The Homewreckers(5)
Nothing about Gertrude fazed her. Not even the pigeons that had taken up residence in the attic or the petrified possum carcass she found under a rotted kitchen cupboard gave Hattie pause.
It wasn’t just money and sweat equity Hattie had invested in Gertrude. She’d poured her heart into this house. But now, damn it, she was seeing it through the eyes of the ballsy television guy.
The realization dawned on her suddenly, like a cold hand gripping her throat. She’d broken Tug Kavanaugh’s first commandment of real estate investing, the one he’d preached to her since she’d scraped up the down payment for her first flip. “A house is just a bunch of lumber and nails, Hattie. It’s just a thing. Never fall in love with anything that can’t love you back.”
She’d had one great love in her life, and lost it in the blink of an eye. When would she learn? Tug was right, she knew. No amount of love, creativity, or good vibes was going to turn Gertrude into the peacock she’d envisioned. Her shoulders slumped as she thumbed through the contacts on her phone.
She found the plumber’s number, tapped it, and waited. The phone rang once, twice, three times. He picked up after the fourth ring.
“Yeah?” He was still pissed.
“Ronnie? Look, I’m sorry. You were right, but I had to see it with my own eyes. All that pipe under the house is shot. What’s it gonna cost to replace everything?”
“Minimum?” The number he quoted was way north of what Hattie’s gut told her. “Hattie? You there?”
“I’m here,” she said grimly. “Never mind.”
* * *
Tug’s footsteps echoed through the high-ceilinged rooms. It was early evening, and a slight breeze was blowing through the open windows. Hattie trailed after him, resolute in her determination to bite the bullet.
He was muttering numbers as he walked, shaking his head, rolling his eyes. When he got to the kitchen he stared down at the jagged hole in the floor before looking up at his daughter-in-law.
“There’s a couple of guys I met at the lumberyard last month. They’re investors. Buying up houses in Midtown. We got to talking while I was waiting for my stuff to get loaded. I told the younger one about this house. He said he’d been watching our progress. Likes this street. Thinks it’s got great potential. He gave me his card. Name’s Keith. Said if we were interested in selling…”
“We are.” Hattie bit off the words.
“They’re paying wholesale. Not retail. We’ll lose a bunch of money on this one. You know that, honey, right?”
She nodded, unable to speak.
Tug went on. “You’re doing the right thing. It hurts, I know, but hell, we all make mistakes. It’s not the end of the world.”
Hattie swallowed hard. “What about the bank?”
He patted her shoulder. “I’ll talk to the bank. We’ve done business with those SOBs for nearly forty years. They’ve never lost money on me before. It’ll be okay.”
Hattie touched his hand. Tug’s skin was tough, wrinkled, crisscrossed with scabs and scars. “I’m sorry, Tug. You tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen.”
“Don’t be sorry, little girl,” he said, his voice gruff. “Be smart. Take what you’ve learned from this and walk away, knowing you did your best, but this time, it just wasn’t enough.”
3
And the Bike You Rode in On
Mo went back to the hotel, showered and changed clothes, then climbed back on the bike to continue his tour of the historic district. But he couldn’t manage to get Hattie Kavanaugh off his mind.
Truthfully, he’d noticed her as soon as he sat down at the café table next to hers earlier that morning. In her early thirties, he guessed, and she had that fresh-faced girl-next-door thing going on, her hair in a careless ponytail. Slender, but curvy in the right places.
Her personality at the house was confrontational, obnoxious even. He liked that she wasn’t intimidated by having a strange man suddenly fall on top of her. Liked that she didn’t back down easily. Even in mud-caked work boots, grimy coveralls, with her head wrapped in a bandana, this woman had presence. And with her hazel eyes, and full lips, the upper one of which bore a slight scar, he could already tell the camera would love her. The hair would need to be blonder, that was a given.
* * *
By four that afternoon, Mo was sweat-soaked and exhausted. The skies were darkening, and the air so heavy with humidity you could almost wring it out.
But for reasons he couldn’t explain, he found himself pedaling past the Tattnall Street house again. The only vehicle present was the Kavanaugh & Son pickup, which was still parked at the curb. He spied the girl he’d met earlier, sitting on the porch steps, holding her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
A for-sale-by-owner sign had been planted in the grassless yard. This was new.
He approached slowly. A few yards from the porch, he gave a discreet cough.
The girl raised her head. Her face was red and tear-streaked. She’d stripped off the coveralls and was dressed in the same pair of faded jeans and light blue tank top she’d worn earlier that morning at the café.
“What?”
“Hey,” Mo said. “So? You’re selling the house now? Before you finish it?”