All the Rules of Heaven (All That Heaven Will Allow #1) - Amy Lane Page 0,3

his chest, the displaced time, the pull in his blood and corpuscles to wander into a restaurant and come home with God or Goddess knows who. But he wanted to be faithful—his heart was faithful, dammit, why couldn’t his body be?

He’d gotten home to a message on his phone—the father of the girl he’d fallen in love with had died, and she’d needed to leave town.

Tucker could have written it down to coincidence, but by then he didn’t believe in coincidence. He’d given up on relationships for a while.

Not long enough, but a while.

And that had been many years and one eon of heartbreak ago.

So by the time he arrived at Daisy Place, he was tired, old at thirty-five, exhausted by his karmic mission, and so, so lonely.

But by then his gift, the empathic pull that led him to other people’s beds and their cosmic epiphanies and karmic catharses, had been honed to a science. It had used him often enough that he knew what to expect.

The night the Greyhound dropped him off in the middle of what kind of passed for a town, suitcases in hand like a kid in an old musical, he didn’t set about trying to find a ride to Daisy Place immediately. Sure, the press under his breastbone had started almost directly after he’d gotten the call from his aunt Ruth’s lawyer, and it had been subtly building ever since, but he knew this game well enough to know that Daisy Place wasn’t at critical mass yet. First, he needed a room to sleep in—and he’d felt the other pull, the older, more painful pull, for a mile before the bus had slowed at the depot.

Someone here would give him a place to sleep, and he could see to Aunt Ruth’s inheritance in the cold light of day.

Sure enough, he was in the middle of a ginormous hamburger that had been cooked in an actual ore cart from the gold-rush days, when a tired-looking woman in nice comfy jeans, a skinny-strapped tank top, and flip-flops strode into the converted post office/restaurant and threw herself into a chair at the table next to him.

The restless, painful ache in his chest that had guided him there gave a little pop, and he could breathe again.

“Hey there, pretty lady,” he said, shoving a plate of fries toward her. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

She had blond hair—artfully streaked and ironed straight—adorable chipmunk cheeks, and a full and smiling mouth. The girl took a fry gratefully and tried to put that mouth to happy use. She failed dismally, but Tucker appreciated the attempt. Putting a good face on things for other people was an unnecessary courtesy, but it was still kind. Thin as a rail, with a few subtle curves, she was in her late twenties at the most and seemed to have the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“It’s been sort of a day,” she said fretfully. “You know—a day?”

Tucker thought back to when he and Damien used to have this discussion, and his stomach twisted hard with regret. “I’ve had a few,” he said softly. “What happened with yours?”

“It’s just so stupid.” She sighed and looked yearningly at the untouched half of his two-pound hamburger. Tucker cut off a quarter of it and put it on the fry plate for her, and her smile grew misty.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I mean, I was going to order my own, but eating alone….”

“Sucks,” he said, nodding. “So, I’m Tucker Henderson—”

“Old Ruth’s nephew?” she said with interest.

“Yes, ma’am.” He hadn’t seen Aunt Ruth in several years. She’d helped administer his parents’ estate, sending him personal checks every month—ostensibly to help him through college, but the estate was more than enough to live on. He’d appreciated the gesture, though, and had called or written with every check, but she’d never asked him up to see her at Daisy Place, and Tucker….

Well, Tucker’s entire life had become the inescapable knowledge, the pull under his breastbone, the pressing weight of being some sort of karmic tool. Quite literally. Leaving downtown Sacramento—where he didn’t even have a car because he never knew when he’d get the call and stopping when walking or riding his bike was so much easier than driving—had been beyond him for a couple of years. Aunt Ruth didn’t ask, and he didn’t insist.

They’d barely spoken about the reasons—but she knew. He was very aware that she knew.

“I’d come to visit, Auntie, but I’ve got… uhm, things.