that shirt, all that head-to-toe darkness, distinctly marked him as an underworld figure. Maybe not the underworld, but an underworld nonetheless.
Cathryn’s first glance also registered that he’d grown a beard, a feature that in her opinion added absolutely nothing to his appeal. Moreover, in disregard of current fashion, he still wore his hair long.
Cathryn changed her mind. Tuck didn’t look like a hit man; he looked like an aging rock star.
He was neither, of course.
She remembered her father once remarking that Tucker, being unusually charismatic and street-smart, had the potential to become somebody really special someday, a top-flight salesman, for instance, or a politician—if he got the right breaks. But with bad breaks, getting involved with the wrong people, for instance, he could turn into a bum, a hood or even a criminal. He was walking a precarious fence rail, her father had theorized. Tuck’s life could fall either way.
Like most people grafted to Harmony’s grapevine, Cathryn knew that Tucker had drifted through several trades before settling into the one that currently occupied him—stock-car racing. According to Walter, it was an occupation that provided Tuck with a good living and the opportunity to travel, so Cathryn surmised he’d “fallen” well. Not that she condoned his racing. She knew how much the old widower had worried about his great-nephew’s safety, but at least Tucker wasn’t living out of a shopping cart or doing time in San Quentin.
As for his personal life, Winnie and Walter had long ago given up on his ever getting married or settling down. They’d gone to their graves believing he’d be a skirt-chaser forever. And they were probably right.
Cathryn’s curious perusal, which couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds, was cut short when Tucker turned to see who’d just entered. Quickly, she shifted her attention to the casket.
After saying a short, silent prayer and wishing Walter well in the hereafter, Cathryn made her way over to the family. Tucker got to his feet, one knee cracking.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she began with automatic formality, gripping Tucker’s hand while staring at the small garnet stud in his left ear.
“Thank you. It’s kind of you to…” His polite response trailed off, and suddenly his dark eyes took on a rich gleam, their outer edges creasing as he broke into an unabashed smile that erased her earlier cynicism about his looks. “Shortcake?” he exclaimed, loudly enough to elicit chuckles from several people.
Heat climbed up Cathryn’s neck. Not that she disliked the nickname Tuck had pinned on her when she was young. The character Fonzie on the old TV sitcom Happy Days used to call Joannie Cunningham “Shortcake,” and that was clearly an expression of brotherly fondness.
“Hi, Tucker,” she said, dropping the formality. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”
“Not remember you? How long did we live next door to each other?”
“Eight years,” Cathryn answered and then winced, realizing the question had been rhetorical. “You’re looking well,” she said. And he was. Trim, fit, tanned.
“So are you,” he replied, and before she could refute him, added, “Married life agrees with you, I guess.” It seemed more a question than a statement.
Tucker had disapproved of her becoming engaged while still in high school. In fact, he’d called her crazy for agreeing to marry the only guy she’d ever dated.
“Yes. I’m very happy,” Cathryn replied.
He lifted his broad shoulders in a concessionary shrug. “You were right.”
“Uh-huh,” she hummed slowly and with just enough needling for him to hear her unspoken “And you were wrong.”
He asked, “Where are you living these days?”
“West Shore Road.” When his brow furrowed, she explained, “It’s new since you left.” Although she was brimming with questions, she was beginning to feel self-conscious. Standing in the condolence line at a wake was not the proper place for such a conversation. “Maybe we should catch up later, Tuck?”
“Oh. Sure.”
“Again, I’m really sorry about your uncle. He’ll be missed.”
Tucker nodded and let her move on to his great-aunt Sarah. Cathryn extended her sympathy, then told Sarah in an undertone, “I brought my coffee urn and warming trays.”
The elderly woman’s plump face crinkled with a smile. “Oh, wonderful. Thank you for remembering.” With a rustle of black crepe, Sarah turned to Tucker. “Cathryn’s lending us some buffet things for tomorrow’s brunch. Do you think you could move them from her car to yours?”
Tucker flicked a brief smile at Cathryn. “Sure,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready to leave.”
She nodded, made her way down the line quickly, then hurried to the back row of chairs. About a dozen people, all friends and neighbors, sat ahead of her conversing quietly, and some not so quietly. Walter had lived a long, full life and would’ve been the first to say there was no need to overmourn his passing.
The minutes ticked by slowly. When Cathryn checked her watch and found that a respectable amount of time had elapsed, she began to button her coat. Simultaneously, Tucker left his seat and headed in her direction. They said nothing until they were outside, under the portico at the front entrance.
“I thought you’d never leave,” he grumbled, reaching inside his jacket. “I’ve been dying for a smoke.”
“You haven’t quit yet?” Cathryn exclaimed incredulously as he struck a match and lit up. He didn’t bother replying, just took in a lungful of smoke. Watching him, Cathryn felt the urge to cough on his behalf.
He tossed the extinguished match toward the receptacle by the door. “You still ready to chew my head off?” He squinted at her, looking fierce, and for a moment Cathryn found herself holding her breath. But then his mouth tipped up at one corner, deepening a groove that on a less masculine face might be considered a dimple.
“You bet. You shouldn’t smoke, Tucker. It’s a terrible habit. It’ll take years off your life. And anyway, it’s so passé. Nobody finds it attractive anymore.”
He angled a glance at her that was full of devilishness, even as he drawled in exasperation, “You always were a pain in the ass.”
“Oh, please, no praise.”
He laughed and made a sweeping gesture toward the parking lot with the hand that held the cigarette. “Which one’s yours?”
“The blue van.”
“Figures.” He touched her shoulder and urged her forward. Although she wore several layers of winter clothing, she still felt the tingling warmth of his fingers. “So…how’ve you been?” he asked, as they tramped through the translucent slush, which only yesterday had been pristine snow.
“Great. How about you?”
“Oh, can’t complain.”
Cathryn noticed he was wearing black leather boots. Not quite the
