Through my kitchen window, I watched my best friend, Hazel navigate our work van into my driveway. Our company logo, a feather duster over the name “Bubbles and Troubles” in bright pink on either side, stood out through the light fog in the air. Once parked, the van dwarfed my Volkswagen Beetle, which I affectionately named Veedub.

A whiff of caramel wafted through the air as I secured the lids onto two travel mugs filled with coffee. I grabbed the mugs along with my tote bag and left the house, locking the door behind me. As I dashed across the dooryard, one foot skidded on a wet leaf. I somehow managed to reach the van without falling face-first onto the damp patch of lawn.

“Thanks for driving.” I slid into the heated passenger seat and handed Hazel one of the mugs so I could close my door. I cast a scowl through the van’s passenger-side window at the bright orange boot on the rear tire of Veedub.

“Sure thing and let me take a moment to say that this coffee is delicious.” Hazel set her mug in one of the two holders built into the van’s center console before offering, “I can talk to Gavin if you’d like. He could clear those tickets.”

Gavin, Hazel’s brother, was a local police officer and the source of my current angst. I took a sip of my coffee, put the mug in the empty cupholder and secured my seat belt. “No, thank you. When we get paid from this job, I’ll take care of those outstanding parking tickets and hopefully never hear from him again.”

She backed the van into the street and headed in the direction of the Livingston mansion. “As long as you aren’t speeding or parked in a no-parking zone.”

Even though I knew she was teasing, her brother was a bully. He had been since we were in high school. The police uniform he wore gave him some delusion that it made him irresistible to women everywhere. He took every chance to hit on me, even before Duffy died. And I took every chance to burst his bubble. I grabbed my travel mug and took another sip of coffee.

“Tori, he’s not my favorite person either. Maybe if you went out with him once…” Hazel trailed off, the rest of her sentence open to interpretation.

But no matter how I interpreted it, I didn’t like it. “Listen, Hazel, I’d love to be your sister-in-law, but only if you had a different brother. It’s only been a year since Duffy died. Even if I grew to like Gavin enough to date him, I’m not ready to put myself out there and, if I was ready, the guy would have to be super special. Definitely not anyone from Cooper’s Cove.”

“Yeah, I see your point. It’s not like our sleepy coastal town is a hotbed of eligible bachelors. Anyway, look on the bright side. When we carpool, it gives us time to talk about work stuff.”

The anticipation of the day ahead swelled and pushed away any negativity about Hazel’s brother. “Like the Livingston mansion!”

“Yes! Are you as excited as I am?”

“Absolutely! I mean, when we first met with Mrs. L., we only got a peek of what was in the attic. I did some research last night about her famous interior design trends. If she’s kept all the stuff she’s ever bought for that house, we can expect to make a small fortune.”

“Right? Estate jobs like this come along once in a blue moon.”

“And it sure beats scrubbing toilets.” I shuddered. “Hopefully this works out and we never have to go back to toilets again.”

“We can only hope and pray,” Hazel agreed, and I knew she must have our most recent client, a busy mom with six sons and two daughters in mind. It was the first time since my husband’s death that I was glad not to have children of my own. I had no idea little boys could be so messy!

For the rest of the drive, Hazel and I reviewed our game plan for the contents of Mrs. Livingston’s attic and soon my bestie navigated the van up the mansion’s long driveway. 

A row of mature ash trees lined either side of a strip of pavement. Their branches, devoid of all but a few stubborn leaves, appeared darker, almost ominous against the fluffy white clouds which drifted against the cobalt blue sky. I held my phone at arm’s length to capture the scene on video for our company website.

Website and social media management were how I pulled my weight. It was only fair as how Hazel provided transportation to and from our jobs and refused to let me reimburse her for expenses like fuel or maintenance. The video would go a long way toward helping Mrs. Livingston get top dollar for her treasures. The more she received, the higher our commissions would be.

Almost a full minute later, Hazel slowed the van to a shop a bit past the front door and turned off the engine. I put my phone away and grinned at her. The excitement of whatever waited for us inside the Livingston mansion’s attic pulled me from my seat as I opened the door and stepped onto the pavement.

Each armed with a tote full of supplies we’d need for the day, we stepped through the majestic columns at the front of the home. I waited a couple of steps behind Hazel, who ignored the brass door knocker shaped like a salmon in favor of the doorbell. As soon as Hazel pressed the button, a muffled chorus of The Grand State of Maine, our state song, chimed through the home.

I gazed at the enormous iron lantern suspended above us, its cracked glass cast reflections of the sun onto the columns. I was no less awestruck if I had been in line for an audience with the Queen in Windsor castle.

A few seconds later the thick wooden door opened to reveal our client on the other side. As with our initial visit to her home, she was dressed to the nines, this time in a black wool pencil skirt and a white silk blouse. “Hello, girls! I’m so glad you’re here. Now, as I told you before, I haven’t been into the attic since my late husband’s funeral. I’ve forgotten so much of what’s there. Out of sight, out of mind. Do have any questions before you get started?” Christine Livingston chattered. Her stilettos click-clacked on the wood floor as she took a few steps back. “Well, I suppose you don’t. Let me show you to the attic so you can get started.”

Like giddy schoolchildren on a field trip, Hazel and I entered the home. The door clicked shut behind us as we followed the older woman down a long hall.

“Mrs. Livingston? Do you mind if I take photos for our website? I’ll be happy to give you a preview so you can approve or reject as you see fit,” I offered.

With a look over her shoulder, the older woman smiled. “Be my guest, and you’re welcome to post whatever content to your website that will help draw attention to the items we’ll send to auction. The more I get, the more you get. Isn’t that how this all works?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but continued onward.

Hazel and I silently fist-bumped behind the old woman’s back.

After what seemed an eternity of following Mrs. Livingston through the labyrinth of hallways and staircases, she stopped at an ancient wooden door which she unlocked with a skeleton key before throwing it wide open. She gestured toward the stairs like a game show hostess who revealed a fabulous prize and beamed a smile. “It’s all yours! There’s a guest bathroom in the hall and if you have any questions, I’ll be in my study.”

“Thank you so much,” I gushed and grabbed her hand with both of mine. I gave it a few good pumps and continued. “This means so much to us.”

Mrs. Livingston delicately pulled her hand from mine and nodded. “It means so much to me that you girls are able to sift through God-knows-what I’ve sent to be stored there through the years. Every time I decorate, the new pieces arrive and the old ones go into the attic. Well, I won’t keep you any longer.” With a last reminder to tell her if we had any problems, she disappeared the opposite the way we arrived.

Hazel and I hurried up the narrow stairs as much as we dared, as they were steeper than the other stairways in the home and lacked any type of railing. When we reached the top, it felt like we’d traveled to another time and place. 

Oil paintings stacked against one wall. The top half of a dressmaker’s dummy lie inside an antique cradle. Dolls from a bygone era piled atop the form, the edges of their lace dresses tinted with yellow and their porcelain faces split by hairline cracks. Luggage, hat boxes, old trunks, and wooden shipping crates stacked in every nook and cranny, and I could not even begin to imagine what treasures they held.

“Where in the world do we start?” I asked. An open path snaked around the items.

Hazel fanned herself with the fingers of one hand and pointed to the far wall with the other. “First help me open that window. It’s super stuffy in here.”

“Sounds good.” On my way to the window, I passed an antique fan. “This might help, too.”

“Ooh, my grandma had one like this! Every summer when we visited her blueberry farm, Gavin and I would talk into it to make our voices sound like robots. Gotta love the lack of technology back then.”

Nodding, I unlatched the window and struggled to raise the bottom half. By the time it complied, beads of sweat dripped from my forehead and I welcomed the chill of the autumn breeze which came through the six-inch opening. “Finally!”

“Good work!” Hazel plugged the fan into an outlet on the wall beneath the window and the blades whirred to life. “Be careful. These things are sharp and the last thing we need is for someone to lose a finger.”

“Has that actually happened?”

“I dunno, but it kept us safe when Grandma said it to us.”

We both laughed and steered clear of the fan. Hazel synced our iPads so we could collaborate with the use of specialized software for inventory management. The program allowed us to not only type in notes, but also add a picture taken with the tablet’s built-in camera.

I started by moving containers away from the wall and cataloging their contents. A faded green hatbox held fossils, rocks, and minerals. Another covered in pink silk held a Revolutionary War uniform. A Grecian urn lay cradled within a third. I marked each with a sticky note labeled “M” for “museum” and stacked them into a more organized pile against the wall. 

A set of mismatched luggage held household objects, vintage cameras, a ladies’ gold and diamond Cartier wristwatch, a quilted Chanel purse, and a pair of Tiffany & Co. sterling silver chalices. The vintage pieces were bound to bring a small fortune in profit. Leaving the items in their makeshift containers, I marked each piece of luggage with a sticky note marked “A” for “Auction.” Leather-bound books formed another stack with a sticky note marked “T” for “Tattered Pages,” a rare bookstore over in Dewdrop Springs. The proprietor there would assess their value and make recommendations. Tattered Pages was one of my personal havens in the weeks after Duffy passed away, and I spent many hours indulging in the coffee and sweets while pretending to read.

After I oohed and ahhed on repeat for the first half-hour, Hazel asked, “So, does the job live up to your expectations?”

“Yeah, it’s wicked cool. This attic is ginormous! Is it possible that it’s bigger than the house? You’ve really outdone yourself, girlfriend.” And I meant it. Hazel negotiated jobs with new clients. When Mrs. Livingston called us a few weeks ago, I never dreamed we’d see the inside of the mansion, much less dig through the contents of the attic.

“Thank you.” Hazel beamed and turned back to the massive wooden shipping crate she’d unearthed from heaps of old newspapers.

I turned my attention to a pyramid of boxes taller than I was and inched them forward. Despite my attempts to be as cautious as possible, the smallest box toppled from the top of the stack and tumbled toward my head.