“It has a Craftsman-Gothic vibe, made mostly of river stone and wood. There’s a turret on one side. And a big porch. And lots of flower gardens.”
Lois puckered her brow. “Can’t picture it.”
“It’s hard to find. I have to park below the house and climb up a road and around a bend. I almost gave up the first time I hunted for it.”
“Did you have a good day?” his mother asked.
“Yeah, fine. Not a lot of excitement cataloging Native American artifacts.”
“Sounds lonely,” Connie said.
He looked away because he’d never mentioned Gina to his mother and now wasn’t the time or place. He felt oddly possessive of Gina, as if she were his little shining treasure, and he didn’t want to play twenty questions about her—especially with his mother.
Lois said, “Well, summer in North Carolina is full of sudden rainstorms. Don’t drive down if the weather’s really bad.”
“There’s no way to communicate if he gets stuck up there,” Connie said to Lois. “No phone or cell service. I don’t like that.”
“Mom, I’ll be fine. Just know that if I don’t come home, I’m stranded at the professor’s house.”
“Better to be safe than sorry,” Lois warned.
“I still don’t like it,” Connie grumbled.
Drake excused himself and went to his room, where he lay on his bed daydreaming of holding Gina, of kissing her, of touching her, until his mom called him to supper.
Drake passed the summer happier than he’d ever been in his life. That was Gina’s doing. She met him at the gate each morning, spent most mornings in the same room with him doing needlework or reading. They often ate lunch in the gardens, surrounded by butterflies and the scent of roses. He held her hand, sometimes afraid to blink lest she vanish like a dream. In the afternoons she went upstairs and played the piano or danced. He heard the music above him, her piano ever solemn, her crazy Victor machine tinny and far away. More than anything, Drake longed to kiss her. He lacked the courage to try.
He left at four, when the old clock chimed. And he arrived home at four, which made no sense. And yet the clock chimed regularly throughout the day, as if it knew each hour intimately and kept each one perfectly. He itched to inspect the clock more closely, but he never went near it. He’d learned his lesson the day Dennison had shouted that the clock was off-limits.
From time to time Dennison would drift into the workroom, scan Drake’s paperwork, nod and say, “Good work. Carry on.” Drake hadn’t been paid yet, but he felt he’d probably get a lump sum at the end of the summer. He just couldn’t bring up the money now.
One afternoon the professor didn’t leave the room. He rocked back on his heels, cleared his throat.
Drake looked up. “Something else you want?”
“Gina’s fond of you,” Dennison said bluntly.
Drake felt tension tighten like a knot inside him. “I like her.”
“She’s”—Dennison halted, searching for a word, finished with—“inexperienced.”
Drake’s antenna went up. What was the professor trying to say?
Dennison put his hands behind his back, looked up. “Be good to her,” he said quietly, and left the room.
Drake went numb. How else could he be to a girl like Gina?
On Saturday, Drake stopped and bought a cheap watch. Normally he used his cell for keeping time, but none of its functions ever worked at the Dennisons’ house. His cell worked going to the old house and it worked once he left the property, but not while he was on the property. The old grandfather clock kept time, but in a fashion Drake couldn’t figure out.
The next morning, he parked, checked the watch and saw the second hand sweeping the face and keeping the time perfectly. Now that he was familiar with the curves of the mountain, it only took thirty-five minutes to drive up Sandstone. He stuffed the watch into his pocket.
Before meeting Gina at the gate, he checked the new watch. Only five minutes had passed, which he figured was how long it took him to limp up the slight hill and round the bend on the path. Later, when he was alone working and before Gina slipped into the room with her sewing, he pulled the watch from his pocket. The second hand no longer moved and the hands were stopped. He stared, unable to believe it had quit working. He shook it hard, but the hands stayed stationary. In the hall, the old grandfather clock struck ten. His nerves coiled. What was going on?
Just then Gina entered the room and Drake shoved the watch back into his pocket. She smiled at him and took her chair by the window. “You all right?”
“I’m just fine,” Drake answered. “Do I look bad?”
“A little pale,” she said.
“Probably the drive up. Lots of twists in the road.”
“Would you like some lemonade? That usually helps me feel better.”
He shook his head. She came over, touched his forehead. “You feel fine.”
Her smile calmed him. Her touch made his heartbeat trip. “Is the clock in the hall correct?”
“I guess so.” She walked to her chair. “Why?”
He cast about for a reason that didn’t sound wonko. “Um—sometimes it seems to go faster, sometimes slower.”
She tipped her head. “I think it’s working. I’ll ask Father—”
“No. That’s okay … don’t mention it to him. I’m probably just not hearing the chimes correctly. You know, losing count. Or something.”
From the hallway, the clock began to chime. “I’ll count out loud,” Gina said, and proceeded to do so until the chimes stopped at ten. “Ten o’clock,” she said. “That seems about right.”
Drake swallowed and felt a shiver go up his spine. It had already chimed ten o’clock before she’d walked into the room. They’d been talking. Surely time had moved forward since then. But as Gina bent over her sewing, Drake eased out a deep breath. For some reason, time had stopped, then resumed, allowing more time for him to be with Gina Dennison. He couldn’t understand it, or explain it. He decided instead to be grateful for it.
Despite the weirdness of the big clock, Drake knew time was passing. He saw it every day in the way the pile of boxes he moved from the incomplete to the complete stack along the wall. He saw it on the calendar that hung in his mother’s kitchen. He felt it in the air—hot July temperatures that fell sticky on his skin gave way to a bit of coolness weeks later. Just as long as he could be with Gina, he was content. He slowed his work on the boxes. He hurried up the mountain every day, longing to be with her. At the end of August school would start and his world would change. He’d be butting up against his peers, kids who would dismiss him because he wasn’t like them.
One warm still day, with his heart hammering like a drum, he turned to Gina on the garden bench where they sat finishing lunch and asked, “Can we stay in touch after you go home?”
“I’d like that.” She was slicing an apple and placing the juicy slivers on a plate between them.
“You would?” He had wanted the answer she gave but was surprised because it had come quickly, with no hesitancy. Maybe, just maybe, she liked him too.
She laughed. “Of course, silly. You’re my friend.”
Friend. The word reverberated in his head and sobered him. He didn’t want to be only her friend. Screwing up his courage, he said, “I have an idea. Why don’t I come up here on Saturday and take you down to the city. We can see a movie. You know, popcorn … the whole works. Can we do that?”
Her eyes clouded. “I—I can’t. Thank you for inviting me, though.”
“Oh.” It was as if she’d slammed a door in his face. He’d misread the signs of togetherness completely. She was lonely. He was her only company. How could he have imagined she hung out with him for any other reason?
“You’re my dearest friend,” she said.
She’d used the word friend again. That sealed it. She felt nothing for him. What girl wanted to be seen in public with a gimp? He pushed himself up from the bench, straightened his bad leg.
She took his arm. “I—I would if I could. But I can’t.”
He didn’t believe her. Girls lied. “It’s all right,” he said, shaking loose. “Nothing special showing now anyway.” He hid his pain with a smile. “Better get back to work.”
“Drake, don’t go—”
He limped away from her and the overpowering smell of roses. He didn’t turn around.
6
His mother took off from work and accompanied Drake for registration and orientation at what would be his new high school. Drake had asked for the morning off too, telling Dennison the day before that he’d come in late. “No need,” Dennison told him. “Take the day off. You’ve earned it.”
Drake was closing in on the end of his project, so he could afford to take a day off. After what he saw as Gina’s rejection of him, he was having difficulty being around her every day anyway, so when his mother reminded him about registration, Drake was glad for the break. He felt the cold hand of reality clutch him, though, the minute they walked through the high school’s doors. For Drake, a kid who wasn’t created perfect, school was the unhappiest place on the planet. His unhappiness doubled when he also realized he was a new kid, meaning he had no friends or acquaintances.
“Nice building,” his mother said as they followed the registration signs to the gym. “Newer than your school in Ohio.”
Big whoop. Kids milled in the halls—freshmen, he assumed. They looked as lost as he felt. He was heading down the hall when a girl came up to him. She was almost as tall as he was, had dark hair, a nice smile and ordinary features. She wore a name tag: BETH, STUDENT GUIDE. She greeted them with “Hey, I’m here to answer any questions. Welcome.”
“Where’s the gym?” Connie asked.
“This way.”
Drake wished his mother hadn’t spoken to Beth. How hard could it be to follow signs on their own?
Beth kept pace with Drake to accommodate his slower gait. “You don’t look like a freshman. No panic in your eyes.”
“I’m a junior. Transferring in.”
“Hey, I’ll be a junior too. Beth Karondokis, yearbook coordinator, class VP, choir, Green Committee member. I’ve generally got my fingers in everything that happens around here.”
He smiled slightly over her description of herself. She was bubbly and self-assured. He envied her affability. “Drake Iverson.”
“My dad owns a Greek pizzeria near the school where all the kids hang. The only Greek pizza place in the city. Actually, the only Greek pizza place in North Carolina.” She made a funny face, forcing a real smile from Drake.
She sent him a sidelong glance as they walked. “CP?”
He felt his body grow rigid. She’d boldly nailed him and his handicap. “Right.”
“I have a younger sister with CP,” Beth said. “Lisa is much worse off than you. She’s a great kid.”
Was that supposed to console him? Drake never knew how to deal with any girl, let alone a kind one.
They stopped at the gym’s entrance. “We’re here. Why don’t you go register and then let me give you a guided tour? And when school starts, look me up. I’ll intro you around to my friends.”
“Go on,” his mother said. “I’ll wait in the bleachers.”
Drake shot her a hostile look. Didn’t his mom get that he didn’t want to hang around and go on a tour with a girl who probably pitied him?
Beth put her hand on his shoulder. “Get it done and come right back.” She leaned closer, gave him an impish grin. “And welcome to the jungle.”
“I don’t like it when you’re mad at me,” Gina said from the doorway of Drake’s work space.
He looked up. “I’m not mad at you.” The truth was, he was hurt.
“You’re mad because I wouldn’t go to the movie with you.”
“I’m over it.”
She came to his worktable and turned him to face her. “Believe me, I would have gone with you if it had been possible.”
Her eyes were so blue and so sincere that Drake felt his cool resolve begin to melt. When a mist filled her eyes, he came undone. “Look, Gina, I understand that going out with a guy who walks like he’s drunk isn’t every girl’s dream date.”
“Is that what you think?”
He heard an edge in her voice. “It’s the way it is. I’ve learned to accept it.”
“You know, Drake, you’re the only one who thinks of yourself as crippled. I don’t see your limp when we’re together.”
“Hard to believe.”
“Hard for me to believe that you don’t see what I see when I look at you.”
“What do you see, Gina?”
She rose on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I see someone I care about.”
She left the room and he stood staring at the space that had held her, desire eating through him like a virus.
The warbling from Gina’s music machine kept crashing into Drake’s ability to concentrate on his work. The sound grated like fingernails on a blackboard, and for some reason seemed louder than usual even though it was coming down three flights of stairs. Every now and then it slowed, stopped and then speeded up, letting him know that she had wound the crank handle. How could she ever dance tending to that crappy machine every few minutes?
He threw down his paperwork and hobbled to the door. He glanced at the old clock, was surprised to see that it was only two-fifteen. Except for the ticking clock and the tinny music, the house lay silent. He had no idea where Dennison was, but at the moment, he didn’t care. Taking a deep breath, Drake crossed the hallway and began a long slow climb up the stairs.
He stood outside the door of the attic room sweating, waiting while his shriveled leg muscle and breathing settled down from the exertion. When he regained control of both, he stepped through the doorway. Gina was pirouetting en pointe, her arms and legs in classic ballet poses. His heart thumped crazily, but not from his climb. She was sheer beauty, as fragile as a flower. Sunlight shot through the windows, and in its beams, tiny flurries of dust rose from the floor as she spun. Her white blond hair was pulled into a severe bun, accentuating her cheekbones and eyes.
She spun so much that Drake grew dizzy watching her. She broke her pose, bounded across the wooden floor, whirling as she leapt. Her athleticism amazed him. There might have been a time when he would have felt intimidated and left wanting, but now he was mesmerized by her skill and beauty. When she finally caught sight of him, she cried, “Drake! What are you doing here?”
He snapped from his trance, felt his color rise. “I, um—I wanted to see you dance.”
She came to him, splay-footed because of her toe shoes. Her face was rosy with the glow of exercise, and perspiration stood out on her face and throat. He stared at the throbbing pulse in her neck and wanted to suck it. He snapped his gaze to her eyes. “Do you mind if I watch?”
She laughed. “I haven’t danced in front of an audience since I left Boston in the spring.”
“Then it’s okay?”
“It’s okay.” She took his hand and led him into the large room.
“Maybe I can wind your music machine so you don’t have to stop every time and do it.”
Another smile lit her face. “That would be wonderful.”
“I could bring a better machine to you. One that runs on batteries. I can pick up a few CDs if you tell me the ones you want.”
Her smile turned tender, a little sad. “We’ll be going home soon. No need to bother.”
His heart wrenched. He didn’t want her to ever leave. “I’m sorry,” he said, meaning more than he could put into words. Sorry she was leaving. Sorry he’d withdrawn from her.
She touched his arm, ducked her head to meet his eyes. “I know.”
With the two words, he knew she’d forgiven him. He swallowed against a hard knot of emotion clogging his throat.
“I have an idea,” she said. She knelt next to a stack of disks in paper sleeves, riffled through them, came up with one and exchanged it for the o
ne on the turntable. She reached for the crank.
“Let me,” Drake said. He wound it tight, set the needle on the disk. Voices sang.
“It’s my favorite,” Gina said. “ ‘Till We Meet Again.’ ”
The music was scratchy, the beat slow and the words sentimental. He’d never heard the song before and he didn’t think much of it, but if Gina liked it …
She slipped her arms around him. “Dance with me.”
He drew back, shocked by what she was asking. “I can’t dance.”
“Of course you can.”
Looking into her intense blue eyes, he believed her. “I—I’m clumsy.”
“I don’t care.”
His arms went around her and she snuggled against his chest. They swayed together, their bodies touching, his body aching with need and longing for her. She raised her chin and he bent his head and kissed her.
7
Kissing Gina. Drake revisited the moments over and over in his head that weekend. He’d heard dopey love songs telling of “sweet kisses.” Lame. But remarkably true. Gina tasted of apples and sugar, and the taste lingered in his mouth.
Drake couldn’t get over how different she was from other girls. At school, the popular girls traveled in packs, like show dogs strutting before panels of judges, always on display. Their clothes shouted “Look at me.” Their hair was usually a perfected snarl of messiness and their lips pouted with thick layers of shimmering gloss. They giggled, talked loudly enough to draw constant attention to themselves and hung like ornaments on the arms of the guys they liked. Less popular girls were often quieter, moving like shadows in the halls, not flamboyant, but aloof, worshiping from afar the others, male and female, the ones who owned the limelight. The outsider girls strutted the halls, brimming with attitude. The pecking order was vicious. He recalled a day when he stared a little too long at one girl with spiked purple hair. She’d turned and snapped, “What are you looking at, gimp?”
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