Great Restorations - 18. Chapter 18

SAWYER‘S trepidation increased as the pile got smaller. They‘d come across all manner of professional records one might imagine, but nothing personal. And nothing pertaining to May or her affairs.

Marc grew quieter as they worked, probably nursing the same worries as Sawyer. They split the contents of the last box, and when they‘d finished, Marc set the papers aside and laid his head in his hands.

Sawyer sighed. “I‘m sorry.”

“It‘s not your fault,” Marc said from behind his palms. “It was a good plan, but there were no guarantees.”

The room overflowed with papers and folders and smelled musty, like the basement of a library. Outside, dusk was giving way to full dark. They‘d taken a small break earlier. Sawyer had called Finn with the news and Marc had grabbed whatever he could find in the kitchen—chips and a couple of apples. Four hours later, Sawyer‘s stomach was feeling the lack of real sustenance.

He laid his hand on Marc‘s shoulder. “Let‘s get some dinner. It‘ll help us refine Plan B.”

“Plan B?” Marc stood, swiping his hands on his jeans. “And what would that be?”

“We‘ll think of something.”

Sawyer took his hand and led him out of the room and down the hall. As they entered the foyer, a giant shadow rose up on the other side of the new glass-front door. Sawyer stopped in his tracks. Marc bumped into him, then peered over his shoulder. “What is that, a bear?”

“Helloooo!” The shadow pounded on the door with one paw.

Sawyer snorted. “As a matter of fact, it is.” He swung the door open and the shadow materialized into Bruce, dressed in his usual Edgewood attire. Minus the boots this time, Sawyer was relieved to see.

Bruce spread his arms. “I‘m here!” He charged across the threshold. “Give us a hug!” He caught Sawyer up, lifting him clear off the ground.

“Ahh!” Sawyer kicked out, grunting when Bruce dropped him. Marc caught him before he stumbled, but backed away when Bruce advanced on him, arms out and fingers wagging.

Bruce grinned. “Oh look! Marc wants one too.”

“No, I don‘t,” Marc protested, stepping behind Sawyer. “I value my ribs too much, thanks.”

“Baby.” Bruce tossed his garment bag at Sawyer. It caught him in the chest, but he grabbed it before it fell. “Where‘s the beer? The drive was hell.”

Sawyer deposited the bag on the floor, trying not to be distracted by Marc‘s soft laughter. “Didn‘t you hear me on the phone? Not right now, we‘re in the middle of some important things, I said.”

Bruce slapped his forehead. “Oh! I thought you said, ‘Come right now. We want you in the middle of some important things.’” He hit Sawyer on the arm. “Look, he‘s blushing.”

Marc was doing exactly that. “He‘s kidding,” Sawyer assured him.

“I’m really not. Totally fine if he needs some time to get used to the idea. I’m a patient dude.”

He was patient, as a rule, and also not kidding, Sawyer was sure, not that he was about to admit that out loud. “Seriously, Bruce,” he said, frowning at the thick garment bag. “We‘re dealing with some pretty screwed-up shit right now.”

“Which is always the best time for friends, right?” Bruce reached around Sawyer with one of his huge hands and snagged Marc‘s arm. “Why, yes, thanks! I‘d love a beer. Lead the way, Marc.” Sawyer‘s dark look only made Bruce laugh. “Come on, Calhoun. It‘s not a party unless everyone gets sloppy.”

Marc accepted the dubious honor of spilling the story. One sixpack and two frozen pizzas later, Bruce was as angry and indignant as Sawyer had been the morning he walked in on Marc talking to his parents. “How can they get away with that?”

“They‘re not going to,” Marc promised. “I‘ll fight it every step of the way, even after tomorrow.”

Sawyer‘s head snapped up. For all of Marc‘s easy-going demeanor and quiet personality, he had unmovable fortitude when it came to things he cared about. “I don‘t care about the money,” Marc said. “I‘d gladly give Aunt May’s house to them, and her stuff too, I suppose, if they‘d just leave me my house. It didn‘t used to matter, you know? This place. It was just wood and plaster. In fact—” he took a long swig of his beer “―for a long time I hated it.”

Sawyer opened his mouth, comforting platitude on the tip of his tongue, but Bruce set a hand on his knee.

“They can‘t touch the business,” Marc continued, the words coming faster, almost frantically, “it‘s mine. But every penny I‘ve squeezed out of it these past four years went into making something I hated into something I—” He dropped his head, hand fisted tight around his bottle.

Sawyer ached to comfort him, but Bruce‘s hand was a vise on his leg. The gentle squeeze to his knee couldn’t be more clear: let him talk it out.

“Why are they doing this?” Marc whispered.

Bruce had a soft side to his voice, he just rarely employed it. He did now. “Don‘t waste your time trying to figure that out. Concentrate on keeping what‘s important to you. Isn‘t that what life is all about?”

One corner of Marc‘s mouth turned up. He tilted his head just enough to meet Sawyer‘s eyes.

Bruce cleared his throat. “I think it‘s time to lighten the mood.” He pushed back from the table. “Stay put. I brought something for you.” He disappeared down the hall, leaving Marc some time to pull himself together.

Vulnerable wasn‘t a word Sawyer associated with Marc, despite the fear that had kept him closeted all this time. Instead, terms like competent, hardworking, and loyal came to mind. His was a quiet strength, but May‘s death had tested it sorely. And this current betrayal had pushed him right to the edge. “We‘ll figure it out,” Sawyer said, hating how inadequate it sounded.

Marc nodded, but didn‘t meet his eyes.

“Here it is!” Bruce slapped a thick, expandable binder onto the table. Sawyer moved a few of the empty bottles away so Marc could open it. Inside on the facing cover was a picture of the city‘s waterfront. It was an artist‘s rendition, Sawyer knew, because he recognized that particular patch of property, and there was no building on it like there was in the drawing. Then Marc said, “Oh,” with a healthy amount of reverence in his voice, and Sawyer leaned in for a better look.

It was the mill. Marc‘s mill.

The more Sawyer looked, the more differences jumped out at him, but they were subtle, changes made for the sake of efficiency that did nothing to lessen the aesthetic value of the building. Giant boulders arced out into the river, creating a small path of whitewater above the giant wheel. The stone and mortar foundation had the same weathered look, and the dark wood of the building itself looked artfully aged. Care had been taken to extend the aura of peace and seclusion past the footprint of the building: tall trees flanked the property with more boulders placed here and there. A gurgling stream of water ran through the parking lot and around the front of the structure before spilling over a waterway to pool below the wheel.

“You did it.” Marc traced the spokes of the wheel with his finger. “I didn‘t think you could.”

“Yeah, that‘ll teach you to doubt me,” Bruce said, smug. “We‘ve yet to break ground and already property values on both sides are going through the roof. The city has agreed to fund two parks, one at the north shore and one at the south shore, if we build. This is exactly what we needed to reinvent the waterfront. We‘re going to restore it. Make it as beautiful as it used to be.”

“I‘m getting the impression you‘re not just ‘an architect’,” Marc said, still bent over the drawing.

“Meh.” Bruce waved him off. “I do okay. Now let me show you the inside, ‘cause I have some questions.” He flipped to the next page and they all leaned in.

The doorbell rang.

Marc looked up, distracted, but Sawyer waved him off and pushed back from the table. Bruce folded back another section of the blueprints and continued to rattle off questions, each of which Marc answered with quiet confidence. Sawyer could have kissed his friend. This was exactly what Marc needed to take his mind off the meeting tomorrow.

He was still smiling when he opened the door, but it faded the moment he set eyes on their late-night visitor. “Finn.”

For a change, Finn looked ragged. His suit coat was nowhere to be seen, his tie was loose, the knot crooked, and his sleeves were rolled to his elbow. Skipping the niceties, he looked Sawyer up and down and said, “I haven’t heard from you since this afternoon. Any luck?”

Being reminded of their failure didn‘t help Sawyer‘s mood. He shook his head. “Nope. Came up empty.”

“Damn!” Finn ran a hand through his hair. Half-turned away, hands on his hips, he stared across the yard. “I was hoping.”

“Yeah, you weren‘t the only one. Now what?”

“Stall. It’s the only card we have at the moment. Beyond that… I‘ll try to think of something before tomorrow.” A silence followed. Sawyer couldn‘t call it comfortable, but neither was it charged with their usual tension. Before he could examine why that might be, Finn turned, offering a half-hearted wave as he trudged down the porch steps.

“Wait. Finn.”

Finn stopped, glancing over his shoulder. His face was drawn and his eyes were bloodshot with fatigue. Sawyer gestured weakly toward the foyer. “Want to come in and have a beer?”

Even if Finn refused, Sawyer decided the look on his brother‘s face was priceless enough to have made the gesture worthwhile. Never one to jump without looking, Finn hesitated, two fingers stroking over his mustache. Sawyer waited.

“A beer,” Finn said, drawing the words out, “would taste good right about now.”

“Good.” Sawyer stepped aside, holding the door open.

Still Finn didn‘t move. “Are you sure Marc won‘t mind?”

“Are you kidding?” Sawyer pulled Finn inside and led him back to the kitchen. “Marc loves you. It‘s Bruce you have to worry about.” He‘d gone several steps before he realized Finn was no longer behind him. Rolling his eyes, he turned. “He won‘t bite.”

Finn‘s face was twisted into a grimace, like he‘d bitten into something sour. “He might sit on me, though.”

That was true. “It‘s nothing personal, really. It‘s just that he‘s spent years listening to me complain about you. He only dislikes you because I do.” As soon as the words were out, Sawyer wanted them back. But it was too late.

Finn‘s face went blank. “Nothing personal. Good to know.”

“I‘ll protect you,” Sawyer said, trying to snatch back the lighthearted mood.

“Will you?”

It must be the night for loaded questions. They were still far enough away from the kitchen that a private talk would stay private. Sawyer sidestepped beneath an arched opening and pointed to the darkened living room. Looking wary, Finn entered, and Sawyer followed. They stared at each other in the gloom.

Sawyer took a deep, cleansing breath. He could do this. “Finn, I-- Thank you,” he said.

To Finn‘s credit, he hid most of his shock. “You‘re welcome.”

“I know you didn‘t have to do this.”

“I wanted to help Marc.”

Jealousy reared up. Sawyer squashed it. “I realize that,” he replied, voice even. “What you might not know is how much it means to me.”

Finn‘s face was lost in the shadows. “I know how much it means to you,” he said, an odd lilt to his voice.

Sawyer blinked. “Oh.”

A sound that might have been a laugh floated out of the dark. “I figured that would be your reaction.” Finn sighed. “That‘s quite enough brotherly love for one night, wouldn‘t you agree? Let‘s go get that beer. I know you‘re dying to watch Bruce tear into me.”

It was probably a fair prediction of events to come. Sawyer cocked his head. “You must really need a drink.”

“I must.”

Again with the strange tone. Sawyer couldn‘t put his finger on it, and he felt too tired to try. “Come on.”

They continued down the hall, side by side this time. Sawyer entered the kitchen, Finn on his heels. “I‘m back.”

“Who was at the door?” Bruce had his finger on a section of the blueprint, nose buried in the page. “Tell me it was a Girl Scout. I‘ve got me a craving for some Thin Mints.”

Marc glanced up, smiled at Finn, and some of Sawyer‘s tension bled away. Beside him, Finn‘s shoulders sagged a fraction. He nodded in Marc‘s direction.

“Sorry,” Sawyer answered. “No Thin Mints.”

That got Bruce‘s attention. He looked up over his reading glasses and met Finn‘s eyes across the room. “Nope, definitely not a Girl Scout.”

Finn shifted his jaw back and forth. “I think I may have sued them. Does that count?”

Sawyer held his breath. Next to Bruce, Marc stayed quiet.

Bruce cracked open another beer and leaned back. The chair protested with a loud squeak. “Shameful. I bet you‘re part of the reason I can‘t get my Do-si-dos for less than five dollars a box.”

Finn nodded. “Guilty.”

“You lawyer dudes sure like that word.” Bruce held the bottle out. “Beer?”

Sawyer thought he knew his brother better than most people, despite their history, so while Finn might have thought his shrug looked nonchalant and his gait relaxed, Sawyer recognized that he was uncomfortable.

He‘d kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Finn to show his hand and reveal what he wanted in return for his role as knight in shining armor, but it didn‘t seem like he expected the “favor”—and it was so much more than that, truly—to be repaid. Sawyer felt a flush rise on his face, and he pressed his bottle of beer to his cheek.

He was ashamed. It wasn‘t a comfortable realization.

“I‘m glad you‘re here,” he blurted just as Finn took the beer from Bruce‘s hand.

The bottle slid precariously in Finn‘s grip, but he recovered in time. “Thanks. I‘m… glad to be here.” He cleared his throat in the awkward silence that followed and pointed to Bruce‘s drawings. “What have you got there?”

Marc swung the drawing around to show him.

“Oh, hey,” Finn said, “I remember that place. The mill at the bottom of the gorge.”

Bruce pumped his fist in the air. “Yeah, baby! Am I good or am I good?”

Sawyer smacked the back of his head. “I think I know where you got your size. You needed a body to fit your ego.”

“It‘s not the mill, but it looks just like it, doesn‘t it?” Marc asked. “I have to admit I‘m impressed.”

“Yeah.” Finn‘s voice took on a wistful tone. “I‘ll never forget that trip. My grandfather took Sawyer and me there when we were boys. Fishing.” He said the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth, and Marc laughed.

“Not a big fan of fishing?”

“Not really. Not since that day, anyway.”

“Aw. Did your granddaddy make you touch the worms?” Bruce asked.

“No,” Finn pulled out a chair and straddled it backward, cradling his bottle between his fingers. “No worms. We used marshmallows.”

Bruce rolled his eyes.

Finn took a sip of his beer. “Back me up on this, Sawyer.”

“My brother is telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” Sawyer recited obediently.

“So help me God,” Finn finished, smirking. “Trout love marshmallows.”

Bruce belched. “There‘s a really good joke in there somewhere. I just need to flesh it out.”

Marc pulled his chair close to Sawyer‘s. “So what happened?”

“I fell in the river.”

I fell in the river.

Sawyer had forgotten about that day. The panic had clenched his heart so tightly that he hadn‘t been able to scream at first. An echo of that fear took him now. He covered his shudder with a sip of beer.

Finn held his hand out over the table, then turned it sideways. “Right over the spillway.”

Marc went a little pale. “Shit, Finn. You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

“By some miracle, I missed the rocks at the bottom, but the current grabbed me and had me twenty yards downstream before I could catch my breath.”

Marc cursed. “That‘s one of the most dangerous stretches of water in the state. Even with all the warnings posted everywhere, they lose a couple of kayakers each year.”

Bruce pursed his lips. “What happened?”

“Sawyer pulled me out.”

Sawyer was so busy reliving the scene in his head, he nearly missed Finn‘s reply. “What? The hell I did.”

“You did,” Finn insisted. “I remember.”

“Christ, Finn, I was eight years old. I screamed like a banshee. I think I pissed myself. I sure as hell didn‘t go diving in after you.” He gawked at Finn‘s puzzled look. “Are you serious?”

“I don‘t remember much,” Finn admitted. “But I do remember someone grabbing me and pulling me out and then you were there, hugging me and sobbing like a baby.”

Sawyer remembered that part too. The sharp taste of having his brother snatched back from death… it had been coppery on his tongue, like blood. “It wasn‘t me,” he said firmly. “I ran down the bank and climbed over the boulders to the water. Granddad pulled you out. Leaped over the spillway right after you. He was in the water before I even understood what had happened. Before your head even went under. He’s the one who jumped in and pulled you out, not me.”

His words lingered in the air. Across the table, Finn looked as close to horrified as Sawyer had ever seen him. Eyes wide, he swallowed convulsively before answering. “I never knew. He never said a word. He never…”

It was Bruce who broke the tension. “Hey, Sawyer?” he asked in a somber voice. He stretched a hand across the table and squeezed Sawyer‘s arm.

“What?”

“Did you really cry like a baby?”

Sawyer gave him the finger, but answered anyway. “Yes.”

“That‘s so sweet. And you.” Bruce mock glowered at Finn. “Way to be clumsy. Almost killing your grandpappy and making your brother pee his Underoos. Not cool.”

Finn laughed. To Sawyer it sounded full and honest. He‘d regained some of his equilibrium. “And that,” Finn said, draining his bottle, “is the story behind why I hate to fish.” Pensive, he stared at his hands for a few seconds before standing. “Thanks for the drink,” he said, and though he nodded at both Marc and Bruce, Sawyer knew the words were for him. “Try to get some sleep, Marc. I realize not finding May’s will is a huge disappointment. But I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

“And yet, no Thin Mints,” Bruce grumbled.

Finn gave a soft snort. “Sorry about that. Okay, off I go. Back to Danielle‘s Delightful Bed and Breakfast.”

Bruce began rolling up his blueprints. “Is it really delightful?”

“The bed is comfortable, but the coffee‘s horrendous. I hope she doesn‘t take it the wrong way when I ask for tea tomorrow.” He patted Marc‘s shoulder. “I‘ll see you in the morning. Get some rest.”

“I will,” Marc promised, but Sawyer had a feeling it wouldn‘t be as easy as it sounded.