House of Secrets

Chapter 4

“Help!” Jonathan screamed, whirling around and shoving with all his might.

“Oof!” His father hit the ground.

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

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

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

The Walters followed their father. Jonathan felt a chill breeze as he approached the door with the 422 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 Scott House was supported by metal stilts anchored in bouldersfar below on the beach. And hanging under the house were dozens of barrels.

“What are those . . . ?” Casper started to ask, since he was the first to notice.

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

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

Alyssa blushed. The room was filled with red-on-black and black-on-red Greek pottery (Reproductions, Jonathan 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. Nellie 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,” Diana said with a wide sweep of her hand.

“Who entertained here?” Alyssa asked.

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

“Bren,” Mrs. Walters warned.

Diana 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?” Jonathan 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!”

“What?” Casper and Jonathan asked.

“Are you kidding?” said Alyssa and Nellie in unison.

“The original owner, Mr. David Scott, wanted to make sure his house would survive an earthquake like the one he’d just been through. So he underslung the foundation with air-filled barrels. If the Big One comes and the house falls off the cliff, it’s designed to hit the ocean and drift away.”

“That is so cool,” said Nellie.

“No, it’s absurd,” said her father.

“On the contrary, Dr. Walters—they’re doing it now with homes built in the Netherlands. Mr. Scott was ahead of his time.”

Diana led the Walters into the living room, which had a stunning view of the Golden Gate Bridge. That didn’t seem right to Jonathan—he thought it was on the opposite side of the house—but then he realized that they had turned around, doubling back from the great hall. Crystal vases, alabaster sculptures, and a mounted suit of armor had distracted him . . . and so had the stone angel he knew was out there, reaching forth her broken hand and staring with mossy eyes.

The living room had a Chester chair, a glass coffee table with driftwood for legs, and a Steinway piano. “Is the furniture for sale?” Mrs. Walters asked.

“Everything’s for sale.” Diana smiled. “It’s all included in the purchase price.”

She moved on with the Walters—except Alyssa and Jonathan, who lingered by the view of the bridge. Growing up in San Francisco they’d gotten used to seeing it every day, but from this angle, so close they were almost beneath it, the bridge’s salmon color struck them as unnatural. Jonathan wondered what the house’s original owner, Mr. Scott, had thought of the bridge when it was first constructed. Because if the house was built in 1907—his mind quickly accessed dates and facts—then it was standing thirty years before the bridge did, and the view back then would have simply been a great expanse of ocean, framed by two giant rocky outcroppings. He voiced his thoughts to his twin. Was Mr. Scott dead by the time the bridge went up? Alyssa left him a moment later, but he didn't even notice.

“Hello?” he suddenly asked, realizing he was alone. He rushed out of the living room to find Diana and his family.

Meanwhile, Alyssa was thinking about Mr. Scott too. She’d heard that name before but couldn’t think where. It taunted her as she entered the next room, which she knew by smell alone: dust, musty pages, and old ink.

“Welcome to the library,” Diana said.

It was stunning. A vaulted ceiling spanned books stacked on mahogany shelves that reached all the way up the walls. Two ladders ran on casters to enable access to the shelves. Between them, a massive oak table lined with green-glassed bankers’ lamps split the room. A few gleaming dust motes circled the table like birds on updrafts.

Alyssa absolutely had to see what books were on the shelves. She always did. She poked her nose up to the nearest one and realized where she’d heard of Mr. Scott.