Page 17 of The Treasure House

“Fine.” He sighed. Jake edged his way through the clutter and opened the door to the hall. Or rather to another wall of clutter.

I had to step around an old telephone table, which held a small cut glass vase of fake plastic flowers and an old rotary phone. There was a notepad with a pencil attached by a little gold chain, for taking messages. It was an odd little oasis of order in a hallway that was littered with plastic bags and washing baskets and even a beheaded garden gnome.

It’s in good condition, the real estate agent had assured me over and over again, it just needs a clean-out.

“There are two rooms down the front here, a parlor and a dining room.” Jake pointed to the open archways.

“You really know your way around the place,” I said dryly, watching as he picked his way through the field of debris.

“I used to help her out,” he said.

“What did you do, clean?” Flo sounded amused. “Because I wouldn’t quit your day job.”

He didn’t reply to that, merely stepped aside and gestured us ahead. The wooden arches led to two rooms of similar proportions, each with a fireplace of brick, ornamented with lush tiles of green and amber. Those big porthole windows I’d seen from outside bracketed the fireplaces. Golden light poured through, mellowed by the filter of dust. If I cleaned the dirt from the glass, that light would be clear and bright, perfect for someone sitting in the overstuffed armchair next to the fireplace to read by.

Something loosened in my chest as I imagined sitting there through the long cold Maine winters. The parlor had the potential to be a beautiful room. The vintage tiles in the fireplace, the hardwood floorboards I could see between the rug and the piles of junk—it all sang of heritage and elegance and a life of ease.

“A chandelier!” Flo exclaimed in delight, twirling underneath the light fixture. It was a modest egg-shaped net of crystals.

“I don’t know that it’s a chandelier,” Jake disagreed.

“It’s fancy,” Flo told him.

“Is it?” He squinted at it.

Flo rolled her eyes at his pickiness. “I think it’s fancy.” She was annoyed.

I let them argue—I was more interested in whether the overhead light worked. The switch was an aged toggle, but the light went on and off just fine. “How come the electricity is still connected?” I asked Jake. “If no one’s been living here.”

He shrugged. “The family thought they might need it to sort through all this culch.” He gave the room a rueful look. “But then it got too overwhelming.”

“They don’t want any of this stuff?”

“I guess not.”

I checked the ceiling for water damage and the cornices for cracks while I was craning my neck. There were small hairlines here and there, but nothing too ominous.

At least I didn’t think so.

I tried to look for electrical outlets, but there was too much junk to see the baseboards. I did my best to edge behind some of the garbage.

“Oh.” I stopped, startled, as I glimpsed colored glass. There was a lamp tilting precariously on the corner of a big crate. It was like something from an art gallery. The base was brass, shaped like a sinewy tree trunk, leading to a stained-glass hood that was a detailed drip of tiny pink blossoms and green leaves. I’d never seen anything so perfect. “Is that Tiffany glass?” I asked, awed. I was too scared to touch it.

“Maybe.” Jake shrugged. “Some of this stuff is worth a lot of money, and some of it’s just junk. There are bags of Happy Meal toys out there in the hall, but also tableware that could be actual silver.”

“It’s a treasure chest,” Flo said, looking around like she might find gold. “Like in The Goonies.”

“It’s more like a dumpster,” Jake warned her. “Whoever buys this place will essentially be dumpster diving, and for a good long while.”

“Is there a proto-pool out back by any chance?” Flo asked him as I moved the Tiffany lamp somewhere safer, where it wouldn’t be knocked over and smashed.

“A what?”

“You know, a pit that we could turn into a pool.”

“You don’t need a pit,” I told her, turning away from the stained-glass lamp. “If we move here, you’ll have the whole ocean.” I tapped her on the head as I picked my way to the sash windows. “Do these open?”

“Uh, yeah, they should.” Jake joined me and flipped the latches on the sashes. The cracked windows opened with a shudder and a squeal, and the ocean breeze gusted in, a relief after the mustiness of the house.