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“They’re estimates,” I said as we left the vacant apartment. The size truly wasn’t bad, especially given the time period they were built in. We could knock down a wall, combine two units, and have a final product that would be desirable . . . and maybe affordable.
“Thank you for the tour.” Beau didn’t stop as she spoke to the realtor, who was waiting for us in the hall.
“We’ve only looked at two floors,” she protested.
“And we’ve seen enough. Thank you again.”
Beau had a graciousness I never would, yet could be firm when necessary. She’d gotten the finesse from our mother. I wasn’t sure if the no-nonsense was hereditary from our father or simply from dealing with him for so long.
“I’d like—”
“To think things over,” Beau finished for me.
I gave her a cutting look, which was useless. I’d wanted to make an offer, and she knew it. Judging by the way her nails dug into my arm and she practically dragged me down the stairs, she disapproved.
“Don’t look so eager. You’ve already looked at this place twice,” she hissed.
An older woman emerged from one of the apartments. Her skin was leathered and her clothes were worn yet kempt. There was a floral wreath on her door that brightened the dingy space.
“Grandma, can we have chicken nuggets for supper?” A little girl with pigtails held the woman’s hand.
“You had that last night, child. If you eat any more chicken, I'll be plucking feathers from you.”
I stifled a laugh. The girl looked horrified as she glanced at her arm to see if there were indeed feathers growing from it.
“If I eat any more green beans, I’m going to turn into one,” she said when she was satisfied there were no feathers on her skin.
I clamped my lips together to hold in the ever-threatening laugh. What was wrong with me? This effect had to be Lexie.
Would she approve of my desire for this property? For what I hoped to make it?
My urge to laugh quickly dissipated. To make renovations, we’d have to displace this woman and her grandchild. Typically when developers like me purchased a property, the tenants didn’t come back because the product we’d made was too expensive.
Where would they go?
“You coming, Linocln?” Beau tugged on my arm.
“Make these numbers work,” I said as soon as we were out of the building.
“Does it matter if I do or not?” she challenged.
“No.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” she muttered as she picked up her pace. “Let’s check out the neighborhood. Maybe we’ll find a good local spot to eat.”
I looked at her shoes incredulously but knew better than to say anything about her walking any distance in them. That was a battle that wasn’t worth fighting.
Her head bobbed as she took in the area. “It’s not . . . ideal.” The statement wasn’t made in judgment. My sister simply spoke what she observed. And it was the truth.
The neighborhood was rundown. Graffiti adorned many of the buildings. I paused to look at one particularly intricate mural. It had the markings of renowned spray-paint artist Brody James. Those were the kind of things that gave a neighborhood character, an identity. Something to embrace instead of remove.
“Can something be made better if hardly anyone involved cares?”
Beau cocked her head and looked at me strangely. “As long as one person does, yes, something can be better.”
In her tone was a what are we talking about that I didn’t want to answer. Change could be good if one kept the best of the old, couldn’t it?
I didn’t know much about change. Most of the time when it happened in my life, it wasn’t initiated by me. I was rooted in my ways. That steadiness was what I wanted, though lately my world order was in complete disarray.
