Great Restorations - 19. Chapter 19

THEY‘D fallen asleep on opposite sides of the bed, Sawyer on his back and Marc on his side facing him, but he woke to the weight of Sawyer‘s arm slung over his waist, and the warmth of his body pressed close.

“Courier the restaurant spread to Donald,” Sawyer said, clear as a bell in Marc‘s ear, then he snored and rolled onto his stomach. Marc laughed silently. What other juicy tidbits would Sawyer‘s subconscious reveal? Marc planned to spend years discovering them.

He’d taken Finn’s advice to heart, but sleep eluded him, and he thought about just getting up, even though the clock told him it was barely two in the morning. Sawyer had fallen asleep quickly, but Marc listened for a long time while the house settled with creaks and moans. He‘d come to learn that each structure, each building, had its own personality, behaving differently in the wind and rain, complaining at different times of the night and day, and sometimes even speaking its own language. Not many people appreciated it. Most didn‘t even understand.

Sawyer rolled again, threw an arm over his face, and mumbled something that sounded like “Be careful.” Then, quite clearly, he said, “Don‘t fall,” and the memory slammed into Marc with enough force that he shot up in bed.

He threw a look over his shoulder, but Sawyer hadn‘t awakened. Marc waffled for a moment before creeping out of bed, grabbing his shirt and jeans and slipping into the hall. All was quiet behind Bruce‘s door. Marc crept past and climbed to the third floor.

Tim had helped him set the panel back in place a few weeks ago, and with everything else that had happened, the hidden passage and room at the bottom had slipped his mind. Now he couldn‘t stop thinking about it. Pinning his hopes on what might be there was crazy, especially with the recent disappointments, but he also knew that he wouldn‘t sleep until he found out one way or the other.

The panel detached with a loud squeak. Marc cringed, listening. No sound from Sawyer or Bruce. Good. He hoped to be in and out before Sawyer knew he was gone.

The lantern he‘d slung over the beam was still there. Spider webs dangled between it and the walls. Marc brushed them away and hit the button. White light filled the space, angling downward. Marc leaned over to look. Creepy as ever. More so because of the hour. Dust spun through the light beam, which didn‘t quite reach the bottom of the shaft. If he didn‘t know better, he might have believed the stairs went on forever. The illusion was so complete that Marc hesitated. Should he wake Sawyer? It was the responsible thing to do, but if the search yielded nothing, they‘d both be disappointed. No sense in that.

Marc plucked a small flashlight out of the bucket of tools at the top of the stairs and swung into the space, bracing himself on the first riser. The damp chill raised goose bumps on his skin. Keeping his back to the wall, he descended one step at a time, round and round, until the light grew so dim he had to fish the flashlight out of his pocket. Sounds echoed in the passageway, sinister now instead of comforting. He heard a bang, craned his neck, but couldn‘t pinpoint its origin.

“Hello?” he called softly.

Nothing.

The air moved against his face on a sudden draft, swinging the hanging lantern to and fro in a gentle arc. Shadows circled above him, dancing like specters. Marc swiped a hand over his mouth. “Hello?” he called again. Still no answer. More cautious than ever, he shone his flashlight into the dark and stepped down onto the next riser.

It gave under his weight like a piece of soggy cardboard.

Marc cried out in surprise, even though he‘d been half expecting it—the stairs had grown spongier near the bottom of the shaft. He threw himself backward, taking a knock to the head from a support beam, but it was better than breaking his neck. His ankle twisted, sending a twinge of pain up his leg. Warmth and a trickle of moisture on his calf was all the evidence he needed to know he‘d cut himself.

He should go back. What he was doing gave new meaning to the term irresponsible. High above him, the lantern swung, as if agreeing. Marc shook his head. “I‘ve come this far.” And for some things, there was no going back.

The flashlight had more than enough power to show the bottom now. The steps ended on a plywood platform that opened onto a wider space. He was too turned around to know where in the house he might be. Behind the kitchen? Off the office? Or lower? He hadn‘t been counting the steps. Wherever he was, a narrow wood door wedged between two beams let him know there was another entrance besides the one he‘d used. That would be fun to find, when the time came. He wished he’d paid better attention to his possible location during the descent.

Far in the rear of the makeshift room, another set of stairs, even more narrow than the first, led straight down into inky blackness. Marc ignored them for now. There was too much to see where he was.

This had been someone‘s hideaway at some point. Two stacks of crates supported a slab of wood, creating a makeshift desk. Marc squinted. The desktop had once been an old door. He squatted next to it and chuckled under his breath at the ingenuity. The round hole where the knob used to be held a flared glass, filled with dusty pens, and the two recessed panels at the top cradled leather filing bins.

Everything was grimy now, but he could see where it had once been pristine. A Tiffany lamp stood next to the desk. Marc traced the path of the cord to a hole in the wall. He found a sixty-watt light bulb, dark with dust, beneath the glass shade, but didn‘t try to turn it on. The last thing he needed was an electrical fire.

He found no clutter, no disorganization of any kind. Each of the supporting crates, turned on their sides, held files and folders, but Marc ignored them for the moment. He pulled out the sturdy chair that was tucked beneath the desk and sat.

The desktop itself was bare -- if you didn’t count the dust -- but for two large photo albums. The first, hunter green as best as Marc could see in the gloom, had a three-by-five card taped to the front, dead center. It read, “Lucinda.”

The second album, a rich mahogany color, had a similar notecard. The tape on this one was curled at the edges, and fully off on one side, as though fingers had brushed it often. Marc reached to wipe the dust from the script. It read, “Tom and Huck.”

He had no idea who Lucinda was, though he could guess. No question as to the identity of the other names, though. He toyed with opening the second but decided against it. The album would be for Sawyer to explore and share with Marc if he wanted to.

Photographs lined the back edge of the surface, most in brass frames, dark with tarnish, others in simple rectangles of rough wood. Marc picked them up one at a time. The first few showed a beautiful young woman with upswept hair, a fondness for hats, and a wide smile. In two of the pictures, she held a baby dressed in gingham and petticoats and stood in front of Sawyer‘s house.

The next two were of a different woman, this one far less cheerful. She wore a slim, straight skirt and a plain blouse. A mass of flowing, curly hair belied the idea that she was as proper as she seemed. She took up most of the next picture as well, and the next. In the last, her long hair had been cropped short at the chin, and in each hand she clasped the fingers of a young boy. The child on her left flashed a bright smile, while the other frowned at his brother.

Marc grinned. He‘d recognize those two anywhere. “Hello, Sawyer,” he said, tracing the smiling boy‘s face with his fingertip.

“Hello.”

Marc jumped to his feet. The chair toppled over behind him, throwing up a cloud of dust. “Jesus.” He pressed a fist to his racing heart. “What are you doing here?”

Rigid lines etched Sawyer‘s face. “What are you doing here?” He jabbed a finger toward the rickety staircase. “Alone.”

Knowing that concern had given rise to Sawyer‘s anger, Marc let it wash over and past him. “I didn‘t want to wake you.”

“So you came down here alone? In the fucking dark? Are you trying to kill yourself?”

A prickle of indignation gave Marc pause. “I‘m fine.”

Sawyer worked his jaw back and forth. Unlike Marc, he hadn‘t stopped to grab a shirt. Small bits of cobwebs clung to his chest and arms. Too furious to notice, he pointed in the direction of the rotting stairs. “What, one fall wasn‘t enough? You wanted—”

Marc cut him off with a kiss. “Don‘t be angry,” he whispered against Sawyer‘s mouth. His impulsive move made an effective diversion. Sawyer sucked in a surprised breath, then followed Marc when he tried to retreat, pressing his tongue between his parted lips, extending the brief contact.

His anger hadn‘t left him, though. He dominated the kiss, digging his fingers into Marc‘s biceps. “Stop being so reckless,” he growled, tracing the line of Marc‘s cheek with his lips.

“I‘m sorry,” Marc conceded. “But you said something in your sleep—”

“I don‘t talk in my sleep.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“Do not.”

“Courier the restaurant spread to Donald,” Marc recited.

Sawyer paused, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. “Okay, so maybe I talk in my sleep a little. But what does Donald have to do with you climbing down here by yourself?”

“It wasn‘t that.” Marc took his hand and led him over to the desk. “Then you said, ‘Be careful. Don‘t fall.’ That‘s what made me think of this place. Look at these.” He pointed at the line of photographs, but Sawyer was still busy taking in the small room. He ran a finger over a dust-covered ledge.

“This is amazing. Was this my grandfather‘s?”

“Not originally, I don‘t think.” Marc shone his flashlight around the perimeter of the space. Built-in bookcases, framed out in rough lumber, took up a whole wall. Books and magazines filled half of them. “But it looks like he took advantage of it.”

“Where are we? In the house, I mean?”

Marc shrugged, embarrassed. “Sorry. I wasn‘t paying attention when I got close to the bottom.”

“I‘m sure falling through the stairs had something to do with that.”

“You saw that?”

“Hard to miss. I nearly stepped on the broken board myself.”

Anger was leaking back into Sawyer‘s voice. Time for a distraction. “Come here,” Marc said. He gestured Sawyer closer with the flashlight, then shone it on the photo albums and the row of framed photographs. “Cool, huh?”

Sawyer‘s reaction wasn‘t what Marc expected. He went still, eyes taking in the pictures one at a time. “I don‘t believe it,” he whispered.

Confused, Marc glanced back and forth between the desk and Sawyer‘s face. “What do you mean? Aren‘t these pictures of your family?” He pointed at the first. “That‘s your grandmother, right? What‘s so shocking about that?”

“Not those.” Sawyer swiped a hand over his face, then pointed. “Those.”

Marc looked. “The pictures of your mom?”

“And me and Finn.” Sawyer righted the chair, gripped the armrests and lowered himself into the seat. Marc perched next to him on the edge of the desk. “Do you remember what I told you,” Sawyer began, words graveled, “about my mom and my grandfather.”

“Yes.” Every word.

Sawyer gave a slow nod. Before he could speak, the flashlight flickered. Marc held his breath. The beam steadied, though the light came back weaker.

“I didn’t tell you everything.” Sawyer‘s voice grew shakier. “It’s actually a pretty boring story. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

Hear something that put so much emotion in Sawyer‘s voice? Damn right he did. “Yes, of course,” Marc replied. He flipped his hand over on his knee, palm up. An offer. Sighing, Sawyer accepted the comfort, threading their fingers together.

“Okay. The condensed version. I think.” Sawyer frowned, then shook himself and cleared his throat. “So my grandmother died. She got sick, if I remember the story right. My mom was a teenager. She took it hard. My grandfather… he wasn’t the best at sympathy. And when she came to live with him, they were never able to… get past all the baggage I guess. They managed to coexist until my mom went to college. She met my dad there.”

“You don‘t talk about your parents much.” Marc stroked Sawyer‘s knuckles. “Why not?”

“Don‘t I?” He lifted one shoulder in a loose shrug. “We live separate lives, but we‘re still pretty close, if that makes any sense. My mom‘s a writer too.”

“What‘s your dad do?”

Sawyer‘s sardonic grin flashed in the dark. “He‘s a lawyer.”

Marc chuckled under his breath. “At least the odds are even at the dinner table.”

There was no rush to pick up the narrative, and Marc didn‘t push it. Together, they sat absorbing the flavor of the moment and listening to the quiet settling of the house. No longer did it feel threatening to Marc. He glanced back at Sawyer to find him studying the line of picture frames, open wonder in his eyes.

“What is it about those pictures that‘s getting to you?”

Sawyer shook his head. “When mom got pregnant with Finn, the doctors told her she couldn‘t work. My dad was in law school, but without my mother‘s income, he wouldn‘t be able to stay. They were barely getting by as it was.”

“Let me guess.” Marc glanced at the unsmiling woman with the wild hair. “She asked your grandfather to help.”

Sawyer nodded. “She always talked about it like it was some unholy bargain—that‘s how she portrayed things to me and Finn, anyway—but the truth is, he gave them all the money they needed, all in exchange for one simple thing.” He focused on Marc for the first time. “He just wanted to see her every once in a while.”

Marc waited for the rest. It never came. “That was it?”

“Yeah. He just wanted to see his daughter, and later me and Finn. He wanted to be in her life so badly, but he never said the words. Just used his money to bribe his way in.”

Sawyer fell silent, frowning at the pictures, while Marc tried to fathom the idea of a father loving his daughter that much. In theory, he knew about the strong bond that existed between parent and child, but in reality he hadn‘t an ounce of practical experience to rely on.

“So I‘m guessing she resented the visits.”

“You guess right.” Reaching to touch a picture of his mother, he sighed.

“That‘s how you ended up spending all that time here when you were a kid,” Marc said as the pieces fell into place.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Sawyer nodded. “My grandfather was a stoic man. But as I got older, I understood that he loved us. Coming into this house, though” —he spread his hands— “you‘d never know. There wasn‘t a single photograph of anybody. And he wasn‘t big on public displays of affection either. Or praise. Or anything resembling tenderness. All in all, I can see what drove my grandmother off, what made my mother so resentful, and what put Finn off from visiting once he had a choice. The truth is,” he said, closing his eyes, “he wasn‘t an easy man to like, unless you put a lot of effort into it.”

Marc bit his lip, then pointed to the albums on the desktop. “I found these too.”

Sawyer stared at them for several seconds. He gave a hiccupping laugh at the one marked “Tom and Huck”, stroking the cover with his index finger. With a deep breath, he opened it to a random page near the middle, and Marc turned the flashlight to illuminate the newspaper article there.

Brilliant, young local Finn Calhoun wins John H. Pickering Achievement Award the title read. Marc glanced at the date. Just three years ago. “Your grandfather followed Finn’s career.” He reached to turn the page when Sawyer didn’t. The next article had Sawyer’s name in its title. Sawyer caught this breath, closing the album with a smack before Marc could make out the words. A cloud of dust rose off the cover. The small “Tom and Huck” card fluttered.

“I’m not sure I can look at these right now,” Sawyer said in a low voice.

“Then don’t.” Marc stacked them on top of each other. “We’ll take them with us. Look at them when you’re ready.”

Sawyer laid his hand on the topmost album. “He had to hide these away between the walls of his house. Like he was ashamed.”

“He couldn‘t have been ashamed of you.”

“Not of me.” Sawyer looked up at him, eyes shining. “Of himself. Ashamed for caring.” He gave a shaky sigh. “What‘s so hard about admitting you love someone? What could possibly be more important than sharing that? I just don‘t understand.”

And he never would. That was the part of him that Marc was drawn to. He stepped between Sawyer‘s legs, and Sawyer pulled him close, locking his arms around Marc‘s back and burying his face in his stomach. “I swear,” he said, voice muffled, “I‘m not usually this dramatic.”

“That‘s not what Bruce told me.”

“Bruce needs to keep his mouth shut.”

Another musty breeze brushed over Marc‘s face. He felt Sawyer shiver. “We should probably get out of here and come back later with some more reliable lighting,” he said. As if cued, the flashlight flickered again. Marc‘s eyes cut to the Tiffany lamp, and Sawyer followed his gaze.

“What about that? Does it work?”

“Not sure.” The dust on the shade was thick enough to obscure the colored glass beneath. Marc ran a tentative finger across the top of the bulb. “Probably shouldn‘t risk it. I don‘t want to burn your house down.”

“No, that would be adding insult to injury after the past week.” He nudged the crates with his shoe. “But let‘s look through some of these files first.”

“Now who‘s being reckless?”

They squatted by the first stack of crates, and Marc held the flashlight while Sawyer flipped through the folders. He‘d barely made it through half of the first crate when he stopped. Marc heard him catch his breath. “No,” he murmured. “It couldn‘t be that easy.”

By craning his neck, Marc could make out some writing on the folder‘s tab, but not much else. “What?”

Sawyer sat back on his heels, the folder in hand. A cloud of dust followed him. Sawyer sneezed, then waved the folder in front of Marc‘s face, triumphant. “Look what I found.”

Marc caught his wagging hand. “I‘m trying.” He shone the light directly on the folder. “MAY/MARC” it said in bold capitals. “Holy shit.”

“I know. The first half of the box is M, the last part N.” He waved his hand at the other stack of crates. “It probably starts with A over there. Tell me how fucking lucky we are.”

“I‘ll tell you that if we actually find something.” He hauled Sawyer up. “You‘re filthy and freezing, and the flashlight‘s going out. Bring those albums and the file. We‘ll look at it once we get out of here.” Sawyer hesitated, obviously reluctant, but went when Marc pushed him toward the stairs.

“I guess we can come back if we need to.”

“It‘ll all still be here tomorrow,” Marc agreed.

“Yeah, but tomorrow might be too late.”

Marc tried not to think about that. He tested the door he‘d seen earlier, but it was nailed shut. Resigned to the long climb, he was surprised when it went quickly and without incident. Sawyer crawled through the opening first, then turned to help Marc. Just like the last time they‘d left the hidden staircase, someone was waiting for them.

“Guys,” Bruce said. He stood a few feet away, arms crossed over his “Architects Do It On Drafting Tables” T-shirt. “You don‘t have to go crawling around inside the walls to get some booty. I brought earplugs.”

“Is that so?” Sawyer asked, still clutching the file.

“It is. Stop sneaking around like the Hardy Boys, okay? Screw around in your bed like normal people.”

Marc brushed dust and cobwebs from his clothes. “You‘ll never guess what we found in there.”

“The White Witch?”

Sawyer grinned as he got to his feet. “Try again.” He waved the folder in Bruce‘s face.

“The lost research on how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?”

“You‘re getting closer, actually.”

“Actually—” Marc felt compelled to interrupt “―we have no idea what we found. It could be nothing.”

Bruce snatched the folder from Sawyer‘s hand, straightening the few papers that had slid loose. “I‘ll take that. You can‘t be trusted with nice things.” He trotted down the stairs, reaching the second floor landing before Marc and Sawyer had gathered themselves to follow.

“How the hell does he move so fast?” Marc grumbled.

Sawyer started down after him. “I‘m convinced he‘s part ninja. Come on.”

They found Bruce in the kitchen, bent over the table in nothing but his T-shirt and boxers, the contents of the folder spread in front of him. He hadn‘t bothered with any lights besides the cheap fixture above his head. Mumbling under his breath, he pushed his glasses higher over the bridge of his nose and shuffled through the mess with an efficiency Marc envied.

“Find anything?” Sawyer asked.

“Maybe one or two things of interest,” Bruce said over his shoulder. He scooped up a sheaf of papers and turned, pulling his reading glasses low on his nose. “Like this little ditty.”

Fighting a wave of vertigo, Marc stepped forward. “What does it say?”

“It says, ‘Last Will and Testament of May Schaeffer’.”

***

FINN did not appreciate the three a.m. phone call. “This better be good,” he barked at Sawyer, loud enough for Marc to catch the angry words.

“Nice,” Sawyer replied. “Did you stay up too late watching Law and Order again?”

Marc grabbed the phone before the conversation deteriorated, erasing whatever progress the two had made earlier in the evening. “You realize that it‘s three in the morning,” Finn snapped, not a question.

“Yeah,” Marc said. “Sorry.”

“Sawyer, you coward,” Finn shouted in his ear. “Get back on this phone. You know I won‘t yell at Marc.” His words carried through the receiver and across the kitchen. Marc winced.

“I think you just did,” Sawyer shouted back.

On the other end of the line, things clattered, a drawer slammed, then Finn was back. “What‘s happened?”

Marc shared a grin with Sawyer and Bruce before answering. “We found it.”

Even in the middle of the night, half asleep, Finn‘s mind was two steps ahead. “Is it signed and witnessed?”

“And notarized,” Marc confirmed.

“I‘ll be there in twenty minutes.” The line went dead before Marc could say thank you or goodbye.

“He‘s coming,” he told the others.

Bruce snorted. “Such an eager puppy.”

Eager about said it. Finn turned into the driveway a fifteen minutes later, headlights bouncing over ruts as he roared up to the front of the house.

Bruce met him at the door. “We gave at the office.”

Finn brushed by, the sweatshirt and running pants looking so out of character on his frame that Marc found himself staring. “All right. Let‘s see it.” He snatched the papers from Sawyer‘s hands and started to read right in the middle of the foyer. Marc tried not to hover.

Finn stroked his mustache as he recited silently, lips moving. He nodded, turned to the second page, and Marc felt like he‘d finished the first leg of a long-distance race. Even Bruce didn‘t interrupt. He kept his pithy comments to himself, choosing to recline at the bottom of the staircase, although he watched Finn like a hawk.

When Finn finally did speak, Marc jumped. “Do you know either of these two witnesses?”

Weak with relief, Marc nodded. “Yes. I know both. They were friends of my aunt. One lives in Florida, I think—”

Finn‘s head snapped up.

“—but I know the whereabouts of Simone Bradford, for sure. She lives in a retirement community about an hour away.”

Finn shuffled the papers back into their original order. “That‘s helpful information,” he said, trying for seriousness, but the glee leaked through. “In case we need her to testify, which, after having met your father, is a possibility. You said she was in a retirement community. Assisted living?”

“I don‘t think so. She has a private cottage. I think she lives alone.”

“Is she lucid?”

Sawyer snorted. “Sharp as a tack. We just saw her today. I mean, yesterday.”

“In that case—” Finn broke down and grinned “—I‘d say your parents are going to have an extremely bad morning.”

Bruce let out a whoop, and Finn tucked the papers under his arm. “I‘ll just keep this, then, okay?”

“It‘s all yours,” Marc said.

Bruce levered himself off the stairs. Yawning, he stretched, then scratched idly at his stomach. “That‘s enough excitement for one night. I‘m headed back to bed.” He caught Finn staring at his shirt and pulled the fabric taut so the words were readable. “Frankly, I‘ve never met a drafting table I‘d risk taking a ride on, but whatever.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey! You want one? They have a special one for you lawyer people. I don‘t remember what it says, offhand, but there are a lot of big words. Which means you‘d probably love it.”

By Marc‘s reckoning, it took Finn several seconds to process whether he‘d been insulted or complimented. “No thanks.” He nodded at Sawyer and Marc. “See you two in a few hours.”

He left as hastily as he‘d come, sucking all the energy with him. There were no last-minute congratulations, no backslapping, and no jokes. Neither was there silence brooding, but Marc felt his fatigue pressing on every joint and muscle. He lowered himself to the steps where Bruce had been sitting a moment before. Bruce watched him carefully. “You okay?”

Marc nodded, thinking that from this angle, Bruce looked ten feet tall. “Just….” Just what? Tired fit the bill, but so did a dozen other things. “Tired” was safe, but Marc had had his fill of hiding behind what was safe.

“I think this might be the end,” he admitted. “Before now, I could always say they were just traveling. Busy. Even if I knew that wasn‘t really true.” He set his hand against the wall, pressing his palm to the textured plaster. “They won‘t be coming back after this.”

“And this is bad?” Sawyer asked from where he was leaning against the front door.

“It‘s… sad.” He rubbed his face. “That‘s stupid, right?”

“No,” Bruce replied quietly. “It‘s not stupid.” For a moment, he looked poised to say something else, but instead shook his head and, throwing a wave over his shoulder, trudged up the stairs.

“I‘ll be right back.” Sawyer pushed off the front door and backtracked to the kitchen, flicking light switches as he went. Marc watched Finn‘s tail lights disappear down the drive. It was over, and almost as quickly as it had begun. As wars went, not too shabby. Now there was just the final battle to survive. Marc prayed it would be as easy as Finn had led them to believe.