Cathryn. Shannon Waverly

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СКАЧАТЬ Way out of range. Cursing around his cigarette, he returned the phone to its case and paced the portico like a caged bear.

      He wished there was someone he could call. Normally, he disliked sharing his problems. After fending for himself most of his life, he was accustomed to handling crises on his own. But right about now, it might be nice to bounce ideas off another person.

      He considered the guys he hung around with and dismissed them as quickly as they came to mind. How could he admit to the yahoos he called friends that at the ripe old age of thirty-five he’d gotten a woman pregnant? They’d never let him live it down and they’d certainly be no help. Jenny didn’t want to marry him. What was the problem, man? To them, the problem would be if she did want to get married.

      A car swashed into the parking lot and a moment later an elderly couple got out. Strangers to Tuck, they nodded, lips pressed in sorrowful regret, as they walked by him, taking careful little steps, and entered the building. He sighed. Ah, yes—Walter. Automatically his lips pressed in matching regret. This wasn’t the time to be thinking of Jenny or impending fatherhood. It was time to mourn the generous man who, together with his patient wife, had rescued his sorry-ass life and changed him from a punk into…less of a punk. And for that, Tucker was truly sad. He wished he could’ve turned out better more quickly for them. He wished he hadn’t caused them so much trouble—all those calls from the principal and Charlie Slocum, Harmony’s now-retired chief of police. He wished he had finished high school here, not in some far-off GED program, so they could’ve watched him receive his diploma. He wished Walter had seen him race at least once, even if he was just on the stock-car circuit. He wished he’d bought Winnie a clothes dryer before she caught pneumonia from hanging out laundry. He wished…he wished Jenny would change her mind and marry him.

      And with that his thoughts went over to the other side again. A barrel-deep moan rose from his chest. He’d been embroiled in this emotional tug-of-war for days, caught between his sadness over his uncle’s death and his angst over his love life. Pulled in two directions, he was doing neither justice.

      Well, he was tired of it. It was clearly time to focus. Or at least do something about one or the other.

      Tucker dropped his third cigarette into the trash receptacle and headed inside. Old man D’Autell was sitting in his office at the end of the center hall, changing a tape for the P.A. system. More harp diddling. Leaning in the doorway, Tucker asked, “Is there a phone somewhere in this building where I can make a private call?”

      The long-faced mortician gazed at him with a wariness that slightly offended Tucker. As far as he could remember, D’Autell had never been the target of any of his boyhood pranks.

      “Will it be long distance?”

      “Yeah, but I’ll use my calling card.”

      D’Autell cranked himself out of his chair, giving the phone a slight push in Tucker’s direction.

      “Thanks,” he said as the old man walked by.

      In place of “You’re welcome,” D’Autell grumbled, “Don’t touch anything.”

      Tucker closed the door, went to the phone and punched in a Missouri number. Jenny answered on the third ring.

      Hearing her voice, Tucker tried to summon up an image of the woman who was carrying his child and was disturbed when he couldn’t. He could see short auburn curls and grass-green eyes and a pointy chin. And freckles. Yes, there were definitely some freckles. But he wasn’t able to put all the parts together and see a cohesive whole.

      “Hey, Jen,” he began, sitting down in the chair D’Autell had vacated. “It’s me, Tuck.”

      “Oh.” Her voice sank, leaving no question how she felt about hearing from him.

      “How’s it going, darlin’?”

      “How’s it going? I just spent the morning puking my brains out. That’s how it’s going.”

      “Oh, I’m sorry.”

      “Yeah, well, you should be.”

      “Sorry,” he mumbled again, wincing.

      “So what do you want, Tuck?” Somehow she managed to sound both bored and impatient.

      “Just to talk.”

      She sighed heavily. He tried not to take offense.

      “Are you coming over?” she asked. “Are you back in town?”

      “No. No to both questions. I’m in Massachusetts. I had to fly home because of a death in the family.”

      “Home?” Her surprise underscored how little they knew about each other. “You’re from Massachusetts?”

      “Sort of. I was born in New York, but…” He felt himself closing the gates of communication. But if he and Jenny were meant to live the rest of their lives together, it was time to start sharing. “When I was thirteen, I came here to live with my grandfather’s brother Walter and his wife Winnie. Walter just passed away.”

      “Oh.” Jenny’s uncertain exclamation betrayed an encouraging softening. “That’s too bad, Tuck.”

      “Yeah, it is. He was a great old guy. Played a mean hand of whist.”

      “What happened to your parents?”

      He swallowed, faced with the question he’d had to answer all his life. “My father died in Vietnam when I was three, and when I was twelve my mother…was the victim of a drunk driving accident.”

      “She died, too?”

      Jenny was astounded and incredulous. As well she should be, he thought. It was an astounding, incredible story. A lie, actually. Not the part about his father dying in Nam; Tuck had worn the Silver Star posthumously bestowed on his father right until the day the clasp broke off. The part about his mother was a lie. He’d chickened out again. He couldn’t admit his mother had been sent to prison when he was twelve and had overdosed five years later.

      “Anyway, I’m at the wake now, taking a break, and I had to call. You’ve been on my mind since last weekend.”

      “Where in Massachusetts?” she asked, steering so sharply away from the subject, he could practically hear her tires screech.

      He sighed. “Harmony. It’s a small island ten, twelve miles off the southeast coast. Not far from Martha’s Vineyard.”

      “Harmony? Never heard of it.”

      “Understandable. It’s small. Not many people here during the winter. Last I heard, the count was around seven hundred.”

      “You lived on an island with only seven hundred people?” She infused every word with sarcasm.

      “Yep. Peel away the outer layers and I’m really just a small-town boy at heart.”

      “Yeah, right.” Not the sharpest comeback, but she made her point.

      Tucker massaged a place on his forehead where a headache was gathering force. “About the discussion we had last week…” he tried again. “It’s been bothering the СКАЧАТЬ