here?”
“Viking, Electrolux, Sub-Zero,” Diane checked off, leading the family past the stainless-steel, double-doored fridge. Brendan wondered if there might be something weird inside it, like a head, so he peeked… but he didn’t see anything more disturbing than clinical emptiness.
Diane took the Walkers upstairs. The contemporary decor of the kitchen was instantly lost in a spiral wooden staircase that Eleanor insisted on climbing up and down and up again. The spiral stairs were wider than any the Walkers had ever seen; they served as the main stairs between the first and second floors. Upstairs, a broad hallway ran the length of the house, ending at a bay window and another, smaller staircase that led back down to the great hall.
The walls featured old portraits, in colour, with a faded pastel tint. In one, a grim-faced man with a square beard stood next to a lady in a frilled dress gripping a buggy. In the next, the same lady looked over her shoulder on a wharf as men in newsboy caps eyed her. In a third, an elderly woman sat beneath a tree holding a baby in a dress and bonnet.
“The Kristoff family,” Diane explained, noting Brendan and Cordelia’s fascination. “That’s Denver Kristoff” – the man with the square beard – “his wife, Eliza May” – the woman on the wharf – “and his mother” – the woman under the tree with the baby. “I forget her name. Anyway. The pictures are just for show. When you move in – if you move in – you can put up pictures of your own family.”
Brendan tried to imagine Walker photos on the wall: him and Dad at a lacrosse game with Dr Walker holding the stick incorrectly; Cordelia yelling at Mum because she didn’t want her picture taken without make-up; Eleanor crossing her eyes and smiling too wide. If you took stupid pictures and added a hundred years, did they end up looking eerie and important?
“There are three bedrooms on this floor,” Diane said. “The master—”
“Only three? You guys promised me I’d have my own room,” Brendan said.
“The fourth is upstairs. In the attic.” Diane pulled a string on the ceiling. A trapdoor swung down, followed by steps that folded out to lightly kiss the floor.
“Cool!” Brendan said. He climbed the ladder hand over fist.
Cordelia entered one of the bedrooms off the hall. It wasn’t the master (which had a king-size bed and two bedside tables) but it was a nice-sized room with fleur-de-lis wallpaper. She said, “I’ll take this one.”
“Then which one is mine?” Eleanor asked.
“Guys, this is all hypothetical…” Dr Walker tried, but Cordelia pointed Eleanor to the third bedroom, which was more of a maid’s bedroom – or a closet.
“I’m stuck with the smallest?”
“You are the smallest.”
“Mum! It’s not fair! How come I get the little room?”
“Cordelia’s a big girl. She needs space,” Mrs Walker said.
“Hear that, Cordelia? Mum says you need to go on a diet!” Brendan called from the attic.
“Bren, shut up! She means I’m older!”
Alone, upstairs, Brendan smiled… but then the attic began to hold his attention. It had a rollaway bed set up by the window, a bureau with various ornaments on top, and a bat skeleton on a shelf jutting out of the wall.
The bat skeleton was mounted on a smooth black rock with its wings outstretched. Its head tilted up like it was catching bugs. It was one of the creepiest things Brendan had ever seen… but he wasn’t scared. He pulled out his phone to take a picture.
“Brendan, apologise to your sister!” Mrs Walker yelled, and Eleanor joined in: “Yeah, Bren, get down here!”
Of course when he wasn’t scared of something, there was no one around to be impressed. Brendan descended the ladder. Cordelia glared at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You don’t need to go on a diet. But – look what they have upstairs! I took a picture—”
Cordelia grabbed his phone and deleted the photo.
“Hey!”
“Now we’re even.”
“You didn’t even look at it!”
Diane tried to hide her exasperation with a smile. “Shall we continue?”
The family followed her down the hall, passing a knob sticking out of a square cut into the wall. “What’s that?” Eleanor asked.
“Dumbwaiter,” Diane said curtly.
They reached the end of the hall. “That’s it,” Diane said, glancing out of the bay window at the Walkers’ used Toyota, then back to Dr Walker. “You haven’t asked the critical question.”
“The price,” Dr Walker said dolefully. Truth was, when he’d heard “rustic” and “charming”, he’d thought the same thing as Cordelia: that the house was a fixer-upper he could afford. But two storeys plus an attic, fully furnished, with a library and bridge views, in Sea Cliff? This was a five-million-dollar residence.
Diane said, “The owners are asking three hundred thousand.”
Brendan saw a look of disbelief ripple across his father’s face. Then Dr Walker pulled himself together and put on his business voice. It was good to hear. Brendan used to hear it often, when his dad did interviews or advised other surgeons, but for the last month, since ‘the incident’, Dr Walker hadn’t had occasion to make those sorts of calls. Now he spoke with purpose.
“Ms Dobson, we’ll take it. Please draw up the papers and we’ll close as soon as possible.”
“Wonderful!” Diane opened a silver case to give Dr Walker a business card. Mrs Walker hugged her husband.
Eleanor asked, “What’s that mean? We got the house? We’re going to live here?”
Brendan stepped forward. “Why is it so cheap?”
“Bren!” Mrs Walker snapped.
“It’s the same price as an apartment. Less, even. It doesn’t add up. What are you trying to pull?”
“Your family’s inquisitiveness is welcome,” said Diane. “Brendan, the owners are trying to liquidate their investment. Like many families they’ve fallen on hard times, and they’re willing to drop the price to get out – especially if it means helping others in a tough spot. You may have noticed that there’s no For Sale sign on the lawn. The owners aren’t looking to sell to any family – they’re looking for the right family. A family in need.”
She smiled. Brendan hated being the object of her pity. It would have been one thing if she only pitied him – that he could deal with – but she pitied all of them. And that was because of his father. It was so embarrassing.
