House of Secrets (2 page)

“I’ve biked by here tons of times, but I’ve never seen this place,” said Cordelia.

“That’s because you never look up from your stupid books,” said Brendan.

“And how do you figure I’m reading when I’m on a bike, genius?”

“Audiobooks?”

“Guys, no fighting in front of the real estate agent,” Mrs. Walker said under her breath. She had already called Diane Dobson back to apologize for how Brendan had hung up on her, and now they saw a woman who looked like Hillary Clinton standing at the front of the path. “That must be her. Let’s go.”

The Walker family stepped out of their Toyota, bumping into one another. Diane greeted them, wearing a finely tailored, coral-colored suit, her hair lacquered into a blond helmet. She made the house look even more impressive.

“Dr. Jake Walker,” Dr. Walker said, reaching out to shake. “And this is my wife, Bellamy.” Mrs. Walker nodded demurely. Dr. Walker didn’t bother to introduce his offspring. He hadn’t shaved that morning, even though he used to make a point of telling his children how men who didn’t shave every day lacked discipline. But he wasn’t the man he had been back then. Diane eyed the family’s secondhand sedan.

“Can we keep our horse here?” Eleanor asked, tugging Dr. Walker’s leg.

“We don’t have a horse, Nell.” He laughed. “She’s going through a horse phase,” he explained to Diane.

“But it’s perfect, Daddy! You said I could get a horse on my next birthday—”

“That was if we got a country house, which we’re not getting, and you can’t keep horses in the city.”

“Why not? There’s lots of places to ride them! Golden Gate Park, Crissy Field . . . You think I don’t remember things you promise—”

Mrs. Walker knelt and took Eleanor’s shoulders in her hands. “Honey, we’ll talk about this later.”

“But Daddy always—”

“Calm down. It’s not Daddy’s fault. Things have changed. Why don’t we play a game? Here, close your eyes and tell me what kind of horse you want in your wildest dreams. Come on, I’ll do it with you.”

Mrs. Walker shut her eyes. Eleanor followed. Brendan rolled his eyes instead of shutting them, but he was tempted, deep down, to join in. Cordelia shut hers—in solidarity with her sister and to annoy Brendan.

“And . . . open!” Mrs. Walker said. “What kind of horse is he?”

“
She.
Calico. Light brown with white spots. Her name’s Misty.”

“Perfect.” Mrs. Walker hugged her daughter tight, stood up, and went back to looking at the house with Diane Dobson, who had waited patiently for the family to work out their very obvious issues.

“Delightful, isn’t it?” the real estate agent said. “A completely unique construction.”

“There are some things about it that concern me,” Mrs. Walker said. Brendan saw that she was entering negotiation mode, where she used her charm and poise to make people do things. Standing in front of the home, she looked strong and beautiful, more confident than she had been in months. Brendan wondered if it might be fate that had brought them to this house.

“What concerns you?” asked Diane.

“First of all,” said Mrs. Walker, “the house is on the edge of a cliff. It seems very precarious. And what would happen in an earthquake? We’d slide right into the ocean!”

“The house emerged from the quake of 1989 without a scratch,” Diane said. “The engineering is superb. Come inside; let’s take a look.”

Intrigued, the Walkers followed her up the path toward the house, past the big pine trees. Brendan noticed something odd about the lawn. It took him a minute to realize . . . there was no For Sale sign.
What kind of house goes on sale without a sign?

“This is a three-story landmarked Victorian,” Diane declared, “known locally as Kristoff House. It was built in 1907, after the Great Quake, by a gentleman who survived it.”

Dr. Walker nodded. His family, too, had survived the Great San Francisco Earthquake generations before. They had moved away, but work had brought Dr. Walker back. Work he no longer had.

“Two eighteen!” Eleanor said, pointing at the address hanging over the front door.

“One twenty-eight,” Cordelia corrected gently.

Eleanor huffed and looked down at her feet. Diane continued her monologue on the front steps, but Cordelia hung back and knelt beside her sister. This might be a “teachable moment,” as Cordelia’s English teacher Ms. Kavanaugh liked to say. Since one of the effects of Eleanor’s dyslexia was that she read things backward, Cordelia figured there must be a simple psychological trick that could get her to read perfectly. They just hadn’t found it yet. Brendan lingered, eager to see Cordelia fail.

“Can you try reading it backwards?” she encouraged.

“It’s not that simple, Deal. You think you know everything!”

“Well, I
have
read books about this, and I’m trying to help—”

“Then where were you at school last week?”

“What? What’re you talking—”

“This stupid substitute in my stupid English class called on me to read from
Little House on the Prairie
. And I couldn’t do it.”

As she said the words, Eleanor remembered that day at school. Ms. Fitzsimmons had been out sick, and Eleanor had been too scared to tell the sub that she had problems reading, so she went in front of the class and held the book and waited for magic to happen. She thought maybe somehow, just once, magic would happen and she’d be able to read a sentence the right way. But the words looked as mixed-up as they always did—
not backwards, Cordelia,
she thought,
mixed-up
—and when she tried to read the title, the first four words came out right but the last one came out like a swear word. The whole class laughed and Eleanor dropped the book and ran out of the room and the sub sent her to the principal and everybody was still calling her that swear word.

Cordelia spoke in a quiet voice: “Oh Eleanor . . . I’m so sorry. But I can’t be with you in class.”

“No, you can’t! So don’t pretend you can
fix me
!”

Cordelia winced. Brendan, amused by her failure, prepared to deliver a cutting remark, but before he could—

“What’s
that
?” Eleanor exclaimed.

Brendan and Cordelia glanced over in time to see a figure streaking from one of the pine trees to the side of the house. A flash of shadow. Too fast to be a person. A car honked on Sea Cliff Avenue behind them.

“That was probably just the car’s shadow, Nell,” said Brendan. “Jumping from the tree to the house.”

“No it wasn’t. It was a person. And it was bald,” insisted Eleanor.

“You saw a bald guy?”

“
Girl.
An old woman. Staring at us. And now she’s behind the house.”

Brendan and Cordelia glanced at each other, each expecting the other to be making a
silly Eleanor
face. But they were both as deadly serious as their sister.

They looked at the side of Kristoff House. The silhouette of a dark figure stood there. Watching them.

B
rendan took a deep breath and tried to stay calm, strong. The figure remained still. “Hello?” he called, stepping off the path and pulling Eleanor with him, Cordelia following close behind. “Is someone there?”

He was trying to use his toughest voice, but it cracked—more
Sesame Street
than Schwarzenegger. He cleared his throat to cover it as he and his siblings crept to the side of the house.

The figure was nothing but an old statue. A Gothic angel, looming six feet tall, carved from gray stone stained with streaks of green and black. It had wings folded behind it and arms stretched forward, with the right hand broken off. Its face was worn down, chinless and lipless, eroded by decades of San Francisco wind and fog. Mossy patches covered its eyes.

“Beautiful,” said Cordelia.

Brendan wiped his forehead, surprised to find it covered in sweat. It was stupid, but he’d expected to see the person Eleanor had described: a bald woman, a crone. His imagination ran away with him a little and he could even picture this woman pointing a crooked finger and hissing, “Here are the suckers who will finally buy this house!”

“See, Nell? It’s just a statue. There’s no one here,” Brendan said, putting his hand on Eleanor’s shoulder.

“She went somewhere.”

“It was the light. It played a trick on you.”

“No it didn’t!”

“Let it go. You’re scared.”

“Not as scared as you,” said Eleanor, moving Brendan’s hand away and pointing at the sweaty spot he had left on her shoulder. Before Brendan could protest, another hand reached out from behind and grabbed his neck.

“H
elp!” Brendan screamed, whirling around and shoving with all his might.

“Oof!”
His father hit the ground.

“Jeez, Bren, what’s the matter with you?” said Dr. Walker, hoisting himself to his feet and rubbing his tailbone.

“Dad! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Come on. Mom and Diane are waiting for you guys. We’re going to check out the inside of the house.”

The Walkers followed their father. Brendan felt a chill breeze as he approached the door with the 128 on it—but then again, the house
was
half off a cliff. The stone angel had so fascinated him that he’d almost failed to notice: The far side of Kristoff House was supported by metal stilts anchored in boulders far below on the beach. And hanging under the house were dozens of barrels.

“What are those . . . ?” Brendan started to ask as he entered.

But he was silenced by the sheer beauty of the interior. Mrs. Walker, too, was amazed; she had totally dropped negotiation mode. She was busy ogling antiques and checking her reflection in polished banisters. Dr. Walker let out a low whistle. Cordelia said, “Wow, you could call this a great hall and not even be ironic.”

“You are indeed standing in the front or ‘great’ hall,” Diane said. “The interior has been impeccably restored, but the previous owners kept the original touches. Not bad for a termite-infested bear habitat, huh?”

Cordelia blushed. The room was filled with red-on-black and black-on-red Greek pottery (
Reproductions,
Cordelia thought,
because the originals would be priceless),
a cast-iron coatrack with curlicues, and a marble bust of a man with a wavy beard, which screamed
philosopher
. All of it was lit by track fixtures, like in a museum. Brendan wondered how it was possible, but the place seemed twice as big inside as it looked from outside.

“This house was built for entertaining, from the time it was constructed,” Diane said with a wide sweep of her hand.

“Who entertained here?” Cordelia asked.

“Lady Gaga,” deadpanned Brendan, trying to hide his unease.
First no For Sale sign, then a creepy statue, now a house with an antiques store inside . . .

“Bren,” Mrs. Walker warned.

Diane went on: “No one’s had a party here for years. The previous owners were a family who paid for the restoration. They lived here briefly but wanted a change. Moved to New York.”

“And before that?” Brendan asked.

“Unoccupied for decades. Some of the cosmetic touches fell into disrepair, but you know these old houses were built to last. In fact, this one was built to float!”