“That’s open for debate,” I said dryly.
I refilled Hector’s water bowl and gave him another serving of dry food. While he wolfed down his breakfast, I tore open a pouch of cherry vanilla granola and ate it dry. Hannah tasted the granola, made a face, and opted for a package of chocolate sandwich cookies.
After breakfast, we loaded our backpacks and prepared to set out. I held a compass flat on my hand and turned around until the magnetic needle pointed north. From a week spent at outdoor school, I vaguely remembered that there was a difference between true north and magnetic north, and you had to correct for declination. Too bad I hadn’t asked Miles for instructions on how to use a compass.
Hanna looked over my shoulder. “Which way is back to the road, or to the house?”
“Not a clue,” I confessed. “I’m directionally challenged. I can use a compass to make sure that we’re traveling in a straight line instead of in circles, but that’s about it.”
Relying on little more than a gut feeling, we decided to head northeast. After trudging up and down hills for more than an hour, I began to worry. You’d think we’d spy a building off in the distance, or stumble upon a fence line we could follow. Nothing. The land rose and fell, acres upon acres of parched, undulating hills.
When we stopped for a drink and a snack, Hannah sat on a large boulder, shaded her eyes, and peered off into the distance. She pointed. “Is that a road?”
I squinted in that direction. Maybe that thin furrow was a road, or maybe a path worn into the ground by cattle, or maybe nothing more than a trick of the eye. “Let’s check it out.”
We picked our way down a rocky slope, Hector at our heels. As we approached the mysterious line, our excitement grew. Hannah ran the last dozen yards. “It is a road!” She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. “Hallelujah!”
A single lane wide, covered by a thin layer of gravel, it looked more like a very long driveway than any kind of road. It disappeared into the horizon in both directions. No matter. If it was a driveway, one way led to a house and the other way led to a real road. We’d find our way back to the road eventually, no matter which direction we selected first.
“Which way do you want to go?” I asked Hannah. “You found the road. You should pick.”
“Hmmm.” Hannah tapped her lip, then pointed to the right. “That way.”
We walked for about half an hour before we saw a large, sprawling building on the horizon.
Hanna turned to me. “Is that a hotel?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. You wouldn’t expect paying guests to drive this far on a bumpy, single-lane road.” We drew closer, halting just as the roadway changed from a barely there gravel lane to an intricate cobblestone driveway. Stone pillars marked the entry to the driveway proper.
“Fancy,” Hannah said under her breath.
“Hold on.” It was probably an overreaction, but I wanted to be ready to beat a fast retreat if something was wrong here. “Let’s stow our backpacks under those bushes.” I pointed to a cluster of dead rose bushes planted around one of the pillars. Hannah shrugged, clearly eager to approach the house.
A concrete circle—maybe forty feet across—sat to our right in an overgrown field. A giant letter H was painted in white on the circle.
“That’s a helipad.” Hannah grabbed my arm, squealing with excitement. “I’ve seen them on those reality shows about rich housewives. Wow. Whoever lived here must have been loaded.”
No kidding.
When Miles was a child, he liked to build huge, intricate toy houses out of Lincoln Logs. The kits were expensive, so Uncle Mel had retreated to his woodshop to painstakingly cut and stain hundreds of extra pieces for Miles. Miles spent weeks designing elaborate structures with towers and porticoes and flying buttresses.
The house in front of us rivalled my cousin’s most ambitious projects. Someone undoubtedly spent millions of dollars building a luxurious, yet rustic log cabin. Massive log beams—all stained a rich honey color—framed a wide porch. The place was ginormous, easily twice the size of Kyle’s fancy family home in Boise. Flowerbeds choked with weeds flanked the cobblestone walkway that led to the house. On either side of the double-door entry, aged-copper light fixtures hung from the log siding.
The electric lanterns were switched on, the bulbs casting circles of light onto the walls.
“They have power.” Wide eyed, Hannah glanced at me. “How can they have power?”
My gaze swept over the house and yard. “Solar panels on the roof and a wind turbine out back.”
“Wow,” she said, for the second time in five minutes.
The front door swung open and a tall, elegant woman stepped onto the porch. “Hello. Are you lost? Would you like to come inside for a glass of strawberry lemonade?”
Without pausing to consult me, Hannah bounded over the cobblestones and climbed the steps. “Hi, I’m Hannah Lee, and this is my friend Kenzie Dunwitty. We are lost and we’d love a glass of lemonade.”
Hector and I edged nearer the porch. The woman’s welcoming smile didn’t falter as we drew close. If not for the neglected landscaping, this woman—this place—looked untouched by the flu virus. She wore ivory linen pants and a sleeveless, cream-colored silk blouse. Her blond hair was pulled back in a sophisticated chignon. Diamond stud earrings caught the light when she tilted her head and smiled at me, her lips tinted a tasteful shade of rose. When she extended her hand to introduce herself, gold bangles tinkled at her wrist. Through the open door, I heard classical music.
Linen, silk, lipstick, jewelry, music. It was as if time had reversed course back to the pre-pandemic days, or this effortlessly sophisticated woman existed in an alternate universe.
“How do you do, Kenzie. I’m Mimi de Vries.”
“How do you do. It’s nice to meet you, Ms. de Vries.” I smiled and shook her hand.
“Mimi, please.” With a graceful sweep of her hand, she invited us to enter her home. “Could the German shepherd stay outside? My cats are terrified of dogs.”
As if conjured up by her words, two snow-white Persian cats sauntered toward us and twined around Mimi’s legs. They reared back, hissing, when they spied Hector.
“You see.” Mimi offered a small, apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I must insist that the dog stay outside.”
“Hey, kitties.” Hannah stepped through the open doorway into the foyer and dropped to her knees. “Come say hi.” The cats ignored the hand she held out toward them.
“Could I get a bowl of water for Hector?” I asked, not budging from my place on the porch.
“Of course.”
Mimi retreated and returned a minute later with a bowl full of water, a small plate, and a can of cat food. “I haven’t any dog food, I’m afraid, but perhaps he’d be willing to eat this.”
“How very kind of you,” I said, defaulting to the stiff, good manners I’d used around Kyle’s parents.
I emptied the cat food onto the plate and placed the bowl of water next to it. “Hector, stay.”
With an unaccountable reluctance, I stepped into the foyer. Mimi closed the door behind us. Hannah and I followed her toward the spacious kitchen. Rubbish and food scraps littered the hardwood floor and dotted the granite countertops. Still, when Mimi fetched two glasses from a cupboard and filled them with cold strawberry lemonade, we accepted the drinks eagerly.