out the passenger window of the cab, and Doug Stratton pushed up the bill of his ball cap.  “Hey Miz Sarah.  Oh, and hey Bran.  Heard you were coming back.  Sorry about that.”  Rainey’s older brother gestured toward the flowers.  “Truck got away from Jimmy a little bit.”  A freckled arm waved from the driver’s side window.  Jimmy Stratton, presumably.  “Don’t you worry.  We’ll fix it.”
    The truck pulled forward, correcting its crooked path, and Bran murmured “My God, they’re letting infants drive now?”
    “Doug’s twenty, and Jimmy’s been able to buy beer legally for a couple years.  We’re getting old, Bran.”
    “ Shit.  Don’t remind me.”
    “What really concerns me is where they’re putting that dumpster.  Surely not…”  Sarah trailed of f as the truck stopped again.  And this time the hydraulic mechanism that controlled the flatbed began to rise, preparing to deposit the dumpster exactly where it would be the most obtrusive.
    “What?” she practically yelled.  “No!  No, no, no.  No.”
    “This should be good,” Bran chirped, strolling behind her as she darted toward the truck.
    “Doug.  Jimmy, stop.  Stop.”  She held up her hands, and Doug climbed out of the cab.  He ambled closer, but pulled up short, his eyes going wide as platters. 
    “ Um.” His cheeks turned red.  “Something wrong, Miz Sarah?”
    “You can’t put that dumpster there.”
    Puzzled, the young man pushed up the brim of his cap to gaze at the clipboard he carried.  “Says here it’s supposed to go to one-one-one Boundary Street.  This is the Pettigrew place, isn’t it?” 
    “ Well, yes, but –”
    “Is there a problem?”
    Sarah cringed at the sound of the voice.  Deep and gravelly with sleep, it skittered across her nerves like loose rocks tumbling down a mountain.  She turned in time to see Tucker Pettigrew step off his verandah.  He’d hitched on jeans and a rumpled shirt the same color as his eyes. Barefoot and wearing yesterday’s beard, he looked like a conquering Scottish warlord who’d just rolled off the last village