Page 35 of My Best Friend's Dad

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’sglowingis 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 mostfarmyards, 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 thoughtsthat 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.