Page 10 of Atlas

Okay, not exactly. If she knew my real musings about Atlas, she’d puke right into that mask she has on andthatwould be a true catastrophe.

We make a path, pushing and piling things to the side to reveal boxes, crates, suitcases, and old trunks.

“This is so overwhelming,” Georgia mutters, moving a stack of old magazines that I’m going to look through when I get a chance.

“It’s a lot to take in. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Not overheating?”

“No. I really like it. It’s dirty and kind of gross, and totally overstimulating, but I can see how exciting it would be to find that one special thing. Even just rescuing a bunch of the regular stuff from rotting is so amazing.”

“It’s a time capsule for sure. Agatha said she hasn’t been in here for decades. A lot of this stuff belonged to her parents and her siblings, as well as extended family. When someone died, they just moved it all in and forgot about it.”

“I hope unearthing it doesn’t bring back bad memories for her. Or good ones, but they’re sad too.”

That’s the last thing I want to do. Agatha is so sweet. “Nostalgia is tricky. It’s so wild how something might look like trash to one person, but if another had that item growing up, finding it again becomes priceless to them.”

She nods so hard that her mask half slips off and she has to adjust it. “My parents have this super ugly old clock on the wall in their kitchen. I guess you probably saw it when you’ve been at the house. It was a wedding present, so it’s been there forever. If they ever got rid of it, I’d have to say that I’d miss it, but I didn’t even realize that until right now.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” I give her a quick scan to make sure that she truly is doing okay. We’re into the thick of the dust, and the air is close to the point of stifling. I’m soaking wet, and she has to be feeling it too. “You look lovely, by the way. That’s a great vintage sweater.”

“It’s pretty much going to be a sacrifice after today.” She shoves a few boxes aside before reaching for one labelled ‘TOYS’ to crack it open. She has great instincts. Vintage toys are one of the best things to find, at least in my opinion.

Sure, it would be great to find a piece of art or a random vase or necklace worth millions, but those are unicorns. I’m more about keeping my expectations realistic.

“I’m great with laundry. I can wash them for you if you want.”

“Oh goodness, these are just throw-aways.” She starts rifling through the box. “She won’t be mad. Whoa! Look at this!”

I hustle over and we go through the box together. The whole thing is puremagic. Lots of stuff from the forties and fifties, and a few from the sixties. There are tons of little figures, cast iron, a few plastic pieces that are in surprisingly good condition. The dolls, however immaculate they might be, are still the stuff of nightmares.

“Ooh, look! Here’s a monkey like the one you have at the shop.” It’s true. Pearl could have a friend, although this one is in good shape and flocked all over. “And what are these?” Georgia pulls out a few marionettes. “Oh lord, these are frightening!” She laughs so hard that dust puffs off the front of her mask.

I fold the box back up and carry it to the front of the barn, setting it by the door. Atlas is nowhere in sight, but I’ll call him when I have a stack.

***

That incredible toy find sets the pace. For the next few hours, Georgia and I dig and dig and dig. We find tons of old books and magazines, antique clothes, tools, soft furnishings like lace tablecloths and curtains, hats, gloves, shoes, ancient tins and jars, oil signs, a few radios and clocks, a whole chest of silver flatware, old radios and typewriters, a box with brass décor, lamps, and a bunch of old artwork wrapped in plastic and taped in cardboard so fragile that it flakes away when we handle it.

I uncover a Hoosier cabinet that has seen better days, and find several chairs, end tables, and the pie safe of my dreams. There’s even an old jukebox in the corner.

In the end, Atlas has to mask up and help us carry the heavy stuff out. The pile on the lawn grows, transforming into a mountain.

If Agatha is watching us from the house, I hope she’s getting a kick out of this.

This is pretty much the best pick of my life. I’m so happy I brought all the spare cash I had on hand.

The hardest part is knowing when to stop, but despite nearly reaching my breaking point for soaking through my clothes and seeing black spots that aren’t related to dust or tricks of the sunlight in the barn, I press on.

Behind me, Georgia and Atlas are manhandling a trunk of old clothes.

“Your trailer is going to be full,” Atlas calls, his deep, rich voice muffled through the mask but still sending a dark shiver trilling up my spine. “Let’s call it.”

I know that I have to haggle over price and load yet, plus still drive back to Hart and get cleaned up in time for dinner. We got here early, but we’ve been at this for hours, and time slips away when you’re having fun.

Or not, as Atlas would probably say.

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