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The Second Cellar

By Sharon Kirk Clifton

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Chapter 1

Summer in Ruins


Leah Maxwell slammed her book shut and glared at her dad. “You can change your mind.” She’d spent the past six hours alternating between reading and trying to persuade him, using every argument she could think of.
“No, Leah, I can’t.” He started out of the car, then looked back at her. “We fly out of O’Hare tomorrow afternoon.”
Leah threw open the car door but remained inside. With her chin tucked to her chest, she knew she looked like an obstinate child. So what?
She wanted to bolt and run into the woods. She could disappear among the trees, find a cave out there somewhere, and spend the summer eating wild berries and nuts like Brian in Hatchet.
Then they’d be sorry. Dad. Aunt Becky. Noah. Some brother he was. If he’d just carved a little time out of studying at his precious university to urge Dad to take her with him to Scotland, Dad would have caved. Noah could have made a case for the educational value of the trip. After all, he had gone on such an adventure, and he’d been eleven at the time, nearly two years younger than Leah was now.
It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. It hadn’t been since Leah’s mom had died in a wreck caused by a drunken seventeen-year-old girl yakking on a cell phone. The girl got off with some bruises. That wasn’t fair.
Now her dad was taking a group of his British lit students from Penworthy College on this trip. What if terrorists hijacked his plane and blew it up over Iceland? What if he got mad cow disease or went insane from the whine of bagpipes? What if he fell off a castle turret? Mom hasn’t been dead a year yet. What if something were to happen to him, too?
She couldn’t tell him her fears. “You’re being irrational,” he’d say. “Don’t waste your life thinking of all the things that just might possibly happen, or you’ll be to afraid to do anything. Life’s a risk, Cricket.”
As if things weren’t bad enough, she--Leah Bright Maxwell, “Metro Girl” her best friend called her--was stuck for her one-and-only-in-her-whole-life thirteenth summer in the backwoods of southeastern Indiana with an old-maid aunt she didn’t even know. Not really.
Aunt Becky had spent most of her adult life abroad as a missionary. Doing what? She hardly ever wrote to her own sister, Leah’s mom. When she bothered to mention her ministry, it was always in vague terms. Whatever it was she did, she was awfully tight-lipped about it. “We have a new director in our region,” or, “I’m going into a remote province later this month,” or, “I’ll be working the border for the next few weeks.” Director of what? Province where? Which border? What kind of work?
“Well, I declare.” A woman bustled around the corner of the old two-story, red brick house. Her wild thatch of thick auburn hair, a shade darker than Leah’s, was somewhat subdued into a low ponytail, and the wide brim of a frayed straw hat flopped in rhythm to her bouncing gait. She wore a brown tee under faded denim overalls that were cut off mid-shin. The knees were worn and dirty. A broad smile engulfed her freckled face so her dark–chocolate eyes nearly disappeared. Leah made sure she didn’t return the smile.
Aunt Becky brushed furtively at the dirt on her knees. “Oh, mercy. I am a mess. Been workin’ in the garden. You’re here a little earlier than I expected. Never mind that. You’re here! That’s the important thing. Don’t just sit there in the car. Come on, sweetie. Let me see you.”
Leah scooted out of the car, but made no move toward the woman who started in her direction, arms extended.
Oh, great. A hugger. But then Mom was a hugger, too, and the women were sisters. When she got to missing Mom so much she could hardly stand the pain, Leah remembered those hugs. They had encircled her with love, protection, and comfort. They held at bay the problems: the disappointing grade, the angry best friend, the sprained ankle, the cruel comment. Yes, she missed Mom’s hugs. But this wasn’t Mom.
Aunt Becky--smelling of fresh air, damp earth, sunshine, and lemon--enfolded Leah in strong arms and patted her back as though she were burping a baby. Leah made no effort to return the hug.
Finally she released Leah and held her at arms’ length. “Oh, dear girl, if you aren’t even prettier in person than in all those photos your mom sent through the years. Come on up to the house. I have fresh lemonade made. Do you like lemonade?” Without waiting for an answer, she started toward Leah’s dad. “Byron! It sure is good to see you, too. Here. Let me help with those bags.”
“No, ma’am,” he said firmly. “You don’t need t--”
“Nonsense.” Aunt Becky hoisted two suitcases. “I may be short, but I’m mighty. Didn’t have anyone following around after me overseas to lift the heavy things. Thirty years of serving in Asia and Africa have made me strong--in lots of ways.” She marched toward the house, carrying the bags as though they were empty.
Dad set down the plastic storage box he was carrying to pick up a duffle bag and a backpack. He took them to Leah, who still stood by the car, arms folded tightly across her chest.
“Here,” he said, thrusting both bags at her. “You carry these. They’re not heavy.” She reluctantly tucked her book under her left arm and accepted the bags. He heaved the storage box to his right shoulder, grabbed the last suitcase, and hurried after Aunt Becky, leaving Leah to bring up the rear.
She stomped up the three flagstone steps, across the stoop, and into the house, but instead of following her dad and aunt up the stairs, she dropped the bags onto the Oriental runner in the entryway and plopped down on a wooden bench next to a brass hat tree. Slumping against the wall, she eavesdropped on the two talking upstairs.
“This house is beautiful, Becky. Claire would have loved it.”
“I know. My baby sis and I always shared a love for old things. ‘Olden is golden,’ she always said.”
“Do you suppose that’s why she married me?”
Aunt Becky chuckles. “Could be. You are eight years her senior, as I recall.”
“Nine, actually, but I like your number better.”
“She told me she adored your ‘gentlemanly charm and green eyes.’”
“Oh, really?” Leah knew Dad was smiling, eyebrows raised. And his neck would be turning blood-orange red. She could almost hear it in his voice. He cleared his throat. “I forget exactly. How long have you been in this house?”
“Just over ten months,” Aunt Becky said. “I got back stateside about a month after Claire…Byron, I do so wish I could’ve gotten here in time for her funeral. It tore at my heart that I couldn’t be with you and the kids.”
Humph! We’re not kids.
“How are you all doing, Byron? How is Leah making it?”
Dad answered, but low enough Leah couldn’t hear. They continued to talk quietly for another five minutes or so. When Dad and Aunt Becky came downstairs a few minutes later, Aunt Becky gave Leah another hug, gentler this time.
Great. She pities me. I don’t need her pity. I don’t want anyone’s pity.
Aunt Becky offered a tour of the first floor. Leah would have stayed planted in the entryway near the escape hatch, but Dad shot her “the look,” where he lifted one eyebrow and set his mouth in a firm straight line. Leah sighed deeply and hauled herself up to follow.
Aunt Becky showed them the downstairs with its parlor, dining room, music room, and library. A big kitchen and walk-in pantry stretched across the back.
“Most of the furniture came with the house.” Aunt Becky said. “Might’ve even belonged to the original owners.”
Dad picked up a chair beside a little table in the nook under the stairway. He flipped it over. “Look here, Becky. The maker’s mark. The name’s burned in. Says ‘W. H. Newcomb.’ These corner cleats show it was made in the mid-1800s.” He righted the chair and looked around, nodding. “I’m guessing you have some valuable pieces here.”
“You think? The cellar and attic are full of trunks, boxes, toys, furniture, and racks of clothes. Vintage stuff. You name it. It’s there somewhere, I’m sure. I should make time to sort through it all, I reckon. Maybe Leah can help me with that this summer.”
Dad set the chair back beside the table. “Sounds like a good idea. Who knows? There could be a dusty Winslow Homer painting or a Charles Kirk clock tucked away in some cluttered corner.”
Aunt Becky’s laugh was contagious, running up the musical scale at the end. “Wouldn’t that be something?” She spun around to face Leah. “Now, I want you to make yourself at home, young lady. Poke around to your heart’s content. If you take after my baby sis at all, you’ll want to search every nook and cranny. Your bedroom, by the way, is over the library.”
If she had to spend the summer away from her friends and all the entertainments Chicago had to offer--the theatre, the symphony, the aquarium, museums and parks--it was good that the house had plenty of books.
The library had a window seat that looked out over a small garden where a huge vine, dripping with clusters of pale purple flowers, threatened to collapse the arbor straining to support it. Wisteria?
Leah had read about a window seat once and thought it would be the most delicious place to read or write. This one was especially nice, with lace sheers draped to frame the window and an assortment of throw pillows piled around the tufted seat cushion.
Rapunzel probably had a nice view from the tower, too. A prison is a prison, no matter how pretty.
Before they left home, Dad had given her a new leather-bound journal. He told her he expected it to be full of exciting happenings by September. Fat chance of that here, but she might find something worth writing about. Maybe a tornado would come along and whirl her away to Oz. Don’t they have a lot of tornadoes in Indiana? Anything to escape.
Aunt Becky’s perky voice yanked Leah from her reverie. “Now, would you folks like to see the attic or the cellar?”
“I’ll take a rain check on the grand tour,” Dad said. “I really can’t spare the time today. Perhaps when I come to reclaim Leah. That glass of lemonade you mentioned sounds mighty good before I hit the road, though.”
Soon, the three were sitting on ladder-back chairs around one end of a long wooden table in the kitchen, sipping lemonade from Mason jars. Leah traced spirals in the condensation on her jar while Dad and Aunt Becky talked.
“I don’t need this big ol’ farm table, but it’s one of the things that came with the house, and I do like it.”
Dad ran his hand over the smooth wood. “It has character. I like the worn edges, where people have rested their arms and rubbed off the finish.”
Aunt Becky plunked her glass down, splashing some on the table. “Have mercy. I’m just like a little kid when it comes to slopping.” She went to get some paper towels.
“You and the kids need to plan on Christmas here this year. A dozen folks can sit around the table easy. Tell the college man to bring a few of his friends, too. Some of those kiddos can’t make it home for the holidays, especially if they’re international. Or you can bring some of your students.”
“That sounds wonderful, Becky. This past Christmas…well, it just wasn’t the same without Claire.”
I’ll say. Noah spent his break with a friend’s family in Denver, and we had frozen pizza. Some Christmas.
“I know,” Aunt Becky said quietly. “I know. Didn’t Claire go all out for Christmas?”
“Christmas and Resurrection Sunday.”
Aunt Becky refilled their lemonade glasses. “Byron, you sure you don’t mind my leaving Leah here when I go to my shop in town? I could take her with me, if you prefer.”
Leah rolled her eyes at her dad.
“She’ll be fine, Becky. I don’t leave her home alone in Chicago, of course, but here? Besides, she’ll soon be thirteen.” He tried to coax a smile from Leah with one of his own, but she just glared at him, so he turned his attention back to Aunt Becky. “She has her cell phone with her, and this is a safe place, I’m sure.”
“I’m not sure any place is truly safe these days. And cell phones seldom work in these hills,” Aunt Becky said. “But I have a ground line for local calls, so she can reach me when I’m in town.”
I’m right here. Don’t talk about me like I’m 500 miles away.
Aunt Becky seemed to read Leah’s mind, because she shifted her attention to her niece.
“Now, Leah, you call me anytime. Understand?” Leah nodded without looking up. “Even if you just get lonely and need someone to talk to. I mean it.”
Leah nodded because it was the expected thing to do. She continued tracing her finger through the moisture.
“Fortunately, we have very good neighbors not far away. Willie Logan and her boy Trevor live with Willie’s mother-in-law, Fern, right down by the road where the old gasoline pumps are. Trevor just turned twelve. He’s a regular woodsman. Knows all about the flora and fauna around here. Willie’ll no doubt drop in to check on you from time to time. If there’s an emergency while I’m gone, give her a jingle. Her number’s right by the phone in the library.”
Leah nodded without making eye contact. “Can I use your computer?”
“Leah,” Dad said. “Manners, please.”
“No, no, now, Byron. That’s okay. I want her to feel free to ask me anything.” Then she turned to Leah. “You can, but you’ll have to come to the shop with me. My laptop’s there. I don’t tote it back and forth. Sure as the world, I’d leave it here when I needed it at the shop.”
“No computer?” Leah had planned to Skype with friends through the summer. “Dad!” She shot him a look of pleading, mingled with desperation.
“I think it will be good for you to do without so much technology for the summer,” Dad said.
Leah didn’t try to hide her eye-roll.
“I’m sorry, Leah.” Aunt Becky’s face showed that she really was. “I guess we’re pretty ‘low-tech’ around here. I don’t even have a TV.”
“I don’t watch TV,” Leah said. “It numbs the brain.” Aunt Becky and Dad laughed at that. Leah pinched back a smile.
Dad took one last swig of his lemonade. “You have a used-book store, right?”
“Yep. And it does a fair amount of business. More than I expected. Madison has several antique stores, so my quaint little place fits right in. It’s fun.”
Against Aunt Becky’s pleas that Dad stay the night and get an early start in the morning, he left for home as the sun began to turn the western sky coral, but not before he talked with Leah alone in the library.
He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Sweetheart, these three months will fly by. I’ll call when I can, though I don’t know how often that will be. Lord willing, I’ll be back in time to celebrate your birthday.”
She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “For you it’ll fly by. I’m going to be bored to death.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “Daddy, I don’t want you to go.” For the past couple of years, it had been Dad, not Daddy.
“I know. You may not believe this, but I really don’t want to leave you.” He reached for his handkerchief in his back pocket and dabbed her eyes. “I have to go. This trip was scheduled long before....” He gave her a long hug. “’Bye, Cricket.”
Leah didn’t say good-bye nor walk Dad to his car. She watched it start down the lane.
Suddenly, Aunt Becky burst out of the house and galloped down the steps, waving a brown paper bag in the air.
“Byron, wait! I got you some dinner to eat on the road,” she yelled as she trotted toward the car. Leah watched her aunt hand the bag through the window.
In her mind, Leah saw a jet plane explode in mid-air and spiral down to the sea, leaving a trail of black smoke in a twisted wake.
“Daddy!” she called, her voice caught. “Be careful. Stay safe.”
He smiled and nodded. Waving, he slipped the car back into drive.

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