The Secret Cellar Read Online Free PDF Page B

thirteen, a walking stick with a sterling silver handle made to look like a sawed-off tree branch.
    Malcolm, who sometimes carries a walking stick (not because he needs it—he freely admits that he just likes the way it looks with his tweeds), perks up.
    “May I borrow that paddle for a moment, dear?” he asks.
    Elizabeth groans. “Another stick? Good grief. There’s hardly room in the umbrella stand as it is.”
    “Yes, dear,” says Malcolm with another wink in my direction.
    Bidding on that silly walking stick turns into a small-scale war between Malcolm, a man in the back (old and feeble enough that he actually needs the darn thing), and—big surprise—Marcus Klinger. The bidding quickly goes from one hundred, to two, to three, to four. Malcolm’s final bid is four hundred fifty, and when Klinger promptly raises it to five hundred, Malcolm mutters, “Too rich for my blood,” and hands the paddle back to me.
    I’m rooting for the old man, but Klinger keeps raising and raising the bid, never hesitating to hoist his paddle high in the air. Finally, with the bidding at nine hundred dollars, the old man in the back gives up, and Klinger adds the walking stick to his haul, which includes six boxes of books and a small writing desk.
    But there’s one thing he doesn’t have: Dad’s fountain pen.
    • • •
    “Don’t you just love New York during the holidays?” Mom says, slipping her arm through mine as we stroll through the pine forests of the Upper East Side on the way home from Bartleman’s. “The lights, the smells … so lovely. Maybe it’s my imagination, but people even seem nicer.”
    “Well, I’m with you about the lights and the smells, but that other thing is definitely your imagination,” I say, picturing Marcus Klinger and the way he treated us in his shop.
    Mom squeezes my arm. “Since when did my baby get to be so cynical? What happened to my innocent little Sophie?”
    “She started seventh grade,” I say. “It’s a jungle out there, Mom.”
    “Don’t let a few Scrooges ruin your holidays,” Mom says. “You have such a wonderful outlook on life; it’s just one big adventure after another for you, and I love that about you. I couldn’t bear to watch it disappear. Promise that you won’t ever stop being so excited, so
passionate
, about … everything?”
    “Promise.”
    When we get home, it’s after nine o’clock, and Dad is waiting for us—an unplanned-for scenario. He’s usually at the restaurant until eleven or twelve on Tuesdays.
    “Guy! What are you doing home already?” Mom asks, caught completely off guard. She recovers quickly,though; Mom is pretty fast on her feet. “I’m sorry—that sounded like we’re not happy to see you.”
    Dad smiles and hugs her. “Nice to see you two, too.”
    “Two too,” I repeat, in a singsongy voice. “Like a train. Get it? Choo-choo?”
    Dad stares blankly at me, then turns to Mom for an explanation of my lame attempt at humor.
    “Never mind,” she says. “Your daughter’s being silly. We’ve been out doing a little Christmas shopping.”
    “For youuuuuu,” I add.
    “Ah,
ma foi
! All is forgiven. Was it a … successful trip?”
    “Very,” says Mom. “I think you’ll be pleased. Definitely surprised.”
    “I can’t wait to see your face,” I say. “I don’t know how I’m going to make it to Christmas.”
    Dad shrugs. “You could just give it to me now if it will make life easier for you.”
    “Oh, no you don’t,” says Mom. “Sophie—to bed! Look at the time. And you have a math test tomorrow!”
    “Postponed until Thursday,” I say. “But I do have a Spanish quiz. No problemo.”
    I kiss them both and then head off to my room, where I spend a few minutes reviewing my Spanish notes. Before long, I convince myself that I’m fully prepared for the quiz, set my notebook aside, and take the fountain pen out of my jacket pocket. As I unscrew the cap, I realize that I have no idea how the thing