A Mile in My Flip-Flops (2 page)

“It’s time for a change,” I announce to Riley. He wags his tail happily now, as if he wholeheartedly agrees. Or maybe he simply thinks I’m offering to take him on a nice, long walk. “We need a
real
house,” I continue, gathering steam now. “And we need a
real
yard for you to run and play in.” Of course, this only excites him more. And that’s when he begins to run about the apartment like a possessed thing, bumping into boxes and furnishings until I finally open the sliding door and send him out to the tiny deck to calm himself. After he settles down, I go and join him. It’s pretty hot out here, and I notice that the seedling sunflower plants, ones we’d started in the classroom and I’d brought home to nurture along, are now hanging limp and lifeless, tortured by the hot afternoon sun that bakes this little patio. Just one more thing I hate about this place.

So much for my attempt at terrace gardening. I’d seen a show on HGTV that inspired me to turn this little square of cement deck into a real oasis. But in reality it’s simply a barren desert that will only get worse as the summer gets hotter. I feel like I’m on the verge of tears now. It’s hopeless.

This is all wrong
. On so many levels. This is not where I was supposed to be at this stage of the game. This is not the life I had planned. I feel like I’ve been robbed or tricked or like someone ripped the rug out from under me. And sometimes in moments like this, I even resent God and question my faith in him. I wonder why he allows things like this to happen. Why does he let innocent people get hurt by the selfishness of others? It just doesn’t make sense. And it’s not fair.

Oh, I’ve tried to convince myself I’m over the fact that my ex-fiancé, Collin Fairfield, was a total jerk. And I try not to blame him for being swept away when his high school sweetheart decided, after fifteen years of being apart, that she was truly in love with him. I heard that the revelation came to Selena at the same time she received our engraved wedding invitation, which I did not send to her. She wasn’t even on my list. And I actually believe that I’ve mostly forgiven Collin … and that sneaky Selena too. And I wish them well, although I didn’t attend their wedding last fall. A girl has to draw the line somewhere.

But all that aside, this is still so wrong. I do not belong in this stuffy little apartment that’s cluttered with my pretty household goods. I belong in a
real
house. A house with a white picket fence and a lawn and fruit trees in the backyard. And being single shouldn’t mean that I don’t get to have that. There must be some way I can afford a home.

Of course, I’m fully aware that real estate isn’t cheap in El Ocaso. It’s on the news regularly. Our town’s prices certainly aren’t as outrageous as some of the suburbs around San Diego, but they’re not exactly affordable on a teacher’s salary. I try not to remember how much I had in my savings account back before I got engaged and got carried away with spending on my wedding and my home. That pretty much depleted what might’ve gone toward a small down payment on what probably would’ve been a very small house. But, hey, even a small house would be better than this prison-cell apartment.

And that’s when it hits me. And it’s so totally obvious I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. I will become a house flipper! Just like the people on my favorite HGTV show, I will figure out a way
to secure a short-term loan, purchase a fixer-upper house, and do the repairs and decorating myself—with my dad’s expert help, of course! And then, maybe as early as midsummer, I will sell this beautifully renovated house for enough profit to make a good-sized down payment on another house just for me… and Riley. Even if the second house is a fixer-upper too, I can take my time with it, making it just the way I want it. And it’ll be so much better than where I live now. I’m surprised I didn’t come up with this idea months ago. It’s so totally simple. Totally perfect. And totally me!

“We are going house hunting,” I announce to Riley as I shove open the sliding door and march back inside the apartment. His whole body is wagging with doggy joy as I quickly exchange my too-tight shorts for jeans and then reach for his leather leash and my Dolce & Gabbana knockoff bag—the one I bought to carry on my honeymoon, the honeymoon that never was. I avoid looking at my image in the big mirror as we make a hasty exit.

“Come on, boy,” I say as I hook the leash to his collar at the top of the stairs. “This is going to be fun!” And since this outing is in the spirit of fun, I even put down the top on my VW Bug, something I haven’t done in ages. Riley looks like he’s died and gone to doggy heaven as he rides joyfully in the backseat, his ears flapping in the breeze. Who knows, maybe we’ll find a house for sale on the beach. Okay, it’d have to be a run-down, ramshackle sort of place that no one but me can see the hidden value in, but it could happen. And while I renovate my soon-to-be wonder house, Riley can be king of the beach. The possibilities seem limitless. And when I stop at the grocery store to pick up real-estate papers, I am impressed with how many listings there are. But I can’t read and drive, so I decide to focus
on driving. And since I know this town like the back of my hand, this should be easy.

But thanks to the Cinco de Mayo celebration, the downtown area is crowded, so I start my search on the south end of town, trying to avoid traffic jams. I’m aware that this area is a little pricey for me, but you never know. First, I pull over into a parking lot and read the fliers. I read about several houses for sale, but the prices are staggering. Even more than I imagined. Also, based on the descriptions and photos, these houses already seem to be in great shape. No fixer-uppers here. Then I notice some condo units for sale, and I can imagine finding a run-down unit in need of a little TLC, but it’s the same situation. According to the fliers, they’re in tiptop, turnkey shape—recently remodeled with granite counters and cherry hardwood floors and new carpeting and prices so high I can’t imagine doing anything that could push them a penny higher. My profit margin and spirits are steadily sinking. Maybe my idea to flip a house has already flopped. Just like the rest of my life.

A
fter several hours of driving around town, complete with doggy pit stops, and finding not one single fixer-upper house, I begin to feel seriously discouraged. Maybe this isn’t going to be as easy-breezy as I thought. Finally, feeling totally dismayed and in need of a little encouragement, I stop by my dad’s beach condo on the north end of town and dismally knock on the door.

“Hello, Gretchen,” says Betty, my dad’s girlfriend. She smiles brightly as she opens the carved wooden door wider. “Come on in. We were about to sit down to dinner. You’re just in time.”

I glance at my watch. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was dinnertime already.” I also didn’t remember that it’s Saturday, a day Betty and Dad usually spend alone together. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not an intrusion, Gretchen,” Dad calls from somewhere inside. “I’ve been barbecuing a pile of ribs all afternoon. Come on in and join us.”

“I don’t know…” I glance over my shoulder trying to think of an excuse to get out of here. It’s not that I don’t like Betty, but I just wanted to see my dad.

He appears at the front door now, wearing a big smile. He’s attired in a loud Hawaiian shirt, khaki golf shorts, and a red chef’s apron that says “Real Men Don’t Use Recipes” tied snugly over his
rounded midsection. “I actually tried to call you about an hour ago,” he says with a curious expression. “But no one answered. Everything okay?”

“I was out … and my cell phone was off.” I remain in the hallway with Riley tugging eagerly at my leash, trying to get inside. I’m sure Dad’s wondering why I wasn’t holed up at home as usual.

“Come on in, Gretchen,” urges Dad, taking me by the hand and pulling me.

“I’ve got Riley.”

“I can see that. Bring him on in,” he commands. “What about your cats?”

“It’s okay. They can take care of themselves, or they can hide in the spare bedroom if they want.”

When I was growing up, my dad always claimed that he hated cats. But shortly after Mom died, when I was thirteen, I rescued a little black kitten in the middle of a busy street. It had been a particularly rough day in middle school, and the warm, furry kitten seemed like a real find. But once I got it home, Dad did not agree. He immediately put an ad in the local paper and some “found cat” signs in the neighborhood. When no one claimed my prize, I insisted on keeping her. Jasmine turned out to be a delightful cat, and later when I went to college, Dad pretty much adopted her and never did give her back. She had a good long life, and when she died a couple of years ago, it was Dad who decided to replace her. But instead of buying just one cat, he got three. He fell in love with three tiger kitties from the same litter, brought them all home, and named them Mowzer, Wowzer, and Bowzer. My dad’s never been terribly clever with names, and even now he can’t seem to tell them apart.

The cats are not the only reason I keep Riley on his leash. I’ve only brought him here once before, and he knocked over a potted palm that sat right next to the door. Fortunately that plant is now tucked safely away in a corner.

“Come outside with me, Riley,” says my dad as he takes the leash from my hand and leads Riley out with him. Dad’s first-floor condo has a nice walled-in area with a patio and a patch of grass. Not really big enough for a dog to run, but much nicer than my tiny sunbaked deck. “Check out my ribs, boy,” Dad says to my dog. “You like meat?”

I chuckle to myself and think what a wonderful grandpa my dad would make. Not that it’s likely to happen anytime soon … if ever.

“Want a soda or some iced tea?” offers Betty.

“Iced tea sounds good.” I follow her into the kitchen, noticing how neat she looks in her crisp white Capri pants and blue and white striped top. Unlike me in my grungy jeans and a T-shirt with a shoulder that’s still soggy from dog slobber, Betty always keeps herself up. I figure it’s because she used to have her own real-estate brokerage and just never stopped looking professional. But like my dad, she recently retired. A divorcée of about ten years, she’s independently wealthy and travels a lot. She calls herself a liberated woman, which makes me wonder if she thinks the rest of us aren’t.

They’ve been dating for about six months, and I still don’t know what I think about her. She’s a few years younger than Dad, although her platinum blond hair makes her seem more youthful. And she’s nice enough, but it’s strange seeing my dad dating someone this regularly. It took him ten years after Mom died to decide to date anyone. And then it was only sporadically, thanks to the demands of his contracting business. As a result, this is the most serious relationship he’s
been in. And I can tell he likes her a lot, but I’m not so sure about Betty’s intentions. Sometimes she seems slightly aloof, and I’m not sure that she’s into him like he’s into her. I guess I just don’t want to see him get hurt.

“Did you go to Cinco de Mayo?” Betty asks as she hands me a tall glass complete with a generous lemon wedge.

“No … Holly tried to talk me into going with her and Justin… but I had other things to do…” I refrain from admitting how I didn’t want to be a fifth wheel, which is sort of what I feel like right now.

“Other things?” I can tell she’s skeptical. It seems that everyone is concerned about my hermit ways. So as we head out to join Dad and Riley, I stupidly blurt out in my defense that I went house hunting.

She pauses in the living room, turning to peer curiously at me. Her narrow arched brows lift slightly. “House hunting?”

Without answering, I continue outside, watching my dad as he uses a long set of tongs to carefully turn the ribs. The smell is almost intoxicating, and Riley sits like a dog statue at Dad’s feet with long strings of slobber hanging from his gaping mouth. Then, just as Betty hands Dad a soda, Riley comes to life and starts running around the tiny square of lawn, turning round and round in tight circles like he’s gone crazy.

“Stop it,” I tell him, embarrassed by his neurotic behavior. “Be good, Riley!”

“Oh, it’s okay.” Dad chuckles as he closes the barbecue. “He just needs to stretch his legs. Poor thing’s cooped up in your apartment day in, day out. I’d be running in circles too.”

“Gretchen says she’s been house hunting,” says Betty.

“House hunting?” My dad turns and looks at me like I have just sprouted a second head. “Why are you doing that?”

So, hesitant but nonetheless excited, I explain to them about my house-flipping plan. I go into all the details of how it’s done, the short-term financing, how I’d be really good at it, how I’ll have extra time once school’s out next month, and how I already have a lot of furnishings and things that I can “stage” it with when it’s time for the open house.

“You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought,” says Betty. But I can tell she’s still not convinced.

“It’s a really great way to make money,” I say. “And I can use my profits from the flip for a down payment on a house for me.”

“Sounds like you have it all figured out,” says Dad. But I sense a slightly sarcastic tone. He looks even less on board than Betty.

“Well, I don’t have it
all
figured out,” I admit. “But I think it’s something I could do…I might even be good at it. Maybe I could do one every summer as a way to supplement my income.”

“Real estate is pretty spendy around here,” Betty points out. Thank you, Captain Obvious.

“Yes. But that’s one reason it makes sense,” I counter. “People are willing to pay high prices. I just need to find a run-down piece of property—something that nobody wants—and then transform it into something wonderful … and sell it.”

“Sort of a get-rich-quick scheme?” Dad’s furry brows draw together, and I notice how white they’ve gotten. They used to be sort of a reddish blond, like mine. Sometimes I forget that he’s getting old.

“No,” I insist, “its not a get-rich-quick scheme. It’s an honest way to make money. And I’m fully aware it will involve a lot of hard work, but I do know a thing or two about construction.” I wink at him. “After all, I grew up watching you do it. I know how to use a circular saw and how to swing a hammer.”

He grins and pats my head. “That you do. But remodeling isn’t the same as new construction, sweetie. It’s a whole different can of worms.”

“And depending on the age of the home, you could run into all kinds of problems,” warns Betty. “Plumbing, electrical—”

“Look,” I say, knowing it’s rude to interrupt but feeling too frustrated to let her continue. “I
want
to do this. If you guys think it’s stupid or foolish, I just won’t bother you with the—”

“Don’t get upset,” says Dad. “We just care about you, Gretchen. We don’t want you to get in over your head. Remodeling is serious business.”

“I know that already.” I stubbornly fold my arms across my chest and suddenly feel like I’m the same age as the kids in my class.

“How
do you know that?” asks Dad.

“I watch
House Flippers
on HGTV,” I say, then instantly wish I hadn’t, because I know it sounds ridiculous. And I can tell they’re trying not to laugh at me. And who could blame them?

“Is that some kind of educational channel?” asks Dad, who watches only sports or news and thinks cable is a waste of time and money. Consequently, I’ve tried to keep my HGTV addiction a secret. I don’t think he’d understand.

“It’s a home-improvement network,” Betty informs him. “And it’s actually somewhat educational, although I don’t know that they
can cover everything, especially when it comes to remodeling. It’s just trickier than what can be explained in a one-hour segment.”

“I’ll say,” agrees Dad. “I’ve tried to stay away from doing remodels over the years. I’d rather tear down a house and rebuild it from the ground up.” He peers at me. “You sure you’re up for something like this? Just from watching television?”

“Okay, I know it probably sounds silly to you,” I admit. “But I’ve actually learned a lot watching those shows. Enough to know that it’s possible.” I don’t mention the show I saw today where the house flip didn’t go so well. “And I’ve seen people on the show make good money on house flips. People who know less about construction than I do.”

Dad still looks skeptical. So I playfully sidle up to him and slip my arm around his thick waist. “Besides, I’m lucky. I have a dad who’s an expert. Most of the people on that show don’t have an experienced contractor in their back pocket.”

He chuckles. “You think you’ve got me in your back pocket?”

“And now that you’re retired, you have more time, Daddy. You’ll be just the person to advise me.”

This almost seems to do the trick because Dad starts to get a dreamy look in his eyes, like he’s really considering the possibilities and liking them. “I suppose it could be interesting.

“And fun,” I add.

“And you know that I’d love to see you get into a house of your own. I just wish I had enough cash to help you out, but you know how that last job set me back some…” He turns away from me now, focusing his attention on the barbecue again as he applies a fresh coat of sauce to the already dripping ribs.

Saddened that I’ve made him remember this, I exchange an uncomfortable glance with Betty. This is a painful topic that we try to avoid. For Dad’s sake, we just don’t go there. Most of the town is aware that he was horribly taken advantage of in his final construction job. After a lengthy hotel project was finally completed, the stingy out-of-state investor had the audacity to accuse Dad of doing unsatisfactory work. My dad, who had worked in Southern California for decades with nothing but happy customers. To add insult to injury, this tightwad jerk not only refused to pay Dad but filed a claim against him with the state contractor’s board and withheld payment to Dad’s subcontractors as well.

As it turned out, that good-for-nothing investor was flat broke and ended up filing for bankruptcy himself, but that didn’t help anything on Dad’s end. He wound up paying his subcontractors from his own pocket and hiring a lawyer to go after the investor. In the midst of this, Dad’s health went seriously downhill, and at his doctor’s insistence, he decided it was time to retire. The attorney, who’s gone pro bono, still thinks there’s a chance the lawsuit will pay off, but at the rate it’s going, Dad might be a hundred years old before he sees a dime of settlement. Fortunately his condo is paid for, and he seems to get by fairly well on his Social Security.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’d have to do much in the way of helping me…I mean, as far as physical labor,” I say quickly to Dad. “I’ll mostly need your expertise and advice, because I know that your health is—”

“Nonsense,” he says. “I’m fit as a fiddle. My blood pressure has gone down considerably, and that new cholesterol medicine is working so well that I can eat like a king now.”

I point to the ribs. “So that’s what this is about?”

Betty frowns with concern. “I told Hank it wouldn’t hurt him to continue some of the healthy eating habits he’s established.”

“I’m sick and tired of vegetables and whole grains,” he says as he licks barbecue sauce from a finger. “And if I never eat anything to do with soy again, I’ll be a happy man. Besides, what’s the point in being alive if you can’t enjoy your life a little?”