Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Rowleigh
Bellatrix sent me a ping late last night.
Considering that she warned me to drive something with clearance, wear clothes I wouldn’t mind throwing out after, and also have shoes that could withstand rusty nails, I had more than a slight inkling about what we were going to be doing before I pulled up to the long, narrow driveway.
I only have to wait a few moments at the side of the gravel road with my favorite nineties punk band blasting over the SUV’s speakers before Bellatrix’s old blue car edges up behind me.
She drives past, waving at me. Even in the old beater sedan, which is rusty but probably trusty because it’s from the golden era of imports, she’s as regal as a queen.
The driveway has to be half a mile long, and Bellatrix’s car kicks up an ungodly cloud of dust.
As I pull up just behind her, she emerges from her car with her hair in a messy bun, her face makeup-free, and in old baggy jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt that’s the opposite of baggy.
I quickly look away before she catches my eyes lingering on the curve of her breasts.
It’s overcast today and so muggy that my T-shirt clings to my body like a second skin within a minute.
“I’m just going to let Mr. and Mrs. Davis know we’re here. They’re super sweet. They invited us in for tea after.” She turns to hide her grin. It’s sneaky looking, as though it’s just for her.
I have no idea what it means, but the way she’s glowing is a straight punch to the lungs.
I wait by my SUV while she skips across the farmyard to the faded-out baby-blue two-story house.
It looks like something that was ordered from a catalog and assembled right here with love, excitement, and pride.
It might be a little bit run down, with the paint looking sun blistered, the shingles peeling, and the porch looking more like a suggestion of a structure rather than actually being safe to walk on, but I can picture it in its glory.
That’s what always appealed to me about antiques.
It wasn’t the restoration process, though I did my share of fixing and cleaning.
It was the story they told in their current condition.
At one time, they were new and pristine.
Only they knew what the years between then and their rediscovery held.
Some had been cherished and meticulously cared for.
Others were packed away and forgotten, and some loved so much that they grew threadbare and thin with it.
The barn on the other side of the farmyard was red at one point, and it once stood straight and true, but like the house, it’s faded now and a little bit wobbly, though it will probably stand for years yet.
The stone foundation is in good shape. It’s the cedar boards that are starting to give way in places.
There’s a long row of dilapidated outbuildings to the side of the barn, and at the end of the driveway, far to the left of that, are several metal grain bins and an old fuel tank.
Like most farmyards, old or new, this one has its fair share of vehicles from all eras parked there.
Some are littered beyond the barn, with grass so tall that it’s almost covered them, while others line the driveway and are clearly still going on the road.
If I had to guess, this place has probably been in the family for generations.
It has seen a lot of kids growing up. I wonder, with its state of disrepair, if there’s anyone left who wants to come back.
What will happen to the family farm when Mr. and Mrs. Davis pass away?
I hope there’s someone who will come back and care for it.
History like this deserves to be preserved.
This beauty, all these stories, the land, the buildings, the sky, the endless years, the earth…
I fill my lungs with crisp country air, my spine melting against the driver’s side door as the tension I didn’t realize I was carrying all spooled inside my muscles ebbs away.
I can’t help myself. I grin like Bellatrix did.
Hers was at some private joke, I’m sure, but mine is just for the joy of being out here again.
It’s for the excitement of the hunt, of all those treasures just waiting to be discovered.
I don’t think it matters how rich you are, or what age, or where you came from.
If you love that kind of thing, you’re always going to love it.
It’s been too long.
Far, far too long.
I would never have thought Bellatrix would plan something like this.
Last night, I might have guessed what we’d be doing, but based on her plans the first time, I never would have guessed this would be on her list of experiences to give me.
“Hey, Rowleigh?”
I startle, borderline jump-scaring out of my skin, and find Bellatrix just a few feet away. I was so lost in my own thoughts that I didn’t even see her coming. That, and I’m also still angled away from the house.
She tosses me a water bottle and a white mask, the kind actually meant for farm wear. “Do you think you can out-treasure-hunt me? It’s been a while, so you’re probably pretty rusty. Do you even know what an antique looks like anymore?”
I catch the water bottle in one hand and the mask by the strings. Barely.
She grins saucily, thrusting out a hip in a cocky pose that draws my eyes straight to her flowing curves, her long legs encased in those tight jeans, and the way her shirt is a little bit tight over her breasts but flowy everywhere else.
I have to get my mask in place, and I’m not talking about the N95.
“Treasure hunt,” I blurt, my voice so high that it sounds like I just tea-bagged myself. “Out hunt me? Yes, probably.”
She snorts. “It’s not a challenge if you don’t rise to it.”
“With picking, either you find stuff, or you don’t, but it’s not always the obvious finds that are worth it.”
“Uh…” She removes the mask from the plastic packaging, flexes the plastic strings, and slips it over her face. “I’m not sure I’m following.” She sounds like she’s talking through a wall of cotton.
“You might want to wait to put that on, or you’ll be sweating it out in no time.”
“I’m good.” She shakes her head, causing her messy bun to wobble.
“You don’t have your glasses on today.”
“They’ll fog up with the mask. I’m wearing contacts.”
“They might attract dust and dirt,” I say to her.
“I brought some solution, and I’ll take them out as soon as I’m done. I’ll be okay. Besides, how bad could an old barn be?”
My mind peels back the years, going through the many, many picks I did.
The worse the hoard looked, the more fun it was to sift through.
I throw my head back and laugh, my throat turning up to the sun.
I laugh until my stomach starts to hurt a little, and I only stop when I catch Bellatrix giving me a strange side eye and studying me while pretending she’s not.
“I’ve seen some floor-to-ceiling packing before. Did you ask how long it’s been since the barn was touched?”
“They said just a few years,” Bellatrix replies.
“Great. Let’s go crack the door.”
I opt for the big double doors at the front since they’ll let in more air.
They meet in the middle, so I set my water bottle and the mask down, head over to one, and put all my weight into pushing.
It creaks like it’s been a heck of a lot more than a few years.
The moan that shakes loose from the barn is so eerie that Bellatrix jumps in place.
“What was that?”
“Just the building shifting now that the door is open. It’s like a person taking a big gulp of air after bursting through the water’s surface.”
She brushes past me, trailing a mouthwatering scent of strawberries and pears, and peeks into the gloom.
A low sound tears from her throat. It’s the kind of whimper that hits me straight in the nuts.
I didn’t know nuts swelling was a thing, but mine feel…
enlarged. It was that sexy as fuck noise she made, just like she did at the piano when I touched her…
“I see why you were laughing now. A few years probably means more like twenty unless dust accumulates at a far faster rate in the country than it does in the city.”
“Possible. There’s dirt that blows in off the gravel roads and the fields around here.”
The place isn’t packed to the rafters or anything.
As far as old barns go, it’s probably one of the emptiest I’ve seen, but there’s all the usual.
Stacks of boxes, some of them sagging from the weight of the ones above, mismatched crates, a few ancient trunks, tools, gardening implements, and pieces of more than a few of the vehicles that have probably rotted into the ground out in the fields beyond.
There’s plenty of garbage, too, although old bottles, cans, and magazines can have some real value. So can old vehicle parts.
That same adrenaline rush I used to get at the start of a pick creeps up on me.
It’s not the same. Not at all. I used to do all my picks alone. The picking, bartering, loading, unloading, cleaning, and posting or putting into the store when I had it up and running. It was all basically a one-man show.
This isn’t about making a living. It’s not about tallying up profit. I don’t have a trailer to fill or clients waiting for me to find something new. This is just for fun. For the sheer love of the old and forgotten, the weird and the wonderful, the worn down or whimsical.
I turn my gaze from the barn’s interior to Bellatrix’s face.
Her eyes look huge, with the mask taking up most of her face, but her eyes are dancing.
She found this place. She planned this. She did it for me.
Again, I wonder why she’s going to such great lengths for me.
My chest swells so much that it almost hurts to be in my own skin.
Bellatrix deflates my lung buster by blinking at me. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
I shake myself out of my trance. “Just remember, it’s not the biggest, bestest, and most spectacular object that’s worth it.
Sometimes, the thing that means the most to someone is the ugly little nugget that looks like it’s been rotting at the bottom of a swamp.
Nostalgia is as powerful a motivator as real value. ”
“Swampy butt nuggets. Got it.”
I still can’t tell if she’s smiling or not, but I think so.
“Is this a treasure hunt for the best thing, the weirdest, or the worst?” she asks.
“Whatever you want it to be.”
I walk past her and push the other door along its slider with all my might. Beads of sweat trickle down my neck, soaking my T-shirt at the back and front. I’m wet under the pits, too, and we haven’t even gotten a proper workout yet.
I just hope my deodorant is up to the task. The last thing I want to do is have tea with Mr. and Mrs. Davis, with Bellatrix right beside me, while smelling like last year’s barbeque sauce and old onions.
She channels all her inner deviousness into her eyes, which flash with excitement now that the stakes are different. Weird and wacky are so much more fun than valuable and rare.
It’s been an age and a half since I had fun like this with a pick. The last few years I was doing it, it was all about business and profit. I can admit that I lost the joy of it.
Cracking open these barn doors feels a little bit like the first pick I ever went on or getting a great score at a garage sale, flea market, or thrift store before I was doing it as a job.
It’s more than rediscovering an old passion.
It’s falling back into that passion when it was still a passion, back before I killed it by commodifying it.
Like I do on the odd night I bartend, I slip back into the parts of me that are old me. Fun me. Just me. The me that no one gets to see anymore.
I get my mask, but before I put it on, I let Bellatrix see exactly what this means to me by flashing her an epic grin that is probably a direct mirror to the one she has hidden under her mask.