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  “I couldn’t bear it,” she said. “Stealing a perfectly good word like gay from us! Remember when it used to mean happy? Remember when rainbows meant springtime instead of sodomy flags?”

  “Now just one minute—” Noah started.

  The gavel came down hard this time. “I would like everyone to remember who is chairing this meeting,” said Mayor Riley, his face turning red. “Now look, son, you know I like the idea of renovating that old place. I think it’d be good for business to have a historical hotel like that. But I have to take Violet’s objection seriously. This is a democracy, and she is on the town council—”

  “You mean she runs the town council,” muttered Noah.

  “What did you say, son?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “So we are going to table this issue pending further discussion.”

  “It’s not an issue,” Noah said, hoping to get one last word in. “All we need is your signature on the form. You don’t have to do anything—”

  The gavel came down again. “Next item on the agenda, please.”

  2

  Dalton

  Dalton had been clear with the designers when they were putting together the room: This is not a hospital room. It’s not a nursing home. I don’t want to see machines, I don’t want to see tubes. I do not want to smell a single molecule of disinfectant.

  He had to admit, they’d done their best. As he approached his father’s bed, he couldn’t see any of the hundreds of wires he knew were snaking from the headboard to the wall, where his nurse could monitor Dad’s vitals in the next room. The four-poster was massive, heavy dark wood instead of that hospital beige plastic he’d come to hate. The only concession was the oxygen tube; no way to hide that.

  “You’re looking good, Dad. Can I get those curtains for you?”

  His father’s eyes hadn’t lost their sharpness. “Don’t you play nice,” he said. “What did the doctor say?”

  Dalton ignored him and aimed the room’s remote at the curtains, which slid open, showing one of the most expensive vistas in the city. The bed was angled just right for Dad to look out at the Atlanta skyline, the park, the bustling buildings. “Help me get my money’s worth,” he said, “and enjoy this view. Want me to move you to the chair?”

  “If I wanted to sit in the chair, I’d get the nurse in here to move me. If you want me to sit in the chair, why don’t you invent one of your goddamn robots to move me to it?”

  “Don’t tempt me. I’ll bring one of the industrial ‘bots in here, it’ll pick you up like a newborn kitten. The doctor says not yet.”

  “Not yet? That’s vague as hell.” He struggled to sit up, and Dalton was right by his side, lifting, pushing another pillow behind him. “You boys are going to burn down the company by the time I’m back in the boardroom.”

  Every day, the same battle. Every single day. Good thing he’d been raised a fighter. “What do you need? Have you had breakfast yet? Taken all your pills?”

  “What I need is for you people to stop treating me like an invalid. I need to put a suit on and order some people around. You’ve all forgotten who the boss is around here.”

  Dalton bent down and kissed his father’s forehead, careful not to laugh as the old man winced. “Dad. The company’s not going anywhere. We’re doing fine. You’ve forgotten who the interim CEO is around here. Me. I know what I’m doing.”

  He knew what Dad wanted, though. The only way to make him feel included right now, was to tell him about all the meetings, all the projects, all the problems. That was the real point of these visits. Not sympathy—Dad hated sympathy.

  In fact, Dad seemed to hate any emotions at all. Almost. Anger was usually okay. He enjoyed anger.

  Love? Not allowed in the room. Sympathy, worry?

  But the point of these visits wasn’t fear, either, even though every time he walked in here, Dalton worried it was going to be the last time. The heart operation had been tricky, even with the best surgeons in the country. He was careful to erase the fear from his mind before visiting.

  No. The point was to make him feel included, to remind him he was still a valuable part of the company…and the family. Without being effusive. Without getting mushy.

  As he gave his dad the update (“We finally got the purchase order, and I swear, it’s twice as big as we’d planned for. This is the big one, Dad, it’s going to send us through the roof. We’ve got the factory going nonstop…”), half his mind was occupied with studying his father, checking for any signs of discomfort, any signs of an unspoken need. He watched the man’s eyes tighten at the mention of the research budget, watched him scowl at the latest payroll figures, and then, finally, relax once Dalton got to the revenue forecasts.

  Typical Dad. As long as he knows billions of dollars are still pouring into the company, all is right with the world.

  “And your brother? How’s he doing? Tell me honestly.”

  “Colby’s fine, Dad. Cut-throat as ever.”

  “You say cut-throat like it’s a bad thing. Maybe I should’ve put him in charge. You’re too soft, Dalton. Look at all this. How much did you spend, trying to fool me into thinking I’m not on death’s door?”

  “You’re not going to die, Dad. You’re too mean and too rich to die.”

  “Harumph. Spending my last days looking out this window, looking down at this grimy damn city.”

  “Maybe plan your next heart attack better, then. Have it in Bermuda, or on Knossos, somewhere nice.”

  He could tell his father was tiring already, from the way his shoulders slumped. As much as the man wanted to hear every detail of the business, it wore him out. Dalton pressed the button for the nurse to take over for him, then knelt by the bed to say his goodbyes.

  “Listen,” said the old man. “I’m serious. The board put you in charge, but you can’t let it go to your head. You don’t get to be a billionaire by being nice. Let your brother help you. He’s got the killer instinct.”

  “All right Dad. I promise. Now get some rest, okay? I’ve got a meeting with the foundation downstairs, but the nurse—”

  “The foundation! Agh, drive a knife into my heart. How much of my money are you giving away today?”

  “Far, far less than you’ll make today, that’s for sure,” said Dalton. “See you tomorrow.”

  I hope.

  “I can’t figure out if this is a bigger waste of time, or of money,” groaned Colby, leaning as far back as he could in his chair without actually falling over. “Dalton, make it stop.”

  “Astrid, I’m sorry. You’ll have to forgive my brother. He’s not good at charity. Or…y’know, basic human goodness.”

  The director of the Raines Foundation nodded politely. “As I was saying—”

  “What’s the use of having billions of dollars if you’re just going to give them all away?” Colby asked. “What am I even working for?”

  “Wow,” said Dalton. “Just…wow. Do you need to be excused for nap-time, or can you sit in that chair like an adult and listen? This is important.”

  It was embarrassing, it really was. All this complaining. How could you take and take, and never think to give back to the community? Sometimes Dalton wished he could resign from his spot in the company, and just take over the foundation himself. Give it all away. Spend all his time helping fund cures for cancer, fund historical renovations, fund scholarship programs. All the things that made the world a better place.

  “It’s okay,” said Astrid. “I’m really done with the presentation. There was just one outstanding issue, but it’s such a minor one, I wasn’t sure I should bring it up.”

  “Thank god,” said Colby. “Don’t bring it up. If you guys need me, I’ll be upstairs working on my next buyout.”

  “You will sit in that chair, and you be quiet, and you will pay attention,” said Dalton.

  He never used the command voice.

  Never.

  He preferred to convince, to persuade. To bring people onto his sid
e.

  But Colby? No. Sometimes Colby just needed to remember who the older brother was, who the interim CEO was. Dad put Dalton in charge, after all. Not this petulant boy who wasn’t happy unless he was burning some other company down.

  Why does Dad like you better? He’d never understand it. Dad never grumbled quite as bitterly to Colby, as he did to Dalton.

  Still, while Colby still didn’t want to be here, at least he straightened up in his seat. “All right. Go ahead, Astrid. Sorry.”

  She aimed her remote at the big screen on the wall. The TV blinked, and then a truly majestic house appeared.

  House? Mansion. Practically a castle. Gorgeous.

  His eyes widened. Look at it.

  “Gentlemen, this is Superbia Springs, a 1920s-era Richardsonian Romanesque house nestled in the wilds of Georgia.”

  “The country or the—”

  “No, the state.”

  “Really,” said Dalton, sitting forward.

  The place was fascinating. Looked at one way, it seemed like a jumble of architectural styles, Gothic Revival mixed with Baroque, yet looked at another, it all held together, massive and heavy and perfect.

  He found he couldn’t take his eyes off of it, to look at the papers Astrid had slid in front of him. His body seemed to have a mind of its own, rising from his seat, ignoring Colby’s sniff of surprise, finding himself gravitating towards the screen as though getting closer to the glass would get him closer to the place itself.

  What did it mean to feel the pull of a place he had never seen?

  He had felt it before. There were corners of the world which, once seen, become lodged in the mind, in the dreams. Places you went back to, often alone, or with someone very close to you, someone who would understand what it meant.

  Too bad there’s no one like that for me to visit this house with. No one to share the moment. It took a special kind of person. Someone linked to you below the level of thought, an emotional link, someone who would feel what you felt.

  There hadn’t been anyone like that for a long time, and the few visits he had made to his special places recently, he had been alone.

  Yet those lonely thoughts were crowded out by the image of the house itself.

  It took a while for him to realize he was being spoken to.

  “The owners have filed a grant application with us for restoration,” Astrid said. “It’s a big request. Bigger than we’d normally approve. Riskier. They’ve run into some friction, locally. It’s holding up the application process.”

  Colby shrugged, but at least his voice was respectful. “If they can’t get the application handled, how are they going to restore a place that size? We’ll just wait them out, right? Let the application expire?”

  But Astrid was looking at him. “Your father…”

  Dalton nodded. “No, I know. This is right up his alley. Colby, a place like this…it’s why Dad set up the historical side of the charity. Astrid, have you shown it to Dad?”

  She shook her head. “The nurse said only immediate family could go in.”

  “What’s the problem with the application?”

  “Politics,” she said. “It’s a very small town.”

  Colby sighed, and for once, Dalton didn’t disagree. Small-town politics had derailed more than one project the foundation had funded.

  You wanted to be generous with these things, because historical sites needed so much care and love, but if you poured the foundation’s resources into something and then some random guy on the zoning commission tried to shut you down, then you’d just wasted time and money.

  “All right,” he said. “Give me all the information. I’ll make some calls, grease some wheels. Maybe I’ll need to make a trip down to—where did you say it was?”

  “Superbia.”

  “How superb,” muttered Colby.

  “Careful,” said Dalton. “Another word out of you, and I’ll take you with me.”

  They were walking to the elevators when Colby pulled him aside. “Are you serious?” he whispered. “Did I just hear you volunteer to drop everything and fly to some decaying brick-heap, in the middle of the biggest crisis our company has ever faced? Did you forget Dad is up there in the penthouse, dying?”

  Dalton smoothed down his sleeve where Colby had grabbed him. “You don’t know the whole story,” he said. “Dad would want me to do this.”

  “What he wants is someone to run the damn company for him, not to jet off to look at houses!”

  “It’s only an hour and a half away, I won’t need a jet at all.”

  How could he explain it? There were some things Colby was never going to understand. Dad had done too good a job raising him, too good a job playing the part of the heartless businessman who cared about nothing but money.

  Dalton knew better. He’d seen the truth. Try convincing his brother of that, though.

  “There are some things more important than money,” he said quietly.

  Colby just shook his head in disbelief. “You’re crazy. You’re not going down there, not now. Wait until the man is back on his feet, at least.”

  “I’ll be back before you know it. I’ll have my assistant with me. I won’t miss anything. You have to trust me on this, Colby.”

  “Trust you? I don’t even know you, man. What happened to you? Ever since Dad got sick, you’ve been like this… Like some moody damn poet, instead of a businessman. Remember when you cared about what we’re doing here? Remember when it mattered to you?”

  Dalton found he could no longer look his brother in the eye.

  I do remember. But it has been a long, long time.

  3

  Noah

  “Do you remember back in school, how when you’d get in trouble, you’d have to sit outside Mr. Grimley’s office and wait, while the secretary stared at you? That’s what this feels like,” said Noah. He smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle on his silky cuff.

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Liam, “I never got sent to the office.”

  Judah snickered. “You were always the good boy.”

  “What time are they getting here again?” Noah would’ve looked at his watch, but it didn’t have working hands. It was just for decoration.

  “It’ll be okay,” said Liam, staring in the direction of the gate. “They’re just here to look the house over and review our application for the grant. It’ll be some polite, boring office workers. Normal city people. You remember city people, don’t you?”

  “I’ve never been good with office people,” said Noah. “They’re always so needy in bed. Begging for the approval they don’t get during the workday.”

  “Just think of them as bureaucrats, here for paperwork. Besides, this time, I will do all the talking.”

  This spring had been cooler than usual, and Noah was beginning to regret the silvery couture shirt he’d worn this morning. The thin mesh was great for clubbing, clinging in interesting ways the minute you got sweaty. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea for meeting boring bureaucrats. Maybe he should have worn a jacket too. Maybe the choker was a step too far. With a quick hand to the back of his neck, he unclasped the choker, wrapping it around his wrist instead. “Give me a minute, I’ll be back,” he said.

  “Where are you going?” asked Liam. “They’ll be here any second.”

  “I’ll be quick!”

  He ran back into the house, his soles pat-pat-patting against the marble tiles of the foyer. Up the grand staircase, down the hall, to the very end, to his bedroom.

  Back when the house was built in the 1920s, Silas Cooper had had some strange architectural ideas. For instance, the turret room, circular and awkward, impossible to furnish, because no matter how you arranged your dresser and bed and table, they always stuck out from the rounded wall.

  Noah had loved it the minute he saw it. Mine, he’d thought. It didn’t matter that nothing quite worked in the room. It was so frivolous, so unnecessary. What, had Silas thought there would be archers at the windows, shooting thei
r arrows down into the yard? Why a turret?

  No time for questions now, though. Liam stripped off the mesh shirt, and with quick, birdlike movements, got it back on a hanger and into the closet. Down came the tight pleather pants that emphasized every curve of his ass.

  What was I thinking, dressing like this? Didn’t I learn my lesson the other night at the council? Didn’t I see the way Liam rolled his eyes when he first saw me this morning?

  Be normal, be normal, be normal.

  There were limits. Noah wasn’t the sort of person who owned khaki or, god forbid, polo shirts. But he had that gray sharkskin suit he wore to straight-people weddings. He unzipped it from the hanging garment bag and began to suit up.

  Liam didn’t have to think this through so hard. It was easy for him. His whole wardrobe was built around stolid respectability. Judah didn’t worry about it; his Super Mario t-shirts gave him a sort of invisibility, where people glanced at him and didn’t care what he was wearing.

  It was different for Noah. He knew how the world judged based on appearance. Don’t judge a book by its cover. That was stupid. Nobody judged a book by anything but its cover.

  He checked himself in the mirror. The suit was sharp, shiny, serious. It felt all wrong, which is what made it right.

  Always do the opposite of what you feel. It was the only way the world would accept you.

  When the nonprofit Raines Foundation had announced a surprise visit to Superbia Springs, Noah had pictured a convoy of nondescript cars, something sensible like Subarus or Hondas, hatchbacks and station wagons, piloted by people with battered attache cases.

  “They’re here,” said Liam, and Noah’s eyes widened in surprise.

  There was just one car. One beautiful, perfect car, streamlined and deadly, a barracuda of a vehicle, cutting through the air with a futuristic elegance.

  “What is that?” he whispered.