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Authors: Lurlene McDaniel
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sign that directed him to number thirteen and a hidden driveway. The Internet mapmakers had missed a house. At the foot of the hidden driveway, overgrown shrubs and vines halted his car.A handwritten sign on a fence gate read: NO AUTOS BEYOND THIS POINT. NO TRESPASSING .
“Great. Just great,” Drake grumbled. He’d have to go the rest of the way on foot. Not easy, but he’d manage. He wedged his car into a weed-infested opening beside the dirt road and started up the path, hoping it wouldn’t be too difficult for him navigate. The air this high up was cooler than in the city, and felt good to him. He climbed, rounded a curve, edged a clump of trees and stopped short, breathing hard. His bad leg trembled with exertion. The view was amazing but had remained completely hidden until he’d come out of the bend in the path.
A house built of gray river stone, with a long porch and a turret that jutted into the blue sky, stood on a stretch of manicured lawn bordered by a white picket fence. Blooming hydrangeas, their flowery heads drooping in the sun, surrounded the porch. The house was impressive—Drake had studied architecture, hoping to become an architect one day.
He stood staring because the house and grounds looked picture-perfect, the colors so saturated and pure that the scene resembled a photograph. Thirteen Sandstone Mountain was a vision from another era.
He made his way to a gate beneath a trellis heavy with wisteria vines and limped up a flagstone walkway to the porch, where he grabbed the handrail, pulled himself up the steps and rang the front bell.
The door was opened by a portly man with a brownbeard and bushy eyebrows. He smelled of pipe tobacco. “Yes?”
“Um—I’m here about your ad,” Drake stammered. “The cataloging job.”
The man eyed him. “You had no trouble finding my house?”
“Drove right here,” Drake said. No need to mention that the Web maps had no record of the address. Plus, if anyone else applied, they might not be so lucky about finding the place.
The man studied Drake keenly, then held out his hand. “I’m Avery Dennison, professor of archaeology at Harvard.”
“Drake Iverson.”
“Come in.”
Drake stepped into the house. Its design and dark wood floor, doorframes and moldings were reminiscent of another century. “Wow,” he said, then caught himself and added, “Nice place. I—I like architecture.”
“Our summer place,” the professor said. “We like to get out of Cambridge and the heat. I like the mountains.”
Drake nodded. He hated adult small talk, but he wanted to make a good impression. “About the job,” he said.
“Yes, of course. How old are you, Mr. Iverson?”
“Almost seventeen. And I’m literate.”
The professor chuckled. “I only wanted serious applicants.” Behind the professor, in the hallway, stood anancient grandfather clock that chimed nine o’clock. Drake assumed it was wrong. He’d left his house at nine, and the drive had taken him forty minutes.
Just then, a door in the back of the house opened and Drake saw someone approaching down the long shotgun-style hallway. A girl with an armload of flowers came into the foyer. The professor turned and stepped aside. “My daughter, Regina,” Professor Dennison said.
All the air left Drake’s lungs. The girl was about his age, with white blond hair that fell past her shoulders, big blue eyes and the face of an angel.
She smiled warmly at Drake. “Hello.”
“Hi,” he managed to say.
Dennison beamed his daughter a glorious smile. “Good news, Gina. I’ve just hired Mr. Iverson for the summer.”
2
D rake blinked. He had hardly gone through a real interview and yet just like that he’d been hired. It wasn’t what he’d expected, but he was glad he’d gotten the job. “Um—thanks. What do you need me to do?”
“Follow me.”
“You’re not going to stick Drake in our nasty old basement, are you, Daddy?” Gina asked.
“It’s not so terrible,”
“Great. Just great,” Drake grumbled. He’d have to go the rest of the way on foot. Not easy, but he’d manage. He wedged his car into a weed-infested opening beside the dirt road and started up the path, hoping it wouldn’t be too difficult for him navigate. The air this high up was cooler than in the city, and felt good to him. He climbed, rounded a curve, edged a clump of trees and stopped short, breathing hard. His bad leg trembled with exertion. The view was amazing but had remained completely hidden until he’d come out of the bend in the path.
A house built of gray river stone, with a long porch and a turret that jutted into the blue sky, stood on a stretch of manicured lawn bordered by a white picket fence. Blooming hydrangeas, their flowery heads drooping in the sun, surrounded the porch. The house was impressive—Drake had studied architecture, hoping to become an architect one day.
He stood staring because the house and grounds looked picture-perfect, the colors so saturated and pure that the scene resembled a photograph. Thirteen Sandstone Mountain was a vision from another era.
He made his way to a gate beneath a trellis heavy with wisteria vines and limped up a flagstone walkway to the porch, where he grabbed the handrail, pulled himself up the steps and rang the front bell.
The door was opened by a portly man with a brownbeard and bushy eyebrows. He smelled of pipe tobacco. “Yes?”
“Um—I’m here about your ad,” Drake stammered. “The cataloging job.”
The man eyed him. “You had no trouble finding my house?”
“Drove right here,” Drake said. No need to mention that the Web maps had no record of the address. Plus, if anyone else applied, they might not be so lucky about finding the place.
The man studied Drake keenly, then held out his hand. “I’m Avery Dennison, professor of archaeology at Harvard.”
“Drake Iverson.”
“Come in.”
Drake stepped into the house. Its design and dark wood floor, doorframes and moldings were reminiscent of another century. “Wow,” he said, then caught himself and added, “Nice place. I—I like architecture.”
“Our summer place,” the professor said. “We like to get out of Cambridge and the heat. I like the mountains.”
Drake nodded. He hated adult small talk, but he wanted to make a good impression. “About the job,” he said.
“Yes, of course. How old are you, Mr. Iverson?”
“Almost seventeen. And I’m literate.”
The professor chuckled. “I only wanted serious applicants.” Behind the professor, in the hallway, stood anancient grandfather clock that chimed nine o’clock. Drake assumed it was wrong. He’d left his house at nine, and the drive had taken him forty minutes.
Just then, a door in the back of the house opened and Drake saw someone approaching down the long shotgun-style hallway. A girl with an armload of flowers came into the foyer. The professor turned and stepped aside. “My daughter, Regina,” Professor Dennison said.
All the air left Drake’s lungs. The girl was about his age, with white blond hair that fell past her shoulders, big blue eyes and the face of an angel.
She smiled warmly at Drake. “Hello.”
“Hi,” he managed to say.
Dennison beamed his daughter a glorious smile. “Good news, Gina. I’ve just hired Mr. Iverson for the summer.”
2
D rake blinked. He had hardly gone through a real interview and yet just like that he’d been hired. It wasn’t what he’d expected, but he was glad he’d gotten the job. “Um—thanks. What do you need me to do?”
“Follow me.”
“You’re not going to stick Drake in our nasty old basement, are you, Daddy?” Gina asked.
“It’s not so terrible,”
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