Great Restorations - 20. Chapter 20

BY THE time Sawyer tromped down the stairs, it was five after nine. From his seat in the corner, Marc watched him stumble into the kitchen and squint at the clock above the stove. “Damn it!”

“It‘s no big deal,” Marc said, hiding his smirk when Sawyer jumped at the sound of his voice. “I kind of expected we‘d oversleep. I told Finn to go ahead.”

“I thought you‘d gone without me.” Sawyer turned in a circle, searching for a clean coffee mug. In deference to Bruce, he‘d donned shorts and a T-shirt before coming downstairs. When Marc had left him curled around his pillow an hour ago, he‘d been wearing nothing.

Marc had been curiously reticent with Sawyer after Finn had left the second time. The tension should have been broken, the worry gone, but Marc‘s brain hadn‘t been able to let go of it. He kept to his side of the bed, and Sawyer, after gracing him with a curious but accepting smile, kept his hands to himself. Within minutes he was snoring, and Marc spent another hour watching him—jealous of his ability to sleep, but loving that he found peace in Marc‘s presence.

Finn‘s phone call had come at eight o‘clock. “Will you be there?” he asked without preamble.

Accustomed by then to Finn‘s abruptness, Marc‘s answer was just as direct. He slipped out of the bedroom, pulling the door closed behind him. “Do I have to be?”

“No. Not really. You‘ll have to deal with it eventually, of course, but that can be saved for after your parents leave town.”

“And you‘re sure they‘ll go? They won‘t try to prolong things?”

That was Marc‘s worst fear; it had been from the beginning. He‘d fight if he had to, but God, he was drained. Please just let it end today.

As if he‘d read Marc‘s mind, Finn said, “They don‘t have a leg to stand on. Trust me.”

And that was another potential problem. He did trust Finn. And liked him. But he had no idea if the fragile peace between the brothers would last. Choosing sides after what Finn had done for him… Marc simply couldn‘t. Sawyer would have to understand. “Then I‘d rather skip it,” he told Finn, “if it‘s all the same.”

“I kind of thought you‘d say that. Want to meet for breakfast after? I have to get back today, but I‘d like to see you before I go, if you have the time.”

“I‘ll make the time,” Marc said. “And so will he.”

Stunned silence filled the line, then Finn chuckled. “Thanks. Rachel‘s? Ten o‘clock?”

“See you there.”

An hour later, Marc was still sitting at the kitchen table, nursing his fourth cup of coffee and trying to quiet his thoughts. “You look troubled,” Sawyer remarked as he poured his own cup. He was keeping his distance, Marc noticed with a frown. Had he been too standoffish last night after Finn left? Testing the waters, he pulled out the chair next to him. Sawyer fell into it with a yawn, and suddenly Marc felt it a little easier to breathe. “So Finn‘s gone to spread the bad news, huh?”

Marc waited for the insult that usually followed any remark by Sawyer about his brother. It never came. Sawyer arched an eyebrow and slid a hand onto Marc‘s knee. “You with me?”

“Um, yeah. He said I didn‘t need to be there. I told him we‘d meet him at Rachel‘s for breakfast at ten.”

He‘d meant to ease into the subject, but maybe straightforward was best. Sawyer licked his lips, but nodded. “Okay. I better grab a shower, then.”

Imagining Sawyer under the hot spray, water sluicing off his body, set Marc‘s stomach fluttering. He stood when Sawyer did and followed him to the base of the staircase. “Is there room for two?”

Sawyer put a steadying hand on the newel post. His voice went low and scratchy. “If you want to be on time for breakfast, then… no. There isn‘t.”

With the promise of so much to come, Marc didn‘t have it in him to be disappointed. He shrugged. “Can I take a rain check?”

“You can take a book of them.” Sawyer hugged his coffee to his chest. “And now I think I better go stand under some cold water.”

“Hey, Calhoun!”

They both looked up. Bruce stared down at them from the second floor landing, wearing the shortest robe Marc had ever seen. It covered what it needed to… barely, though it looked wide enough for two people. Bruce snapped his fingers. “Towels?”

“Closet outside the bathroom,” Sawyer answered. “Anything else, your highness?”

Bruce leaned so far over the banister, Marc held his breath. “Yeah. Stop looking up my skirt, you pervert.”

***

WAS it his imagination, or was Rachel‘s more crowded than usual? Marc scanned the room as they stepped in the door, surprised to see nearly every table occupied.

Sawyer had spent some time at the house, and then during the ten minute drive over, with his nose buried in the brown “Tom and Huck” album. He carried it with him now as they entered the diner, tucked safely under his arm. They both scanned the room for an empty table.

“Yo, Marc!” Rick‘s beefy arm appeared above the sea of heads, waving from a table in the center of the room. “Over here.”

They made their way over in a line, Sawyer behind Marc and Bruce bringing up the rear. Until he saw Rachel. “There she is!” he bellowed, striding over to the line of stools that ringed the counter. He knelt gallantly, reaching for her hand and kissing her knuckles when she offered it. “I‘m back, beautiful! Better light a fire under those cooks.”

Rachel slapped a hand over her heart. “Prince Charming in the flesh. Where‘ve you been, darling?”

“Pining for you. But now all that heartache is a thing of the past. What‘s the special?”

“Greek omelet.”

Bruce swooned against the counter. “Marry me.”

“Well now, I don‘t know.” Rachel tightened her ponytail and leaned over, inspecting Bruce head to toe. “Are you prepared to support me in the manner to which I‘m accustomed?”

Bruce’s voice turned serious, enough so to give Marc pause. “Sweetheart,” Bruce said, “I‘d turn to a life of crime for you.”

“All right.” Sawyer called, motioning him over. “Break it up, Cassanova. Let the lady do her thing.”

Somehow Marc scored a table next to Rick, Reba, Karen, and Tim. As soon as Sawyer and Bruce joined him, Marissa appeared bearing coffee and a handful of mugs. “Do they know?” Sawyer asked, tipping his head toward the next table.

“Marc called this morning and told us.” Reba‘s grin was infectious, and Marc found himself returning it. Reba slapped Rick on the back. “We‘re celebrating.”

“And then we‘re getting back to work,” Karen cut in. “Our schedule is days out of whack.”

Sawyer waved her off. “It‘s no problem.”

“No, we promised completion by Christmas. We can do it. Right, guys?”

Nods all around the table made the sentiment unanimous. Tim led a coffee mug toast, and after that, Marc relaxed back in his chair while Karen introduced Bruce to the group. There was a flurry of handshakes. Oddly, Tim held Bruce‘s hand the longest, and his, “I‘ve heard great things about you,” as well as Bruce’s, “Same,” made Marc turn to Sawyer, curious.

“When did you talk to Tim about Bruce?” he whispered.

Sawyer shrugged. “At the wake. I said I thought they had a lot in common.”

Was he serious? “Tim and Bruce,” Marc clarified.

Sawyer smirked, but his answer got lost in a commotion near the front door. Marc swung around to look, but he couldn‘t see through all the people. “What the hell,” Marc heard Sawyer say, and then another voice rose above the confusion. Jonathon‘s.

“Where is he?” Jonathon shouted above the din. “I know he‘s here.”

A chill went down Marc‘s spine. He could see better now; the crowd near the door had parted. Finn stood behind Jonathon and had one hand on his arm, restraining him. Rachel had planted her petite frame in his path. Hands on her hips, she challenged him silently. There was no sign of Maggie.

“Let me through!” Jonathon struggled out of Finn‘s grip. “I want to see Marc.”

Marc swept his eyes over the room. The usual hum of conversation had died, casting an eerie silence over the normally bustling restaurant. It had been a mistake to avoid this confrontation. He understood that now. Selfishly, he‘d wanted to relish his good humor, to keep himself clean of his father‘s vitriol and hang on to that last shrinking thought that maybe… one day, maybe… they could grow beyond the animosity.

He‘d been fooling himself.

He rose to his feet. Beside him, Sawyer made to stand, but Marc clamped a hand onto his shoulder and urged him back into his seat. “I‘m right here,” he called.

Rachel threw him a glance. At Marc‘s nod, she stepped aside. Jonathon straightened his jacket, throwing a dirty look at Finn, then began weaving his way through the tables. He shook his finger at Marc, like he was scolding a child. “I suppose you‘re happy now.”

Marc waited until Jonathon reached their table. His dove gray suit was wrinkled and mussed, and his thinning hair stood up in tufts where his hat hadn‘t flattened it. He looked nothing like the civilized man he purported himself to be. “Did you hear me?” he snapped.

Again, Marc had to push Sawyer down. “I heard you,” he said. “And you really have no right to know how I feel, but I‘ll tell you. Yes, I‘m happy.”

Jonathon planted his hands on his hips. “You‘re not the man I thought you were. Do you have any idea what your greediness is going to cost? Marc—”

“It‘s not going to cost him anything,” Sawyer interrupted, shifting restlessly in Marc‘s grip. “Which is exactly how it should be.”

“Marc, please,” Jonathon said, dismissing Sawyer. His shaking finger softened to a more imploring gesture. “I‘ve already made plans. Promises. This money will let your mother and me do things for these people that we never thought possible. Schools. Books. Immunizations. God, I can‘t—” His hand tightened into a fist as some of his anger broke through. “How can you be so selfish?”

Marc‘s chest filled with something. It put a buzz in his head and sent goose bumps down his arms. Anticipation. He could taste it. “Leave me a way to get in contact with you,” he heard himself say, the words echoing in his ears like he was standing outside his own body, watching. “I‘ll give you half.”

“Half?” It was Finn‘s turn to sputter. “Marc, think about what you‘re saying.”

“I want them to have it,” Marc assured him, catching Finn‘s eye over Jonathon‘s shoulder. It would mean selling Aunt May‘s house and most everything in it, but he could live with that. All in all, a fair compromise, considering twelve hours ago he‘d had nothing.

“You have no idea if he‘s telling the truth,” Sawyer said. “How the hell do you know if he‘s going to use the money for what he claims?”

“I don‘t,” Marc admitted.

It didn‘t matter. And it was time to do something for himself. No more decisions for May. No more for Finn, or even Sawyer. He‘d do what his aunt had raised him to do. He‘d take the high road. “Leave me your number,” he told Jonathon. “I‘ll call you when I‘m ready to send it.”

“And when exactly is that going to be?” Jonathon spat. “A year? Two?”

“I‘ll send it by Christmas.” No matter what. It would be his present to himself. A debt paid. A promise kept.

A rising tide of murmurs filled the room. Jonathon drew himself up, and Marc steeled himself for the worst. He should have known his father would want the final word.

“How generous of you, son.” He jerked his chin at Sawyer. “But I‘m not sure your lover agrees.”

Marc ignored the quiet gasps that floated up around him. “No,” he said, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek, fighting the urge—of all things—to smile. “I‘m pretty sure he doesn‘t.”

He thought that when he tried to lift his arm its weight would be unbearable. Instead, it felt lighter than air. Deliberately, he set his hand on Sawyer‘s shoulder, and Sawyer reached up to clasp their fingers together. They shared a smile—an unmistakable smile. Marc cut his eyes back to his father. “I‘m sure he doesn‘t agree at all, as a matter of fact. But I think he‘ll get over it.”

The enormity of the moment stayed private. Jonathon was too busy basking in the sea of shocked faces. “They didn‘t know?” he asked, turning in a circle. “At least I can take some comfort that your mother and I weren‘t the very last to find out. Not that it makes the truth any less painful.”

The words cut through the air like a knife. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. The silence was so total that Marc could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. He counted ten frantic heartbeats, and then a sound came from the back of the room: chair legs scraping on the floor.

“Okay, mister,” a high-pitched voice said. Sasha, from the Trade-It Horn, Marc realized as he turned. She stood in the aisle in her skinny jeans and crop top, hands on her hips, glaring at Jonathon. “You might be Marc‘s dad, but you are also a horse‘s ass. That kind of stuff is private. It‘s none of my business, and it‘s none of yours, either.”

“I‘m his father,” Jonathon said, derision dripping from his voice.

More chairs squeaked across the linoleum. In all corners of the room, people began to rise, but it was Frank Jones who spoke. Marc hadn‘t seen him since the day of Sawyer‘s estate sale. He scooted from his booth, setting aside the paper napkin that had been spread in his lap as he got to his feet.

“We only knew you for a short time, Jon,” he said. “Many years ago. But nothing’s changed, I see. You view things the way they suit you.” He looked down at his wife, smiled, and caught her fingers in his. Her hand was shaking, Marc saw, but her grip was firm. “As for me and Betty,” Frank added, “we may stick our noses in where they don‘t belong sometimes, but we don‘t punish people for the way God made them. You couldn’t have asked for a better son than Marc.” He raised his chin. “And in my opinion, you don’t deserve him.” He motioned at the door. “Now you‘ve done enough damage for today. So go on. Get out of here.”

“I am not finished speaking with my son,” Jonathon said, enunciating each word.

“Oh, I think you are.” Bruce kicked his own chair back and stalked around the table. “Let me help you find the door.” He cracked his knuckles.

Jonathon took one step back before holding his ground. “And who are you?”

“That‘s Bruce Banner,” Karen piped up. “And I think you just made him angry.”

Sawyer‘s muscles rippled under Marc‘s hand. Marc held firm, keeping him in his seat. “Bruce, don‘t. Let it go.”

Rick stood as well, coming to his feet with none of Bruce‘s grace, but every ounce of his wrath. He didn‘t speak, but the set of his jaw and his clenched fists said it all.

It was Rachel who finally broke the stalemate, ducking in front of Bruce and standing on her tiptoes to glare at Jonathon. “How dare you call him selfish? You‘re the selfish one. Selfish and hateful. I can‘t believe you‘re Marc‘s father. Now get out of my restaurant before I call the cops.”

Her words tipped the scales. His father backed away, whispering under his breath. Silently, the crowd parted for him, and Finn, still standing near the entrance, helpfully pushed the door open. Throwing one more unreadable glance at Marc, Jonathon stalked out.

It could have turned awkward then. That it didn‘t was fifty percent miracle and fifty percent Bruce. “How annoying,” he said, addressing nobody in particular. “It really is insane what some people will do for a little attention.” He folded himself back into his seat. “Didn‘t I hear something about a Greek omelet?”

“You did,” Rachel affirmed, brushing a few stray hairs out of her face.

Bruce rubbed his stomach. “Feed me.” He scooped his mug off the table, then waved at the two women standing nearby. “Have a seat, ladies,” he chastised. “Your food‘s getting cold.”

Sawyer tugged on Marc‘s hand, urging him to sit. He did, and like a switch had been flipped, everyone else did, too, breaking into quiet conversations that soon escalated to their usual volume. Waitresses bustled about. Food got ordered. Food got delivered. The world drank coffee. Business as usual. Marc wasn‘t sure he believed it.

Sawyer drew a chair up beside Finn after Marissa cleared their plates and placed the album on the table in front of him. Silent, Finn stared at the tiny “Tom and Huck” notecard, penned in a shaky hand. “What’s this?” he asked eventually, tone guarded.

“This,” Sawyer said, tapping the notecard, “I found in the same place we found May’s will, between the walls of Granddad’s house. I’m not really sure how to describe the place. It was… an office of sorts. And there were other things there I want to show you. Someday. Soon. But for now, take this.”

“What is it?” Finn asked again.

Sawyer smiled and gave a gentle clap to Finn’s shoulder. “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Enjoy.”

Finn laid a hand on the cover, finger tracing over the names on the card. “Now?” he asked, voice gruff.

“No. Later. When you can relax and appreciate it. You do relax sometimes, right?”

The levity broke Finn’s tension. “Not usually. But I’ll make an exception if it means that much to you.”

The eye roll he got in return was almost affectionate, in Marc’s opinion. Smiling, he turned back in time to see Rachel punch something into Bruce’s phone and hand it back to him. “Um…” Marc stammered.

“I’ll fill you in later,” Sawyer said in his ear when Marc tensed. “If nothing else, he’ll be a good friend. She’s safe with him, babe.” He kissed Marc’s cheek, right there in the middle of the restaurant.

The world didn’t stop spinning. It didn’t even pause. Nobody cared, or even seemed to notice. Marc inhaled deeply, tuning back into Sawyer’s words. “She better be.”

The rest of the meal passed in a blur, and soon they were outside on the sidewalk, saying goodbye. Bruce frowned at the meter maid crossing the street in front of them. “Aw, crap.” He jogged over to his car and squinted at his parking meter. “Hey. I should have run out a half hour ago. This says I have another forty minutes.”

“You‘re lucky.” Marc gestured to where she was shoving a ticket under someone‘s wiper across the street. “They watch these things like hawks. It‘s a fifty-dollar fine.”

Bruce whistled. “Thank you, mystery benefactor.”

“You‘re welcome,” Finn said, buttoning his suit coat. He turned to toss his briefcase, photo album inside, into the backseat of his BMW, so he missed Bruce’s bald look of surprise. As well as the rueful smile that followed on its heels.

“I’m in your debt, counselor.”

“Let’s not go overboard,” Finn said. “It was a quarter.” With a sigh, he shut the car door. Marc thought he might have been the only one to notice how Finn ran his palms over his pant legs before turning to Sawyer. “Give me a call sometime, little brother.” He held out his hand. “Don‘t be a stranger.”

Sawyer grasped it. “I will. Call, I mean. Thanks again, Finn. For everything.”

“Anytime.” He turned to Marc. “I should be the one thanking you, though. I haven‘t had so much fun in years.” When they shook, Finn leaned close. “Good luck,” he whispered.

Bruce drove away shortly after, beeping and blowing kisses at Rachel, who‘d come to stand at the diner‘s entrance. The rest of the team spilled out the door a minute later. Rick was holding his stomach and groaning about too many blueberry pancakes, and Karen was yawning. Marc made an executive decision, and not a particularly unselfish one, he had to admit. “That‘s enough drama for one day, you think? And it‘s almost noon. Why don‘t we just call it the last day of our vacation and start fresh tomorrow?”

“Oh, but—” Karen began.

Rick slapped a hand over her mouth. “Quiet, Barbie. No arguing with the boss.” He yelped when she slapped it away.

“If you insist,” she said, sounding lost.

“I do.” Marc shooed her toward her car. “See you in the morning. And Karen, do something fun, all right?”

They separated, Marc and Sawyer walking down the block to Sawyer‘s Explorer, and the rest filing into the small parking lot behind the building. “So,” Sawyer said. They walked close enough that their fingers brushed with every step. “Any big plans for the rest of the day?”

“Oh, yeah.” They split in front of the car, Marc sliding around to the passenger side door. “How quickly can you get us home?”

Sawyer fired up the engine. “Which one?” he asked. He put the car in drive and eased away from the curb and into traffic.

Marc examined the question from all sides, wondering what about it made him so giddy. “Mine.” He slid his hand onto Sawyer’s knee, letting his fingers dance up his thigh. “How quickly can you get us to mine?”

As it happened, Sawyer got them there in eight minutes.