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“What kind of profit?” I asked.
“That is not something you ask a real estate agent,” he said sternly.
“Ken.”
“I’ll clear enough,” he said and added, “and that’s after the renovations I had done. It’s still going to need a ton of work, Liz.”
“I’m not afraid of work.”
“I know, you’re a fixer. But this might be unfixable.”
“Lemme see it,” I said, and we went up the steps and he opened the front door.
It was pretty horrible.
It opened into a dark, poky little room that had tiny windows and a depressing-looking pot bellied stove with a six foot high row of pressboard cabinets as a room divider on the right. The furniture was mostly bad, but that wasn’t a problem because furniture was easy to get rid of, and there were two overstuffed armchairs I might even want if they were comfortable. But that row of dark cabinets would have to go, and there was almost no light. When I looked around the back of the cabinets, there was another wall of pressboard cabinets built up against the back of the first two and a narrow hall of cracked flooring. Next to that was a long, discolored Formica counter with a hot plate, a microwave, a sink, and a small under-counter refrigerator, so evidently that was the kitchen. The layout was an L shape: the remaining long leg on the right had a door to the left that led to a tiny bathroom behind the kitchen section; it was so dark I could barely see in. The door on the right put me in the tiny bedroom, just about big enough for a queen-size bed with more pressed board storage, as dark and depressing as the rest of the house.
“You’d have to rehab it, Liz,” Ken said from behind me. “Just gut the whole thing and start over.”
“I don’t have that kind of money,” I told him, shutting the door to get the depressing bedroom out of my sight.
“You can borrow enough to pay for the house and get some extra to rehab,” Ken said. “You are not going to pay cash for this house. A mortgage that you pay regularly gets you a good credit rating.”
“Yeah, it’s the ‘pay regularly’ that worries me.” I looked around the gloomy little space. “Why did you think I’d want this?”
Ken sighed. “I’m going to hate myself for doing this because I don’t want you in this poky little place, but . . .”
He went down that awful narrow hall between the storage cupboards and the kitchen counter and opened the back door.
I went out onto the deep porch that ran the width of the building and stopped.
The house was built on a steep ridge that dropped in a ravine with a brook bubbling below. I knew with one good rainstorm that cute little brook would be gushing rapids, and God help me if I ever fell off the porch and onto the rocks it bubbled over far below, but it was beautiful. Incredibly beautiful. As was the hillside opposite me, the other side of the ravine, stunning in its green and twisted trees and wild vines. And the whole thing was quiet, blessedly quiet, with only the burble of the stream and the wind through the trees. I could drink mocha out here, watch the sunset or the sunrise once I figured out whether the place was eastward facing or westward— Vince would know or he’d ask Major Rogers— listen to the birds, and bask in the lovely isolation.
And write another book with Anemone Patterson.
I looked back at the awful house. It wasn’t much more than a room with a tiny bedroom and a tiny bathroom attached. But that was all I needed. One room to write in, one room to sleep in, and a bathroom. With a soaking tub. Which that bathroom was not big enough for.
“I’m pretty sure this is the reason Miss Evans wouldn’t move from here,” Ken said, looking out into the green.
“Yeah,” I said and thought again about sitting out here with tea or chocolate coffee, just listening to the brook.
I loved it.
Vince would love it, the antithesis to his dark and bloody Ohio River.
“The bones are good,” Ken said. “Strong. That’s the important thing. I wouldn’t even bring you here if I didn’t know that.”
I looked at him questioningly. “What?”
Ken pointed down. “The foundation is solid. The framing and walls are good. No mold. Your roof is new and solid as well as insulated up there. You’re on well water with a new pump and a basic filtration system. I had the septic system pumped out last year. All the really expensive and hard stuff has been done, except for the kitchen and bathroom and windows. And a kitchen and bathroom are personal. You can get what you want.” He frowned. “Power can be iffy in storms and the electric company doesn’t have Over-the-Hill at the front of their priority list for restoring it, so you might want to consider a generator.”
This was better than the Shady Rest. Or it could be. I could make it the Shady Rest. It wouldn’t be that expensive. Maybe.
Maybe I could put a soaking tub in the living room. It’s not like I would be having guests. Except for Vince. Vince had been skeptical of soaking tubs when we’d met— I’d had to practically drag him into the one in the bathroom at Anemone’s— but now he was wholeheartedly behind them.
Vince would love this back porch.
“Liz?” Ken said.
