He harrumphed. “Like anyone wants to listen to an old man like me. Let’s get that coin out of there and see what we find on the other side first.”

“Mags, how do we do that?” Silas asked.

She blew out a breath and crossed to the mantel. “Best I can tell, it looks like the mantel is in two pieces. This molding here at the bottom is a thin layer with the inlay just a hair smaller than the circumference of the coin. If we pry off the bottom layer, the coin should come right out.”

“No time like the present,” Silas said.

Five minutes later, armed with a thin chisel and hammer, Maggie set to the delicate work.

“Don’t destroy the whole surround,” Wallace groused when the tip of the chisel sank into the seam.

“I’m trying real hard not to,” she shot back. Tongue caught between her teeth, she carefully worked the wood until the tiny finish nails gave up their purchase. “Sy, can you reach in there?” She nodded toward the gap she’d created at the center of the mantel.

He slid his fingers inside and used his thumb to raise the coin. Triumphantly, he drew it out and held it up. They gathered around him and stared as he flipped the coin over.

“Well, holy shit,” Wallace muttered.

HashBrownNerd: Carpet in the bathroom?? Do you know how many decades of pee are in that mess?

Alicia100: Want to earn hundreds werking from house? Checkout vlog here.

PurplePeopleAvoider: I just want to be BFFs with Maggie. She seems like the kind of girl who would eat seven tacos and drink a pitcher of margaritas in one sitting and never get annoying.

24

24

“We look good,” Dean said approvingly as Maggie approached him in the gravel parking lot. Music of the country variety thumped behind him in the timber building.

“Damn good,” she agreed, doing a little twirl in her new jeans and curve-hugging button-down. “I can’t believe you went your entire life without those boots.”

“I can’t believe you went eight months without a damn curling iron,” he shot back, plucking at one of the waves she’d worked into her hair.

“The two of us out on the town, dressed to the nines—”

“Closer to the fives,” Dean insisted. “The nines do not involve denim.”

“Either way, this deserves documentation.” She handed him her phone. “You’ve got longer arms.”

He held her phone out at arm’s length. “Say one million subscribers!”

They both did, and he snapped the picture.

“You better use that beauty filter all over my face,” he threatened, looking at the final product.

She snatched her phone back. “Your crow’s-feet are distinguished.”

“Crow’s-feet?” he screeched. “I was talking about the gray hairs highlighted by that stupid streetlight. When did we get so elderly? Have I given you the best years of my life?”