Chapter 3
Poppy Hart could DIY herself out of any situation, but she couldn’t DIY herself out of this.
She sat in the study at Stark House, one of the most famous examples of modernist architecture in the ritzy Hollywood Hills, with her mouth agape. Aunt Opal sat innocently crocheting a pair of baby booties to donate to the local pediatric ward.
Her aunt neither crocheted nor liked babies, so something was up. A big something.
“I think I’m going to need you to repeat what you just said,” Poppy said. “Because it sounded a hell of a lot like you saying you wanted to sell this house.”
Opal’s fingers moved faster, as she looped and hooked her way into a guilty rhythm.
At seventy-five, Opal wore age the way other women wore couture—effortlessly and with intention. Her silver hair was swept into a polished twist, her makeup flawless but restrained, the kind that whispered wealth and confidence instead of shouting for attention.
Today she wore a tailored pantsuit in a rich, unapologetic color, sharp lines softened by silk at the collar and statement jewelry chosen with a practiced eye.
She looked less like a grandmother and more like a woman stepping onto a red carpet between interviews, elegant and formidable, radiating the unmistakable energy of someone who had lived well, loved hard, and still had plans.
“You can’t be serious. You’ve had this house since before I was born.
Stark House is a local landmark. It was built by Pierre Stark, the god of mid-century modern!
People come here to see the architecture—study it.
Be a part of the history! A part of history that you have been a guardian of for nearly sixty years. ”
A part of history that had not only saved Poppy at a time when she’d needed saving the most, but also a part of history that had opened her mind to all the beautiful memories trapped between the walls of a house begging to be preserved for generations to come.
The Stark House wasn’t just glass and steel to Poppy—it was a fishbowl in the sky where she learned to walk, argue, dream, and stand still without ever being alone. Its walls were windows, its ceilings clouds, its nights lit by the hum and glitter of Los Angeles below instead of a night-light.
Most kids had big backyards; she had cityscape.
Most kids built forts; she built worlds in her head because privacy wasn’t something you could hang on a floor-to-ceiling pane of glass.
The house was beautiful—breathtaking, magazine-famous—but to Poppy, it was a place that taught her early that people can see in, and they assume they know the whole story just because the walls are transparent.
All it needed was a little renovation to bring it back to its original rendering and it would be, once again, perfect.
Opal set the deformed bootie in her lap and reached across to place a supportive hand on Poppy’s knee. “Honey, it’s five bedrooms and three bathrooms. With just me living here, it’s too much for one person to keep up with. For me to keep up with. I offered it to you, but you refused to take it.”
“Because this is your house. Your retirement.”
“Exactly, and it’s time to move on and let another family take the reins.”
Poppy would love to take those reins. But this house, this location, the unprecedented history, lent itself to a mid-seven-figure listing price Poppy could never afford.
Unfortunately, her childhood dreams had a price tag, something she should have seen coming.
Twenty-seven-year-old Poppy knew better than to wish, but the little girl who had already experienced so much trauma and loss in her younger years had stupidly held out hope.
“I’m sorry. I know how much you love this home,” Aunt Opal said softly.
“No, this isn’t about me,” she said, reminding herself that she wasn’t the only one who would have a hard time saying goodbye.
“Where are you going to live? In one of those over-sixty-five communities?” She snorted at the idea.
But when Auntie didn’t snort back, she sobered quickly. “You can’t be serious?”
The look on her face said she was as serious as a life sentence.
Opal squared her shoulders. “They’re called retirement resorts now, and yes.”
Poppy was completely stunned. “They bedazzle for fun, have puzzle clubs, and socialize exclusively with the over-sixty set.”
Opal smiled. “I know.”
“You hate people over sixty.”
“But I love sex. And do you know how much hanky-panky is happening in that place? It’s like the ’60s all over again.”
“Gross.” Poppy covered her ears like her hands could block out the words it was too late to unhear. “There are dating apps for that.”
“I have exhausted all my potential matches.”
“You’re Opal Hart, world famous matchmaker to the stars! You’re responsible for over a thousand marriages. I’d think Cupid owes you one.”
“You know it doesn’t work that way. Like a psychic, I can’t read my own destiny.”
Apparently, she couldn’t read Poppy’s either. With over thirty Opal-approved blind dates under her belt, Poppy hadn’t been able to find a single, solid match. Not even a Mr. Right Now match.
Cupid had it out for the Hart women. If Poppy needed proof of that fact—which she didn’t—she only had to recall her horrendous date from last week.
How had she been duped? Again? Poppy had been told her date would be wearing a faded blue ball cap and there was only one of those in the bar. Him!
“It’s time for a new dating pool, my dear. Sunny Hills Retirement Community is just the fix I need in my life. Plus, it’s the perfect landing place for a traveling diva.”
Poppy looked around the house she’d spent the most memorable years of her childhood in and felt her gut churn painfully. “What will happen to this place? You know a developer will come in here, demolish it for the land and build a McMansion, ignoring all the history as if it was nothing.”
“First off, no one in their right mind would tear down a historically relevant house in this area. As for keeping the history, that’s where you come in.”
Poppy got a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach that she was once again being sucked into one of Aunt Opal’s schemes. “The last time you said that, I ended up on a date with a womanizer.”
“He’s a fixer-upper. Big difference. Isn’t that your superpower? To take something others would deem unworthy and make it shine?”
“That man is un-fixable. So, that’s a hard pass.”
“You’ve never passed on something that has a good story and great bones.”
“His bones might be great, but his story is a little too chaotic for my quiet life.”
“Well, your life is about to get a little bit louder.”
“What does that mean?”
“I want you to renovate Stark House and bring it back to its original rendering.”
Her heart leapt at the sheer possibility of polishing what was already a historically relevant piece of Hollywood history.
“You can’t afford to renovate this house,” Poppy said.
With the way her aunt burned through money, Opal could barely make her monthly utility payments. When her husband died, all she walked away with was the house and a mortgage. It took her thirty years to pay off the house. Why would she want to sell it now when it was all paid for?
“Now I can.”
“How?”
“A big production company wants to do a show about my house. A renovation show that captures all the character and history that goes along with it. And guess what the best part is?”
“What?”
“I’ve convinced them that your show, Facelifts to Flips, is the perfect platform.”
That had Poppy stopping dead in her tracks. “They want to film my show?”
“And not for YouTube, like you do. It will be a feature on Home and Hearth Network.”
That channel was a giant in the streaming space. Poppy suddenly resented the many, many hours she’d spent on Home and Hearth, watching her favorite British cooking competition.
“There will be a big crew and a budget to go with it,” Opal continued.
“They’ll pay for all the renovations, and the exposure alone will double the value of this place.
It will be like Big Brother, airing the same week it films. Just think of how many new subscribers you’ll get on your YouTube channel. ”
“Big Brother, huh?”
It would also make any attempt Poppy had at making an offer to purchase Stark House look like Monopoly money. The exposure alone would add nines to the price tag.
“I can finally take that Alaskan cruise I’ve always dreamed of. Go to Florence and visit where my parents were born.” She took Poppy’s hand. “I know this place has a special spot in your heart, but if you’re not interested, then I think it’s time to let another family make memories here.”
Poppy thought back on her own memories of family.
Like when she learned her dad wasn’t interested in being her dad anymore.
After a painful scandal blew through her hometown—and home—her parents had split.
Even at a young age Poppy understood why some parents weren’t meant to be together.
What she hadn’t understood was why her dad had left her, too.
After her dad bailed, Poppy and her mom had moved into Opal’s. Then when her mom died in a car crash when Poppy was only ten, Opal was there for her, stepping in like a surrogate mother.
“Just think of how many new viewers you’ll gain. I bet you reach your millionth subscriber by the end of the show.”
“Maybe.” And that was a dream Poppy had had ever since she started her channel showcasing her flips and furniture restoration.
But this house? She’d dreamed of restoring it.
And in front of millions of viewers? Doing her show her way was one thing.
Doing it on a major streaming platform meant she’d have no control over the outcome.
After a chaotic childhood filled with daily unknowns, Poppy didn’t just like control—she craved it.
“What about Kiki?” she asked, referring to her trusted sidekick. For the past six years, they had been a two-woman team taking on the crazy-making world of filming and flipping homes. She couldn’t do it without her demolition goddess, contractor, and all-around hype-girl.
“All taken care of. She’ll be right by your side as usual.”
“She’s my old faithful. I can’t bump her down to laborer. If Kiki isn’t a serious part of the show, then the deal is off.”
Aunt Opal beamed with pride at Poppy’s die-hard loyalty. “I will make sure that the producers know that.”
“What if the producers override me on historically significant things and want to change them?”
“It’s in the contract that you have final say over the construction.”
Immediately the wall between the kitchen and living area that her aunt put up in the eighties came to mind.
It wasn’t original to the house and blocked the natural flow of the main living quarters.
Plus, it was an eyesore. Poppy had been wanting to demo that wall for years, but there hadn’t been the capital to do so.
And don’t get her started on the 1990s powder blue linoleum and matching toilet in the guest bathroom.
“What are you not telling me?” Poppy asked. Because when it came to her auntie, there was always an ulterior motive.
“The producers have final say over… um…,” her aunt said in a tone that had Poppy’s gut sounding the alarm, “matters having to do with the storyline of the show.”
“Auntie, only half the show is the remodel. The other half—arguably the important half—is the details and decisions I make while filming and editing the show. Camera angles, the order of scenes needed to tell the best story, things like that.”
Camera angles, monologuing to her audience, and making the house’s character the spotlight of the show—it had all been critical to her success.
“You’ll have creative input.”
“Input but not control.”
Poppy thrived on control. Growing up with a clinically depressed, alcoholic mother made Poppy view control as the anchor in any storm—the only way to weather the unpredictable.
Then there was the crash.
Even thinking about the split-second decision that took her mom’s life made Poppy’s old insecurities rear their ugly heads.
She could still remember the grinding of the tires on asphalt, the sound of metal scraping metal, the feel of the car as it rolled over and over.
It was the sensation of control being ripped not just from her, but the whole world.
More than the sounds or the sensations or the smells—god, the smells—Poppy was haunted by the helplessness she felt in those moments.
She’d spent an excruciating and helpless hour in the car while the first responders pried the doors open.
Along with the skin on her right arm, her heart had been singed, her outlook on life forever altered. In that moment, she promised herself that she would always be in control of every aspect of her life. It was crucial to her survival.
“I’ll only do it if I have your blessing,” Opal said.
What was Poppy supposed to say to that? How was she supposed to tell her aunt that she couldn’t sell her own home and travel the world the way she wanted to?
Refurbished, this place would bring mid-seven figures.
That was enough money to live a dozen lives.
The selfish part of Poppy wanted to say no.
But the rational part, the part of her who lived to please others said, “Maybe it is time to let another family enjoy the magic.”
Because that’s what this place was…
Magic.