Sealed with a Secret

by Lisa Schroeder

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  About the Author

  Also by Lisa Schroeder

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Paris is a wonderful city, it’s true, but in my mind, there’s no place better than London, and I was thrilled to be home. Homebody Phoebe Ainsworth, that’s me. Give me a book to read, a piano, or a kitchen filled with gadgets, and I’m happier than a foodie in a five-star French restaurant. My older sister, Alice, however, was acting as if the world was coming to an end. She hadn’t wanted to leave Paris. Well, that isn’t exactly true. She hadn’t wanted to leave Justin.

  I sat on the edge of Alice’s bed staring at the large fish tank across the room, trying to decide if I should be the nice sister and rub her back as she sniveled into her pillow. My parents gave Alice the fish tank for her fifteenth birthday. Mum had told her she’d read an article that said aquariums can help calm the mind and reduce stress. So they filled it with beautiful fish in the hopes that Alice’s room would be become a relaxing, soothing place, even when she’s anxious about school and grades. My sister is ambitious and, as Mum likes to say, a perfectionist with a capital P. Sometimes it seems like she lives in a constant state of worry. I never understood what she had to worry about, since she always gets good grades.

  As I sat there next to her, I considered telling her to roll over and watch the fish, because maybe it would help her feel better. But I’m sure she would have told me it would definitely not help. Fish don’t have magical powers to cure a wounded heart, after all. Though that’d be pretty cool if they did.

  It’d been five days since we’d said farewell to our new American friends, Nora and Justin, whom we’d met while in Paris with our dad to look for antiques. But you wouldn’t have known it by looking at my sister. It was like she and Justin had kissed good-bye only a moment ago.

  It was Monday morning, and I’d come to her room to tell her I was making strawberry crêpes before we went with Dad to work at the antiques shop. Next thing I knew, she’d flopped down on her bed face-first.

  The longer I sat there, the more irritated I became. All I wanted her to do was to join us for breakfast, and she was acting like the world was ending.

  I stared at the fish, hoping they might make me feel calm. It didn’t work.

  “Let me guess,” I finally said with a sigh. “Crêpes remind you of Justin. Well, you don’t have to have any breakfast, you know. Go hungry if you’d like. I was just trying to be nice.”

  Of course I missed my new friend, Nora, too. But not enough to cry about it. After all, we’d only known each other for a few days, and from the moment we met on the Métro, I knew that our time together in Paris was temporary.

  While Justin and Alice were off falling head over heels in love, Nora and I had gone on glorious adventures around the City of Light. Nora’s grandmother had made up a treasure hunt for her, with items scattered in various places. We’d had so much fun together, but as Mum liked to say from time to time, “All good things must come to an end.” Besides, something told me I’d see Nora again someday. Maybe she would come to London, or maybe I’d travel to New York City, where she lived. That would be a dream come true! In the meantime, we’d stay in touch. I was sure of it.

  And so, here we were, back at our flat in south London (Greenwich, to be exact) with another week of Easter holiday before we returned to school. If Alice intended to blather on about Justin the entire time, it was going to be one very long week.

  “Cooxhughetmaatissh?” Alice mumbled, her head turned only slightly so the pillow heard her words better than I did.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand baby talk.”

  She sat up, sniffling. “I’m not a baby, Phoebe. I’m heartbroken. But, silly me, you wouldn’t understand since you’ve never been in love.” She dragged her arm across her nostrils. Gross. “I said, could you get me a tissue?”

  “Why?” I asked. “Are your legs broken, too?”

  She stood up with a harrumph. “You’re not nice at all. In fact, you’re the meanest little sister in the history of the world.”

  While she went toward the loo, I headed back to the kitchen. “Breakfast will be delicious and you’ll regret not having any,” I yelled. “All because of a silly boy.”

  Dad and Mum sat at the old, pedestal kitchen table, drinking tea and reading the newspaper. Our house is small and filled to the brim with antiques. If something doesn’t sell at the store, I think Dad feels guilty, so he brings it home and pretends like it’s something he really wanted to keep anyway. A few weeks ago, he tried to bring home an antique cricket bat.

  “But you don’t play!” Mum had cried.

  “I might,” Dad had told her. “Someday.”

  That’s when Mum put her foot down and made Dad promise he wouldn’t bring any more stuff home until he got rid of some things. I kind of agreed with her. I mean, what was next, a vintage coffin? I could just hear Dad’s perfectly good reason—“I don’t need it now, but someday I will.”

  I walked over to the stove and turned it on. Eyes were on me, I could feel it. Finally, Mum said, “Weren’t you being a bit harsh with your sister, lovey?”

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “She’s too lovesick to eat breakfast. You can’t tell me you think that’s perfectly acceptable.”

  As the pan warmed, I dropped a pat of butter into it, which made a nice sizzling sound. I’d mixed up the batter before I went to Alice’s room, but I took the wooden spoon and gave it a few quick turns to ensure it was nice and thin.

  “It’s a lucky thing the two of you are going with me to the shop today,” Dad said, setting the newspaper down on the table. “There’s nothing like a good day’s work to take your mind off your troubles.”

  “Don’t be surprised if she comes out here and says she’s changed her mind about going,” I said, swirling the pan around to get the bottom of it nicely covered with the butter.

  Mum stood up and brought her teacup to the sink. “Well, she’s going whether she likes it or not. I have a shift at the hospital and I don’t want her moping about at home by herself all day long.”

  “Why does she have to be so impossible anyway?” I wailed. “I miss the old Alice. The one who used to sing along while I played the piano. The one who made sure I got the last biscuit during teatime. The one who loved to browse flea markets with me rather than going off on her own.” I sighed. “You know, the one who actually liked being with me.”

  I leaned into my mother when she came over and put her arm around me. “She still likes you, Phoebe. This is only temporary. You’ll see.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” I said as I went back to making breakfast. “You didn’t see how she treated me in Paris. I couldn’t do anything right. She wouldn’t even let me sit next to her on the Métro. Although I suppose that turned out to be a go
od thing, since it allowed me to meet Nora.”

  While I poured the batter into the pan, Dad said, “What you two are going through is normal. Your sister is growing up, that’s all. She’s trying to figure out who she is. What she wants out of life.”

  “Or doesn’t want out of life,” I said as I watched the bubbles appear and took in the delicious aroma of the batter cooking. “Like her sister, for example.”

  Mum chuckled. “Sweetheart, don’t you think you’re being a bit overly dramatic?”

  “Not really,” I replied.

  I flipped the thin pancake over and was happy to see it wasn’t too dark, the way they usually turned out when Mum made them for us.

  “Look at that,” she said, peering over my shoulder. “You obviously didn’t learn how to cook from me.”

  That was another thing Alice and I used to do together a lot—cook. Since Mum and Dad were pretty lousy at it, we’d taken it upon ourselves to do as much of the cooking as possible. And I loved doing it. Alice had taught me so much. Not just when it came to cooking, either. With six years between us, she’d often been more like a second mother to me than a sister.

  But soon she’d be off to university, and then what? Once she left, would she even care to stay in touch with me at all?

  “Let me get the strawberry jam,” Mum said as she made her way to the fridge.

  I had hoped Alice would change her mind and join us for breakfast after all. But she didn’t. And as I went to work making another crêpe, no matter how wonderful they looked, I wished with all of my heart that I’d chosen something different to cook that morning.

  After breakfast, I went into my room to finish getting ready to go to the shop with Dad and Alice. Instead of a fish tank in my room, there’s a bulletin board filled with happy notes. When I got the board a few years ago for my birthday, I knew I wanted to do something special with it. So that first year, I decided to try to become a better artist. Every day I drew a picture on a notecard and hung it on the board. I thought it would be neat to see how much my artistic skills changed throughout the year. I was so happy to see at the end of 365 days that I had improved quite a bit. And I loved how the board looked when I was finished.

  Last year I printed out recipes with pictures from the Internet once a week. I pinned up the picture, and then took the recipe to the kitchen and added the ingredients to the shopping list. Some of the recipes were good and others were … not. Like the tuna burgers I made? Blech.

  Next, I came up with the idea for the happiness board. Now, as I stared at the big smiley face I’d drawn on a piece of paper, I smiled to myself. All around the smiley face were colorful notes of things that had made me feel happy. I think I’d been worried that this year would not be a very happy year, with Alice heading off to university in the fall. So I’d told myself it would be up to me to find things to be glad about.

  For example, when I got back from Paris, I printed these words on a purple notecard:

  I made a friend from New York while I was in Paris. Her name is Nora.

  Along with the note, I’d hung a picture of us that I’d taken as we’d climbed the Panthéon together. I’d snapped one with the breeze blowing our hair all around, her brown hair and my blonde hair mixed up together. But it didn’t matter that our hair was a little messy, because our faces said it all—we’d had a blast together.

  As I looked at all of the colorful cards and the few photos I’d stuck up there, too, my heart told me I had a lot to be happy about. I needed to try not to let Alice and her teenage mood swings bring me down.

  I turned my attention to the item I’d come to my room to get—a special treasure I’d found two days before we came home from Paris. Although Alice and I didn’t know a lot when it came to hunting for special pieces, we did know to look for designer-named jewelry and other types of accessories—Tiffany, Cartier, Gucci, etc. When we’d split off from Dad to cover more ground, that’s what Dad had asked Alice and me to look for, specifically.

  Alice had been nearby, in another section of the flea market, when I happened upon a little black pouch with something inside. It didn’t look like much, sitting in a small heap with all of the ugly costume jewelry. But when I went to examine the contents, I found a gold makeup compact with pretty little jewels on the outside. Ever so carefully, I turned it over in my hands, examining it closely, and when I saw the word Cartier in very tiny cursive letters near the front, where it opens, I think my heart skipped a beat.

  I could not believe it.

  My hands started shaking, and as much as I wanted to open it and see what was inside, I knew I had to stay calm and act like this was just some junky little trinket that had absolutely no value. And that might have been the case, because what did I know, really? Still, I had a feeling it was special.

  “Ooh, très magnifique!” said a voice behind me. I whipped around to find a teen girl with short pink hair standing there. She must have been looking over my shoulder and I hadn’t even realized it.

  “It is, isn’t it?” After I said it, I wondered if she spoke English. “Parlez-vous anglais?”

  “Oui.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Cherry. Pleased to meet you.”

  I took her hand and gave it a shake. “I’m Phoebe.” I took a deep breath and gave her a weak smile. “And I’m quite nervous. I have to put on my sweet angel face.”

  She looked totally confused. “Excusez-moi?”

  I leaned in and whispered, “It’s a trick my sister taught me. Basically, I have to act like a sweet angel who doesn’t know the first thing about bartering. I’m just an innocent kid who has found a worthless trinket. But it’s tricky, you know? Because I really want it!”

  “Ah, but of course,” Cherry said with a smile. “That makes sense. So you are a good actress, yes?”

  A memory flashed in my mind, of Alice and me, giggling frantically and running off when we’d been successful in getting a piece of Blue Willow china a few years back. Our parents had been given a set of the vintage china for their wedding, but it’d been missing a few key pieces. When Alice and I found the creamer at a flea market, we knew we had to try our best to get it for their wedding anniversary. That’s when Alice taught me about the sweet angel face. I was gobsmacked as I watched her performance. When it was over, the man behind the counter gave her the creamer for a great price.

  I looked at Cherry, telling myself if my sister could do it, I could, too. “I’m going do my very best.” I smiled sweetly, batting my eyelashes a few times. “How’s that?”

  She giggled. “Magnifique! Oh, you know what else you must do? Wait and step up to barter when she is very busy. Because she will wish to hurry on with you, a young girl, who has little money.”

  “Oh, that’s good advice. Thank you.” I gulped as I slid the compact back into the little pouch. “I hope I can do this.”

  “You can and you will,” she said confidently.

  We stood and chatted about a vintage children’s book she’d bought from a different vendor. Finally, after a number of customers had approached the vendor, talking and bartering, making the booth quite chaotic, Cherry gently pushed me toward the table. It was showtime.

  I asked the elderly lady in charge of the booth if she spoke English. She shook her head, telling me no. I didn’t know much French, but I held out the pouch like it was nothing, wearing my charming, innocent angel face the entire time. After I quickly asked how much she wanted for the item, I held my breath and waited to see if she would grab it from my hands to explore the contents. Lucky for me, someone else stepped up just then with a beautiful Victorian-style lamp, and offered a price for it. The vendor shook her head frantically and responded with a different number.

  This was my chance. The vendor was now distracted, and that could only be good for me. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a ten-euro note. Dad had given me twenty total, but I figured I should start with ten. I smiled even wider as I held it out to her, wishing with all my might that she would take it withou
t any further questioning.

  The woman with the lamp scowled and came back with a counteroffer, speaking in rapid French. The vendor shook her head again, and snipped back at her, and as they went back and forth, I stood quiet and still, until finally, the old woman snatched the bill from my hand and shooed me away.

  “Merci,” I said before I turned around, and scurried off with Cherry at my heels.

  “You did it!” she exclaimed when I finally stopped.

  “I’m so excited!” I told her. “Thank you for being there and helping me through it.”

  “It was nothing. Now I must run to meet a friend. Bonne journée!”

  My dad had told me once that means “have a good day.”

  “I will, thanks to you,” I told her as she waved and scampered off into the crowd.

  I’d stuffed the compact into the pocket of my peacoat and hadn’t said a single word about it to Alice or Dad. I’d wanted to wait until I could find out more about my discovery when we were back at home.

  To keep my dad from getting suspicious, I’d purchased a simple vintage necklace later that morning with my remaining money. Of course I told Dad I’d spent the entire twenty euros on that piece alone. He hadn’t questioned me about it at all, fortunately.

  Today, I hoped to sneak away to see if we’d ever carried anything similar in our shop, and what the value of the compact might be. If it was worth a lot of money, and I had a feeling it was, I could be Alice’s hero.

  My family had been hoping for a small miracle—a spectacular find while we were in Paris to help with university costs for Alice. As I put the compact in my bag, where it would stay hidden until later, I smiled. Wouldn’t it be amazing if I had purchased an actual miracle?