Spring Forward (Superbia Springs Book 1)

by Rachel Kane

  They decided to split up to cover more of the house. Mama took Roo; it was still early, and Roo was in her thoughtful phase, munching her toast, not yet ready to wriggle and move around. Liam kissed her on her warm, damp forehead before they split up, inhaling her milky scent, feeling her dark hair like silk against his lips. It was one of the few reminders of Richard that he felt he could survive, the color of that hair. As long as he didn't take it too far, he'd be okay. He could remember the way Richard's own hair had grown thin so early, his insistence that he wouldn't buzz it all off the way men did these days, but that led to comb-overs and comb-forwards and a long battle with the basic geometry of his crown.

  It was the first time in a while that a memory of Richard hadn't felt like a stab through the heart.

  Liam wondered if that might be related to what happened with Mason. That felt dangerous, felt unfaithful to Richard's memory. It shouldn't be possible for someone to fuck a memory out of your head.

  "Okay," he whispered to himself, alone in the foyer, "let's focus."

  Mason had said something strange last night, something that came back to Liam as he explored the nearly-empty room that used to be the first-floor study. He hadn't spent much time in this room on his prior visits, hadn't felt he had the right to linger, except in those places like the spring-house itself, where the absolutely beauty paralyzed him and forced his eyes to stay.

  The study did not share that same otherworldly beauty, but spoke to some other part of him…perhaps the practical part. He could see from the marks on the floor how the furniture had been situated back when Superbia Springs had been a going concern: A desk, presumably very large, had sat over there by the shelves. One could imagine those shelves teeming with books, or perhaps with relics and souvenirs from Uncle Silas' travels, symbols of an even older world than the one this house represented. 1925. This place was nearly a century old, yet it must have seemed excitingly modern at the time, as far removed from the 19th century as Liam felt removed from the 20th.

  The strange thing Mason had said was that Alex was researching grants. What kind of grants? Mason had greeted this question with a shrug. Some kind of historical something. It had clearly bothered him not to have more details than that to offer Liam, because just as clearly, his mentioning it was meant to be a gift, a little offering after the joys of the night.

  Historical...preservation? Conservation? You'll have to ask Alex. But it could be good news, Liam. It could be really good.

  At that moment, everything had seemed good, like the universe was a child's puzzle that had suddenly clicked into place. Like this floor must have seemed, when the last marble tile was set down: One final snap and the room was perfection. He traced the lines of the tiles with his toe. A grant. A way of keeping the house.

  It was impossible, of course. A dream. But couldn't he enjoy it just for a little while? The same way he knew that he and Mason couldn't possibly last, but for a few brief days he could pretend they could?

  That was an unworthy thought. Mason really believed Liam could stay here. Could make a life here, a better life than he'd have in the city. If he let himself imagine that, then when he stared up at these shelves, he could imagine his own books populating them. His desk would sit where the old desk had, right here, and he'd be able to do his day-job, with his computer and his phone and his printer, telecommuting, an idea that would have been totally alien to his great-uncle.

  Or would it have been? The house could have had a telegraph, could have been communicating with the entire world if there were enough wires. Did they still use telegraphs in the ‘20s? Liam didn't know. For all that he'd tried to brush up on the architecture of the house, his historical knowledge had large, large gaps.

  This room was enormous, though, and in his vision he could see room for Roo as well. Liam would be over here, working; Roo would be over there on her play mat with her toys. Space near the window for a day-bed for her to have her nap. It seemed so real, he felt he could reach out and touch the furniture he was imagining. He would decorate the house as close as possible to its former glory. Old paintings, thick wallpaper in old patterns and colors, the floor polished to a high gloss…it would be exciting and beautiful, and Roo would grow up thinking this was just the way they'd always lived, surrounded by elegance.

  The way I could've grown up, if my dad hadn't refused the house.

  The dour thought brought him back to earth, and back to his task. Beneath the shelves were plenty of cabinets to check, and he opened each one, brushing away spider-webs and clouding the air with dust, sneezing his way through the emptiness, through the lack of any clues or secret papers or tapes or anything.

  "Well," he said, standing up and brushing off his knees, "one down, a thousand rooms to go." An exaggeration, maybe. But they weren't going to find anything. He knew that. There was nothing to find. He and his mother would leave here disappointed, the same disappointment they always felt when his dad came to mind, that dark, grinding undertone to their grief. That lack of closure that wouldn't ever let go.

  Mason had said that Richard wasn't Liam's fault. And that was mostly true. It was something Liam understood on an intellectual level, if not an emotional one. But that left the question of his dad. Was his dad's death Liam's fault? Had Liam been a bad son, too distant? He'd never had the relationship with his dad that people had on TV, throwing a baseball, going out boating. His dad was always gone on business, and when he was home the boys were instructed not to bother him. Liam had always thought his dad must be amazingly important to need so much time to himself and to his thoughts. Maybe he was secretly one of the president's men, flying around the world on spying missions.

  Liam leaned against the shelf and shook his head. No. His dad was just a closeted gay man from an era where coming out would result in you losing everything. He hadn't trusted anyone with his secret, and now he had paid the most unfair price at all, as though the sin were his instead of society's. As much as he hated his dad for keeping secrets from the family, it had been a different world back then, and even though the world was still imperfect…

  Imperfection.

  That's the word that came to mind, that came to his attention as he realized he'd been staring at something for a while now without it registering.

  On the shelf he was leaning against, there was a subtle imperfection in the wood grain. It looked like someone had replaced a damaged part of the back of the shelf, cutting out a thin rectangle, and replacing it with a piece of wood that almost, but not quite, matched the rest.

  It was almost jarring, given the care the rest of this room evidenced. Once you saw it, you couldn't take your eyes off it. Uncle Silas would not have allowed such a careless bit of carpentry in a room like this. He wasn’t a man who tolerated shortcuts, if the rest of the house was any indication.

  Liam reached out to touch the rectangle of wood, and found that he wasn't surprised when the piece had a bit of give to it. It seemed to want to be pressed, and he pressed it.

  "Mama?" he called, his voice echoing off the dusty tile floor. “Mama?” he said, even louder, as a six-foot-high section of shelving hinged inward, creating a doorway into the wall.

  21

  Mason

  Mason dropped into the bookstore on his way to a job; some of the siding had come off the Lisle house, and they weren't sure if it was a matter of termites or age, but had asked for his expert opinion. He hadn’t come to The Overcrowded Shelf to brag about last night, certainly not to Alex, but when the heart felt that full, it was hard not to share it with someone. He glanced over the shelves as Alex helped a customer, then when they were alone he said, "Where are the architecture books?"

  "Into old houses all of a sudden?" Alex came from around the counter, one eyebrow raised, taking Mason's measure. "Oh, my. You didn't."

  "Hush up. I'm looking for a gift, so it needs to be a nice book."

  "Mason Lee Tisdale, did you—"

  "Alex, come on."

  "I thought that was L
iam who messaged you last night! Of course, Toby and I had a bet on it, he said it was probably just a blocked drain, but I had a hunch, a suspicion—"

  Some part of Mason had known that he'd have to tell Alex, and soon. That's just the way things worked in their friendship.

  "I… Well. I might've met him last night, yes."

  "I knew it! Did you tell him about our plan, did you mention the grant—"

  "I tried!" How to explain that his words had gotten all tangled in the night, his throat unable to work correctly with this giddy feeling in his heart, this sense that he was wanted? And how unusual that felt, and how good? This wasn't some random guy he'd picked up, excited to sleep with just anyone. This was…dare he even say it? It was special.

  There, he thought. I’ve jinxed it.

  "Maybe you were too busy doing other things with your mouth," said Alex, but he didn't stand there to see whether his joke landed. No, he was already studying his shelves. "I don't have a lot about architecture, no. Not a lot of call for it, really. Mysteries, yes, and romance, yes, but our nonfiction readers in town generally want to read about Great Battles Of History, or How To Make Your Garden Grow. But…”

  Mason followed him into the slim history section, where there were indeed quite a few books about battles. He watched Alex's quick movements, touching the spines of the books as though the titles were in braille, until his fingers tapped against a very slim volume tucked away between two books on the Civil War. "Maybe this," Alex said, handing it to him.

  The Story of Superbia: A Local History.

  Mason started to flip it open to see if there was anything about the springs and the house, but his eye was caught by the bottom of the cover, where the author's name was printed.

  "Thaddeus S. Mulgrew," he said. "Really? A Mulgrew wrote this?"

  Alex nodded. “You haven’t heard of him? I’m surprised. He’s Justin’s uncle. A real black sheep. He lives out of—”

  "A Mulgrew. So it's a book about how great their family is, and how much they've done to make Superbia prosper."

  "We live in a small town," said Alex. "There's not a lot of history here to record. The pictures are nice. Although…"

  There was a lot of weight in that although. "Yes, go on, spit it out."

  "You're buying Liam presents now? Do you want to talk about that fact?"

  "There is nothing I want less, than to talk about that fact."

  Alex faced him. "Look, you know I'm happy for you—"

  "But?"

  "I'm over the moon, I really am. I like Liam, he's sweet, he's a good catch—”

  "But?"

  "But did you happen to mention that you're in the closet, and that nobody in town is supposed to know you're gay? Did you tell him that?"

  "Not that it's any of your business—"

  "You're my best friend. It's my business."

  "But yes, I did talk to him about it."

  "And he's okay with it?"

  He thought about that look on Liam's face. Thought about the pain he'd seen when Liam described his father's secrets, and the way he died.

  "He's fine," Mason said. "You can stop giving me your worried face."

  "Okay. All right, if you say so."

  Mason sighed. "Clearly, you don't think it's all right. Do we have to talk about this right now?"

  "I just don't want you to screw this up!" said Alex.

  "Screw what up? We're not…we're not…”

  "Married? In a relationship? Seeing one another? Sleeping together? What are you doing, where it's okay to keep that part of yourself secret, when you're with someone else? Don't you think that's going to be hard for him, not being able to tell anyone? Don't you think it's unfair to bring him into your little secret? Because I can tell you, as someone who has known you for our entire lives, it's hard as hell when you come up in conversation. It's not like I worry I'm going to blurt out that you're gay. It's more like, what if I hint at it somehow, without knowing it? What if I give some clue that you're gay, and someone else puts it together? That's a lot of pressure to put your friends under, Mason. How much more pressure is it for Liam?"

  It was an aspect that had never occurred to Mason before. Of course he was careful how he described his private life, and he knew how hard it was to keep his own secret from everyone, carefully constructing alibis for when he'd leave town to meet guys, making sure that nothing in his life screamed gay, that he seemed just like a normal boring contractor who just hadn't met the right girl yet.

  He hadn't considered how Alex and Toby must have to do the same thing, whenever Mason was the topic. And now he was asking Liam to do the same?

  It hurt to think about. Made him want to run, hide, to take the burden away from the people he cared about, so they'd never have to lie for him. Just bury himself in some deep cave far, far away, where he could be by himself, and be at peace.

  Peace would have to wait, though, because suddenly Mason's new phone was jingling and vibrating with what seemed to be delight. He pulled out the glass slab and looked down at the message shining from the screen:

  OMG Mason, can you come to the house? You're not going to believe what I found!

  Alex was eyeing him with interest as he put his phone away again. "Listen," Mason said, "we can talk about the great crisis of my private life later. Can you wrap this book up, make it look nice, like a present?"

  "What, you're leaving?"

  "Liam needs me."

  "Are you going to pay for the book?"

  Mason sighed. "Put in on my tab."

  "This is a bookstore! You don't have a tab! More importantly, what's going on with Liam, why are you smiling like that?"

  Mason laughed and hugged his friend before leaving.

  "I'll be damned," whispered Mason, looking into the dark passage beyond the shelves. "Oh. Sorry, Roo."

  "Bah," answered the baby, who seemed as fascinated at the grown-ups' reaction, as the grown-ups were fascinated by the shadowy hall they faced.

  "Where do you think it goes?" asked Mama.

  "One way to find out," said Liam. "Mason, do you have a flashlight?"

  "Of course I do. You know what this is, though, right?"

  Liam peered into the darkness. "Uncle Silas was actually Batman, and this is the way to his cave?"

  "Bah-mah!" said Roo with delight, squirming in Liam's arms.

  Mason clicked on his flashlight, and a white beam traced the wooden floor and walls. "The house was built back during Prohibition. This was a fancy resort, remember? The guests would've expected liquor…something they couldn't get legally. I'd be willing to bet…well, let's just go see, all right?"

  "Is it safe?" asked Liam's mom. "I don't want you boys falling to your deaths in there. Liam, give me that baby. Don't take her in."

  "Oh, she'll be fine, Uncle Silas wouldn't—"

  "Nope," she said. "Baby. Now."

  Mason led the way, very slowly. There was no question that the floor was sturdy. He bounced on his toes, and there was nary a creak. "This place is so solid," he said. In his mind, he was trying to picture the layout of this secret area. He had studied the house so carefully for his estimate…what had he missed?

  Liam's voice was quiet behind him; something about this hallway inspired whispering. "I'm glad you came."

  "I wouldn't miss this. It's a contractor's dream. Do you know how much I've been dying to build somebody a panic room?"

  There was a turn, beyond which no light from the study could filter in. Without the flashlight, they would have been in total darkness.

  "You boys be careful!" said Liam's mom, her voice already sounding a mile away.

  The hallway was narrow, bare, utilitarian. It seemed designed more for secret escapes than for illegal luxury. He stopped a moment to get his bearings, to figure out which rooms they were behind; Liam, not expecting the pause, ran into him.

  "Oh, sorry," Liam said, but he didn't back off from where he'd brushed against him. Instead, Mason felt Liam's arm snake around his
waist, felt Liam's lips touch the back of his neck.

  "I had a good time last night," said Liam in the softest whisper, one that Mason prayed would not bounce from the walls back into the study.

  In reply, all he could do is grasp Liam's hand and squeeze it.

  There was one more turn, and then a set of steps downward. "Careful here," Mason said. "Maybe stay here until I'm all the way down. The stairs could be rickety by this point. I'll shine the light back up so you can see."

  Yet the steps were as sturdy as everything else in the house. They were carpeted, and when Mason shone his light down at them, he could see that the rich scarlet of the carpet was well-preserved in this sunless, airless place. Sumptuous was the word that came to mind, and he wondered what it must have been like for Silas Cooper's guests, navigating the narrow, dark hallway. He could practically hear the titters and laughter, the fear that entertains because you know it will soon be over.

  He stepped into a larger room; he could hear its size even before he saw it, from the way the air pressure seemed to change. As promised, he sent his beam of light back up the stairs. "It's fine," he told Liam.

  "Wow," Liam said, coming down. "I want to take my shoes off and dig my toes into it. What's down here, anyway, do you— Oh. Oh wow."

  The flashlight could only pick out small, isolated wedges of view, and it was up to the eye to put those together and realize where they were.

  A barroom fit for the rich and famous, the roaringest of the roaring 20s. The dust and cobwebs could not hide the grandness of the room, the brass and wood of the bar, the red and green fabric on the billiard tables. Lamps hung every few feet; when they were lit, this place would have been bright and happy and warm.

  "You can almost hear the people," said Liam. "Can't you? The clinking glasses, the laughter. Music… Look, there's an old piano. What did they listen to back then, was it ragtime?"