Chapter 2
Tessa
Two Weeks Later
By “gift,” Grandma Ann meant the dilapidated ranch house staring me down, taunting me like some sort of birthday prank.
My sisters and I are the proud owners, according to Grandma Ann, who presented the current girls’ weekend like it’s the getaway of our dreams. Try waking nightmares.
The sagging, dusty, graying stucco home sits in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by farms and fields, growing who knows what? The nearest town of Willow Springs has more horses than cars.
My sisters and I don’t do girls’ weekends together. Even though we grew up in the same house and share the same dark wavy hair, that’s where our similarities and patience for each other end.
“Really? This is all ours?” Hannah’s sarcasm is as no-nonsense as her long brown bob and peach lipstick. She’s the oldest and calls it like she sees it, holding up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. Or, rather, to protect her eyes from the steaming pile of crap masquerading as a vacation home.
The blue-painted trim peels off in generous strips. What was probably once white clapboard siding is now a worn gray, flecked with something that looks like mold. I reach out and flick a chunk of paint away, and a piece of wood comes with it, speckled with termite holes.
“Don’t touch it,” cautions Hannah, always responsible. “It could be toxic.”
Our three younger sisters stand back like frightened baby deer, letting Hannah and me hack through the cobwebs and risk being consumed by spiders.
I brush my hand on my pants, continuing to gaze at the sprawling ranch house, with its broken railings, splintering front porch, and shutters hanging off their rusted hinges at awkward angles.
There’s a visible hole in the roof over the carport and so much dirty peeling paint that I can’t tell what color the house is supposed to be.
“Grandma Ann wasn’t kidding when she said the place needs some TLC,” Hannah says. “If TLC stands for Take a Wrecking Ball to the Place.”
“What is it that people say? The road to hell is paved with good intentions? I’m scared for where she’s headed,” I admit.
When Grandma Ann handed me the keys to Loveland Ranch two weeks ago, she described it as a joy-filled place for our future families. “I’ll have Mel straighten it up,” she’d said. “Mel” is Melvin Budgewack, a family friend who lives in Santa Ynez, one town over. I don’t think Mel got the memo.
“Should we go in?” I ask. Even the keychain is rusty, but the single key manages to turn in the lock.
Barely.
The door creaks open, and a cloud of dust rolls out like Pigpen has been held hostage for the past decade. I pause, listening for signs that a pack of wild dogs or something else may have taken up residence inside, but there’s only the grimy yawn of silence.
I feel around on the wall for a light switch, and a dim overhead light chugs slowly to life. As I carefully step inside, the floors groan and creak like they’re in pain. Join the club.
We make footprints in the dust as we move through the small entryway to a living room where I vaguely remember jumping on couches and playing board games with our grandparents long past our bedtimes.
“Wowza,” my middle sister Hazel says, nudging a knee-high pile of dusty books that are stacked next to more books and a broken lampshade against one wall.
“How did they let this happen?” She smooths her tight ponytail and avoids standing too close to any piece of dusty furniture.
Hazel doesn’t do “messy.” She does medical experiments that will someday cure a disease. She does dishes before they’re dirty.
She does not do untended ranch houses with cobwebs hanging from every chandelier and ceiling beam.
“They’re eighty-something. I guess the house aged along with them,” I say.
“Hotel, anyone? Bet we can land someplace in time for happy hour,” Dylan says. She’s the only one of us wearing a miniskirt and full makeup, always ready to have fun.
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Right on brand for Callie, the youngest. My sisters are as predictable as they are different. It’s partly how we survived each other: five girls with a seven-year age span between Hannah and Callie.
We didn’t compete in the same sports or pursue similar activities. We shared bedrooms but not interests, which probably made our parents nuts as they shuttled us from dance recitals to soccer practice to math competitions.
I chased overachieving Hannah like a puppy, trying to earn my own medals and ribbons—and our parents’ attention. I mostly read books and tried to please my teachers. And I got so good at memorizing my three younger siblings’ schedules that my parents jokingly called me their assistant.
Right up until September of 2001, when they were both in New York City for meetings, each in separate towers of the World Trade Center, when the planes hit.
From then on, our grandparents stepped in to raise us, and I quickly promoted myself from assistant to managing director of the whole freakin’ show. But that didn’t include running a ranch. That was always my grandparents’ domain.
If running it is the same as letting it fester and decay.
Our grandparents are currently somewhere along the coast of Mexico on a cruise, which is how they’ve spent their retirement years after we all graduated from college.
It’s hard to believe anyone could neglect a place this badly without a neighbor calling the Department of Sanitation.
The window coverings are broken, letting in enough of the sun’s crooked rays to illuminate the dust particles in the air and the layer of grime on what was once a polished wood floor.
The furniture is covered in sheets that are themselves dust-covered, and most of the light bulbs have long since burned out. We haven’t ventured beyond the living room because we’re all a little scared.
I wonder why Grandma Ann never tasked any of us with checking on the place, and I feel guilty for not asking about it, especially after everything our grandparents did for us.
“I know. I told ’em the place needed work, but they wouldn’t listen,” intones a deep male voice.
Mel Budgewack steps through the entryway and joins the conversation like he’s been here all along.
His white beard makes him look like Santa.
He’s been a part of our lives for as long as I can remember, regularly attending so many of our holiday dinners and family events that I sometimes forgot he had his own family—a wife and two sons.
No grandkids. Maybe that’s why he likes our sisterly chaos so much.
“Meantime, I’ve been keeping an eye on things. ”
“Seems like he should visit an eye doctor,” Hazel mutters.
“Careful where you step,” Mel says. “Mice have been known to set up shop in drawers. In fact, we once found a whole family living in the grand piano, beds made of stuffing from one of the sofas—”
I hold up a hand to halt the colorful reminiscence. I can tell from Hazel’s face that she’s an inch away from bolting out the door.
“Mice?” She recoils from the books and plasters herself against a wall.
Mel waves a hand dismissively. “Only difference between a mouse and a puppy is bad PR. They just want a warm place to sleep, same as you and me.”
“So what does that mean for us? What are we supposed to do here?” I don’t have time to kick around piles of books or tiptoe around the dusty floors for fear of scaring the mice. I want to prepare for what’s next.
Mel expels a laugh from deep in his rounded gut and smooths the gray wisps of hair at his temples. “Bottom line, eh, Tessa? Just gimme the bottom line.”
Having zero interest in confirming or denying his perception of me, I cross my arms and offer him a steady stare.
Mel’s not afraid of me or anyone else, which is probably what’s allowed him to put up with my quirky grandparents for so many years. “I assume you read the trust document from cover to cover. Maybe you can tell me what it means.”
“Well, yes. It’s ours,” I confirm. “It’s fully paid for, except taxes and maintenance.”
“Maintenance…” Hazel mutters.
Callie bounces on her toes as though inheriting this mess is a good thing. “What, aren’t you guys excited? This place has such potential. It could be fixed up as an AirBnB or rented for destination weddings.”
Maybe it’s Callie’s job as an event planner that gives her a vision of potential beauty in any place she visits, imagining a makeover with the right lighting and decor. As she looks from one of us to the other, she seems to sense our lack of interest and frowns.
Leaning against the arm of a chair, I jolt away when a cobweb tickles my leg. The shadows in the dimly lit room look like animals or worse, corpses. I shudder.
Maybe Callie’s ambitious assessment is a good thing. Maybe fixing it up will give my sisters a common purpose.
I roll my eyes at myself. Here I am, always wanting my sisters to get along, always checking on everyone, making sure they’re drinking enough water and taking their multivitamins. A familiar pit forms in my stomach as I anticipate a new conflict I’ll need to referee.
Hazel already has her phone open, and she snaps pictures of the room from various angles and stabs the glass of her phone furiously.
“Don’t break the glass, honey.” Dylan, who’s never gotten along with Hazel, sighs and peers at Hazel’s phone. “You’re querying real estate brokers?”
Hazel nods without looking up. “You’re welcome.”
Dylan snatches the phone from her hand. “Wait, are you already trying to sell this place?”
“Hells yeah.” Hazel takes the phone back and taps it with a flourish. The whooshing sound of a sent message fills the hollow room. “Again, you’re welcome.”
A lump forms in my throat at the thought of losing this place forever, even if I have no idea what to do with it in its run-down state.
“Maybe stop congratulating yourself for a minute and ask the rest of us if that’s what we even want to do.” Dylan’s voice has an edge I rarely hear, and it takes me from my reverie about bugs crawling up my leg.
All eyes shoot to Dylan. “As opposed to what?” Hazel asks. She puts her hands on her hips like Wonder Woman, and in the beam of light, she looks like she might levitate off the floor.
Dylan’s tone softens, but she takes a step closer to Hazel, challenging her. “We could renovate it, make it our vacation home, turn it into a bed-and-breakfast like Callie said, any number of ideas. I’m pretty sure that selling it now with all the cobwebs and dust won’t get us top dollar.”
Hazel takes a step closer to Dylan, something they’ve been doing their entire lives.
When they were younger, it usually ended in hair-pulling or slapping.
Now, it’s more likely to end in a shouting match.
They’re the closest in age, and Dylan’s drama queen does not see eye to eye with the control freak in Hazel.
“Hey, guys. Relax. We don’t have to fight over this,” I say.
Dylan looks charged up enough to throw a punch.
She flips her long hair over her shoulder like it’s a threat.
Hazel adjusts her glasses up and tosses up her hands.
“Fine, nothing has to be decided today. I was just trying to take the lead on getting us out of this mess.”
“I almost can’t take all the maturity,” Callie mutters.
Mel has been watching our sisterly dynamic like it’s the best entertainment he’s seen in years. “Anything you can tell us beyond what’s in the documents?” I ask.
He taps a finger against his lip and looks at the ceiling. I follow his gaze and notice a massive, curving crack that runs the length of the room. This place really is a shithole.
“Just that despite the disrepair, your grandparents loved the place. They bought it for a steal back in the day and had visions of what it could be. A working ranch with horses and fruit orchards. They planned to raise chickens and sell eggs. It’s just…
” He lets out a long sigh. “When they lost your parents, it derailed them. They didn’t get up here as much as they planned.
And in the last dozen years, it’s mostly sat vacant. ”
“How did we not know this?” Hannah asks, delicately tucking a curtain behind a covered armchair to let in more light. For me, that’s all it takes to see the place in, well, a different light.
Maybe Dylan is right. Maybe it could be something.
“I think we should table the discussion of what to do until we’ve seen the whole place,” Callie says. “Besides, this is Tessa’s birthday weekend. We have some celebrating to do.”
“She’s right—this place isn’t going anywhere. I say we pick a place for dinner, have some cocktails, and talk about this in the morning,” Hannah agrees.
Getting the five of us to agree on a departure time today took three video calls, a shared calendar, and endless texts.
I didn’t even bother polling the group on choice of food tonight because five sisters would have given me five different types of cuisine.
If we get alcohol involved, there’s no telling how this night will unfold.
“We could drive back to LA and forget about dinner,” I offer.
“It’s your birthday. We’re having dinner.” Hazel sounds definitive, as though we always celebrate birthdays together, but I can’t remember the last time we did. Then she squints in confusion. “But shouldn’t we find a hotel? It’s not like we’re gonna be able to stay here.”
Callie tosses her head back and laughs, the blond highlights catching the light. “Come on, Haze, we’ll ply you with enough drinks that you’ll want to sleep on that sofa.” She pats the sheet atop the couch, setting free a small cloud of dust.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be that drunk.” Hazel sulks. I tug her close and whisper that I made a hotel reservation just in case. The tension in her shoulders releases.
Yes, I know my sisters that well. Their happiness is my responsibility, after all.
“Let’s get her to dinner before she sees the rest of the house,” Dylan whispers to me.
I nod, hoping that this ramshackle disaster isn’t an omen for my birthday.