Chapter 4
Tank
Perhaps cake for my loft was not quite a perfect trade.
This is what I realize when I step inside the old farmhouse just outside of Sheet Cake proper that I purchased a few months ago.
As-is. No inspection. Sight unseen before purchase because the listing said the occupants were not to be disturbed.
I did drive by once, but the house is set back from the road.
Private, I remember thinking. A good thing.
Now, I realize that private also means the actual state of the place was hidden. There were a handful of pictures with the listing, which, as it turns out now that I’m here seeing the real thing, were incredibly outdated. Or heavily photoshopped.
I remember Thayden advising against it before I signed the papers. “At least do a walkthrough,” he said. “Hire an inspector to know what as-is means in a specific and detailed sense. It might also be good to do a little digging and make sure the current tenants aren’t planning to squat.”
Feeling naively overconfident, overly optimistic, and somewhat mulish about this purchase, I told him it would all work out.
“So, we’re buying a house based on vibes, then,” Thayden said, looking at once disapproving and like he couldn’t wait to see how this would turn out. “Cool, cool, cool.”
But I was charmed by the idea of the 1930s fixer-upper on four acres, just up the road from where Collin’s sports facility will be. I thought it would be a fun project when things slowed down. Great architecture, but probably in need of new everything. I could work with that.
I like my loft in town, like being right in the middle of things.
It’s great for now. But it never felt like my next home—more like a temporary landing place.
This property is close to town but also far enough out that it’s quiet.
No road sounds. Few other houses in sight.
And the kind of view looking down over a small pond that I imagined enjoying for years to come from the wraparound porch.
Sadly, the porch is missing more floorboards than it has and the pond is more of a mud puddle.
But the outside of the house still looks better than the inside.
I’m realizing that I might have romanticized the idea of living in a farm house.
In reality, it’s more farm cottage than it is farm house.
Maybe … a farm shack.
“Huh,” Wolf says, walking in behind me, stepping carefully over a missing floorboard. “This is your fixer-upper? No offense but it looks a little more like a tearer-downer.”
He’s not wrong.
He’s also not supposed to be here and is nosy as all get-out.
According to what he told me when he pulled up behind my truck on the gravel driveway, Wolf spotted me while he was driving around.
He’d been putting up campaign posters and yard signs around town and followed me to say hi and to ask if I wanted a yard sign.
Then, of course, he wanted to know what I’m doing out this way, and he’s now followed me into the house itself.
“Did you have the place inspected?” Wolf asks. “Because if so, you might have a lawsuit on your hands.”
“I did not,” I admit, imagining the smug look Thayden will wear when I tell him that the vibes I had when purchasing were clearly lying vibes. “This was an as-is kind of purchase.”
Wolf reaches out, touching a strip of floral wallpaper, which peels right off the wall. “Ah. That makes more sense. Well, on the bright side …” Trailing off, he glances around as though trying to locate any possible hint of a bright side before closing his mouth and tugging at his mustache.
He doesn’t need to finish. There is no bright side. This place is just shy of condemned. And despite my assurances to Rose earlier when she protested about kicking me out of my own loft, it definitely isn’t habitable.
What “tenants” were possibly living here?
“The property is great,” Wolf says, nodding as though to reassure himself. “You just might have to put in more money than it’s worth if you really want to restore and renovate the house rather than demolish it.”
He’s right. And though the cost doesn’t scare me, the amount of time and work does.
It’s way more ambitious than what I had in mind, which was more like what Pat and Lindy did to her place.
They added on to her house in addition to fixing it up, so I actually thought this would be a smaller project. Ha.
I have historically been prudent about my investments.
It’s why I’m still in a good financial position years after I retired from football.
Unlike so many of my teammates, I didn’t squander my signing bonus or blow my salary on shiny toys or partying.
I donated a large portion every year to various charities.
Because I believe in both good stewardship with what you’ve been given and tax write-offs.
I chose to live far below my means. And I invested well, both in stocks and in real estate.
Even buying the town of Sheet Cake, something all my children told me was ridiculous, looks as though it will pay off handsomely.
Not yet, but Thayden showed me some projections that surprised even him.
With almost every business and loft along Main Street being leased now, and the town starting to buzz with life again, it’s looking good.
Which I guess means I’m about due for a stinker.
Thankfully, this place was a steal. Or maybe, I think, glancing toward the kitchen at the back of the house just as a bird flies through a broken window, maybe I’m the one who got robbed.
“The house does have good bones,” Wolf says.
“And that’s about all it’s got.”
“Not true,” he says with a smile. “You’ve got birds.”
I laugh, which scares the bird in question right back out the broken kitchen window. “I guess you’ve got a point. That’s why I paid the big bucks—for the birds.”
Maybe the birds were the tenants mentioned in the listing. Because I cannot imagine any person living inside this place anytime recently. Not even teenaged vandals have taken to graffiting the walls. I wouldn’t be surprised if Wolf and I are the first people to grace the doors in years.
“I really do think you could make something of this place.” Wolf pauses, glancing around with assessing eyes.
Neither of us have moved any further into the house, likely because we both have the good sense that it may not be structurally sound.
“Or you could raze it to the ground and build something amazing on the land. Either way, it’s got potential.
But not for tonight. So, what’s the backup plan for where you’re staying while the baker is in your place? ”
“This was the backup plan.”
Wolf offers me a pitying look. “Guess this is one of those times you can be glad you’ve got so many kids. Surely one of them has an extra bedroom or two.”
Considering how many different times my children have moved back in with me—temporarily or more long term—it would be fair turnabout for me to show up on Pat’s porch, at Collin’s or even James’s loft, which is conveniently located on Main Street.
But Pat has a new baby, James is still very much in the honeymoon period with Winnie, and Collin has a one-bedroom place, which would leave me on the couch.
And more often than not, when I’ve stopped by in the last few months, Collin and Molly have been making out on that couch. No, thanks!
Without the Austin house, I’m also without a lot of options. Perhaps I should have given a little more thought before telling Rose she could stay in my loft. It just sort of … happened.
Call me a sucker, but I am not a man who walks away from a damsel in distress.
Especially when the source of the distress is me.
In a roundabout way, I guess. I didn’t break the part my HVAC guy said needed to be replaced.
But I consider Rose to be under the umbrella of my care as one of my tenants.
If something’s wrong with not just her bakery but her place, I’m going to handle it.
I don’t just want the businesses in Sheet Cake to thrive so that my risky bet on a small town will be profitable. I care about the town. And I care about them as people. Maybe more than I should.
I’ve offered up a place before to tenants and even potential tenants. It’s not even the first time I’ve let someone stay in my place. Molly lived there for a few weeks when she first came to Sheet Cake.
But this time with Rose is different. I’m not exactly sure why.
Maybe it’s the way talking to her on my couch felt so comfortable, so normal. Like it was something we’ve done a million times before, not like it was the first deep conversation we’ve had. I didn’t intend to get into all that with Rose. Late spouses aren’t quite the pinnacle of good conversation.
Honestly, it was the first time in years I’ve talked to anyone about Michelle, and one of the few times that I’ve spoken about her death at all outside of a grief therapy group I briefly attended years ago. And this was nothing like that.
It was refreshing to speak about my wife in a casual setting with someone who had a shared understanding, a shared experience, a shared grief.
Not circled up in folding chairs with a group of strangers in a community center basement that smelled like burnt coffee and, inexplicably, Fruit Loops.
How a room can smell consistently like one specific brand of cereal, I don’t know, but I saw nary a hint of a candle, air freshener, or even Fruit Loops themselves.