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“Exactly. I can’t afford to go higher than the asking price.” She knows every penny over that is a penny I can’t spend on the reno.
She rubs her forehead. “The best move here is to counter with asking price but remove all contingencies. It’ll increase your remodeling costs, but at least you can budget those out over time without adding anything to your monthly mortgage.”
I don’t love the solution, but I hate the idea of losing the house even more. Curse whoever made the counteroffer. “Let me think about it.”
“All right. I’ll get dinner started.”
I head up to drop my purse and change clothes. My place is a very large room or a very small apartment, depending on your perspective.
Bill built it one summer with the help of Tabitha and Grace. It has a closet-sized bathroom with a skinny shower, a kitchenette with a cooktop but no oven, and a small bedroom. He’d hoped having their own place might entice one or both of them to stay in town and go to a local college.
But one of the schools is a military institute, which I can’t imagine either sister in, and the other is Jefferson, a very exclusive—and expensive—liberal arts college. They’d both chosen cheaper but prestigious state schools, Grace at Virginia Tech and Tabitha at UVA.
Evie and I are outgrowing this tiny place, and I’m angry that someone else is bidding on the house meant for us. I shouldn’t take it personally, but it’s hard not to, given how badly I want it. I’d rather have a person to blame than believe the universe is conspiring against me.
I push it out of my mind and change into joggers and a long-sleeved Albemarle High T-shirt I stole from Noah, then settle down to rethink my renovation plan now that I have to raise my offer by five thousand dollars. I’ll basically have to wait a year or two to replace some of the older appliances, but I can still take care of the most important stuff.
Is it worth it? I’m probably paying more than I should at this price. But I had felt so sure when I stood in front of it yesterday. Maybe I need to check and see if that was a fluke or a trustworthy instinct.
“Lisa?” I call as I go downstairs. “Would you mind if Evie hangs out for a bit? I’m going to walk to 341.” I give her the house number so Evie doesn’t hear “Orchard” and beg to come. I don’t want her heart getting any more set on this house if it’s not meant to be ours.
“Sure.” Lisa comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands against her apron. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour. That enough time?”
“More than enough, thanks.”
I head to Orchard at a light jog. A couple minutes later, I’m standing in front of the cottage again, thinking. It’s dark and hard to make out much, but its faults and potential are all etched into my mind anyway.
Just like yesterday, standing here feels right. Except yesterday, I had a chance of making my plans a reality, and now it’s on the verge of slipping away.
Is it worth losing a chunk of my renovation budget to own it? I squint at the windows with damaged and missing shutters. The inside is old. It’s musty and dusty. I don’t think it was ever updated by the owner. It’s going to take so much work.
But the bones are so good.
And I’ve never been afraid of hard work.
I bite my lip, thinking, trying to make sure what I want so badly isn’t crowding out logic. But I think about Cary Grant inMr. Blandings Builds His Dream House,the first movie ever made about a home renovation. And I remember when Cary Grant as Mr. Blandings finally makes his dream home a reality. Sure, there are minor and major disasters along the way. And yes, most of the laughs come at his expense. But in the end, Mr. Blandings gets his house, and it’s everything.
I’m about to start up the path to the porch when the scuff of shoes on concrete draws my attention to the house next door, Mr. Brown’s house. He’s walking toward me in a pair of loafers, and it’s too dark to tell what color his clothes are, but I’m betting he’s got on a V-neck sweater and chinos.
“Back again?” His voice is cool.
“Sure. I made an offer on it. Exciting, isn’t it?” I know full well that if he finds this at all exciting, it’s not the good kind of excitement.
“I suppose so. I feel more impatient waiting to hear about my counteroffer.”
I go still and stare at him. There’s a streetlamp near us, but trees filter the light and I can’t read his expression. “I’m bidding against you?”
He shrugs. “If you’re the only other offer, then yes. You’re bidding against me.”
“Why do you want it? You already have a house.”
“I’d rather turn it into an investment property and have some say over the tenants. Quiet ones. Adult ones.”
“So you don’t want it. You just don’t want me to have it.” He might as well push me over, kick dirt at me, and call me names. “You need to find a different agent if he’s advising you to invest in this place. It’s never going to earn enough as a rental because you’ll have to spend too much to remodel it enough to attract renters.”
“And yetyouwant it.” His voice is still cool but now there’s an edge to it.
“Because I want a home. It changes how much it’s worth to me when I plan to be there for the next twenty years.” If I hoped that would soften him, it was a deeply misguided hope.
