Chapter 46
— Chapter 46 —
I call the other real estate agency in town, the one that doesn’t sponsor the Easter egg hunt, or 5K Turkey Trot, or Holiday Harvest craft fair. Lee Skagway Realty sends out laser jet postcards, not glossy trifold mailers, and Lee doesn’t build houses; he only sells them. I switch shifts at The Aster and schedule the appointment on a day when Aubrey has work. There’s no point in upsetting her before I understand what’s possible.
If Lee knows who I am, he doesn’t let on, but I remember him. He played Fred Graham in the SHS production of Kiss Me, Kate when Steena was first-chair clarinet in the pit orchestra. At seventeen, his smile already looked like it belonged to a famous person, and we all thought he was going to be a movie star like Michael J. Fox, or at least the lead in a Broadway play. Now he still has the same big-cheeked, toothy grin, but he looks like a tired caricature drawing of the kid he used to be. I wonder if the essence of what made him adorable at seventeen was that he hadn’t grown into himself yet—if we’re wired to like the possibility of people more than who they will eventually become.
“The market is a little better than it was,” Lee says as we walk through the house. “But it’s not good by any stretch.”
Aubrey and I have put so much work into repairs, but everything still looks old and over-used. Lee knows it’s a house I inherited, so I try not to feel like I’m showing him a reflection of myself. I wouldn’t have him here at all if I weren’t desperate. I wouldn’t lie to Aubrey either.
“What if I don’t care about getting a good offer?” I ask.
Lee winces. “That’s not what a realtor wants to hear. And right now, it’s not just that people are nervous about throwing their life savings into real estate. Banks are done handing out easy money, and a bargain makes no difference if potential buyers can’t get a mortgage.” He walks through the kitchen, looking under the sink, giving the windowsill a tug. “Even if you put this on the market as an absolute steal, I think it would take a while to sell. And buyers get suspicious of houses that linger, so we have to be strategic.”
I don’t tell him that my strategy was to get this house gone before the tax bill is due.
“The only sales I’m making these days are to people with a lot of money who are looking for a lot of house.” He pulls a pen flashlight from the pocket of his dress pants and shines it up the range head over the stove. “Yours ain’t it, unfortunately.”
I hadn’t thought about how it’s probably bad for business for a realtor to list a house too low. It would be a blemish on his sales record, a drag on property values in the neighborhood. Poor Lee is already out there trying to stay afloat in the town dominated by Wells Realty and Development.
“It isn’t all bad news. The market always turns around.” He flashes a practiced smile, like he’s giving me a motivational speech. “Tell you what. You get this house ready to go, and in six months, maybe a year, when the tide turns, I’ll get you an excellent offer.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying not to look too disappointed. The storm door squeals as it closes behind us, and I notice for the first time that the screen is torn in two places.
“Let me know if anything comes up or you have any questions,” Lee says, handing me his card.
“How do I get this house ready?” I ask.
His smile slips for a moment, and I realize he didn’t mean now. It was just a pleasantry. He’s probably eager to move on to the next thing and I don’t blame him. But he brightens again and says, “Well, the first step will cost you a little bit. We’ll get an inspector out to tell us everything that’s wrong with the house, and that’ll give us our to do list.”
I lean against the wall, defeated. I can’t believe that in my search for salvation, I’ve unearthed another expense.
Lee shifts gears instantly. “Or we can walk through the obvious items right now to get you started. You may not want to invest in every repair, but even a big problem is less overwhelming to a buyer if it’s not accompanied by a series of smaller ones. I can tell you right off the bat, cleaning up this yard will make a difference. Definitely hit that garden in back. Pull weeds, prune perennials. Let’s get this porch railing painted. Clean up the…,” he points to the bird skulls around the strawberry pot, “… debris. New roof is a big one, if you can swing it. That’s the core of what a house is, right? Solid roof over your head. Definitely re-grout the stonework out here, get those loose slabs firmed up, give it a good power wash, fill the driveway cracks as best you can…”
He keeps going but my head is swimming. I’m missing words, attempting calculations. I don’t know what a can of paint for the railing will cost. Is masonry grout expensive? Is it different from grout for indoor tiles? The driveway is more crack than asphalt, so how do I fill it?
Lee says something about the septic tank.
“I’m sorry. Can you go back?” I feel like I’m going to cry, because even if he says it again, I’m not sure the words will make sense.
“I’ll do you one better and give you a checklist,” he says, pulling a notepad from his bag.
My relief is short-lived as I watch him write each repair on the form, two to a line, filling up one page, then another, and another.
“Is it a lost cause?” I sit on the steps, feeling the flagstone shift beneath me. “It’s a lost cause, isn’t it?” I’m so close to unraveling and I know he can tell.
“No, no,” Lee says, sitting next to me. “I’m sure you’ll be able to sell it eventually.” He starts to lean against the railing but thinks better of it. Brushes rust off his shoulder. “One thing you’ve got going for you is this house was built before the new construction boom, so you’re not dealing with the plague of Tecket pipes, or recalled breaker boxes, or that drywall that corrodes copper.”
I know his intention is to comfort me, but I’d only been thinking of disrepair, not problems that may have been brewing from the start. “Are you sure? The back part of the house isn’t original. They built it in the late seventies.”
Lee laughs. “Yes. I know. Those glass block windows are definitely not original.”
His amusement hits like an insult and I’m surprised. I hate this stupid patchwork house, but now I feel defensive about it.
“Don’t worry. I checked,” Lee says, kindly. “Your breaker box isn’t a Zinlok. Those have bright green trip switches. Yours are gray. And Daqin-Gunter drywall was a problem in the nineties before the recall. I always check, regardless of year, because I still find it when I shouldn’t. But that little cubby where your water softener lives isn’t fully finished, so I could see the back of the drywall. The bad stuff has a blue stamp. Yours doesn’t. You’re good. You can do this, Freya. Don’t give up. Keep me updated. Get the work done. And when the market swings in our favor, I’ll come back and beg you for this listing, okay?” It doesn’t even feel like he’s giving a motivational speech anymore. He’s earnestly sharing whatever hope he can scrounge for me.
“Thank you,” I say.
Lee stands and offers his hand to pull me up. “I appreciate you coming to me, even if I can’t help you right now. I know you could have kept this all in the family.” He winks. “I’ll take good care of you. I promise.”