A Mile in My Flip-Flops (3 page)

“With moderation,” injects Betty. “Which reminds me…I brought a bottle of Merlot.”

“You drink wine now?” I ask Dad as Betty goes back into the house.

“Betty says it’s good for me—just a glass at dinnertime for my cholesterol and heart. I didn’t like it much at first, but I can’t argue that I’ve been feeling better.”

Betty returns with the bottle and corkscrew and hands them over to Dad. “The wine needs to breathe a little,” she tells me.

“Betty’s right about moderation,” I say to Dad as he fiddles with the corkscrew. “Moderation is a very good thing for someone with high blood pressure and high cholesterol and ancestors with a history of heart disease.”

“I agree with you about moderation.” He winks at me as he pops the cork, then hands the bottle back to Betty. “And I think these ribs are
moderately
done now—that means medium and just exactly how I like ’em. You girls ready to indulge in some fine red meat, or would you rather go chew on a celery stick somewhere?”

No one argues as he stacks the delicious-smelling ribs on a platter. But I do have to question his sensibility when we sit down at the patio table, where Betty has just set out the side dishes, which don’t
look any healthier. “Your dad made these,” she says, almost in self-defense.

I look at the creamy potato salad, which is loaded with eggs and bacon bits, and then the second bowl, which I recognize as his famous “southern” coleslaw. I’m thinking there must be about a gallon of mayonnaise between these two large bowls.

“You think you got enough cholesterol on this table?” I ask Dad as he pours us each a glass of wine.

He chuckles as he sets a glass in front of me. “If it makes you feel any better, I used
light
mayonnaise.”

I bite my tongue as I wait for Dad to say grace. Maybe there’s no point in nagging the poor man. I take a deep breath, noticing the nice cooling breeze coming straight off the Pacific. And I realize it’s actually sort of nice sitting outside and sharing a meal with Dad and Betty. I feel guilty for having been such a hermit for so long, but maybe things are starting to change for me now. And maybe I’ll become more social when I finally have a place of my own. I imagine a house with a yard where I can set up a table and a barbecue like Dad’s. Then as he prays his usual blessing and I hear Riley happily chewing on a bone beneath my feet, I think that life seems to hold some promise now. Things are about to change.

Dad says, “Amen” and passes me the bowl of coleslaw, but as I put a cautious serving on my plate, I see that it’s literally dripping in dressing. “You’re sure this is
light
mayo, Dad?”

He clears his throat as a slight smirk appears on his face. “Here’s the deal, Gretchen Girl. You lay off my dietary decisions, and I won’t get on your case regarding your remodeling abilities or lack thereof.”

“Meaning you’re going to help me flip a house?”

He picks up a big rib. “Yep. I’m thinking it sounds like fun.” He winks at me with those blue gray eyes that are just a couple of shades lighter than my own, then smacks his lips and takes a bite.

“It could be fun,” adds Betty, “as long as your flip doesn’t go flop.”

I try not to scowl at her. “Of course, it won’t be a flop,” I say with confidence. “Dad and I will make a great house-flipping team. He’ll be the brains, and I’ll be the brawn.”

They laugh, and Dad questions my current physique, and I try not to take offense. I also try not to obsess over how I suddenly feel like a misfit. But the two of them look like such a couple—laughing at each other’s jokes, looking into each other’s eyes. And then here I am … alone. It’s not that I think Collin should be sitting next to me. I don’t. In fact, most of the time I think I’m over him. Or nearly. Still, it’s not easy being the single one when I’m with couples. It’s not the way I thought I would be. But I guess I need to get over it.

I
think I’ve found something with potential,” Betty tells me over the phone. I’m just walking through the parking lot at the end of a long workday, heading to my car, which has been baking in the sun. I wish I’d put the top down this morning.

It’s been exactly eleven days since I decided to flip a house. I did what felt like an exhaustive search for fixer-uppers in our area and came up with nothing. Then Betty stepped in and offered her services. On Monday she contacted all her real-estate associates and even did some looking on her own. She’s turned up a couple of options, but so far nothing has been quite right. “Quite right” as in cheap enough for my budget.

Even with Dad cosigning the loan for me, which he offered to do, and even with using his condo as collateral, which makes me nervous, I can borrow only $500,000. And although that sounds like a nice chunk of change to me, it will not go very far in El Ocaso. Plus, I’ll probably need to hold back about fifty grand for renovations as well as for reserves in case the house doesn’t sell at the end of six weeks, when the loan payments become due. Needless to say, this greatly reduces my buying power.

Still, I’ve been optimistic. And I’ve even been praying, something I hadn’t done for quite some time … like about eighteen months.
On the Sunday after I made my decision to flip a house, I went to church and actually listened. Pastor Briggs preached about expecting God to do the impossible. I like that. And I think it fit nicely with my flipping plans. So I’ve been clinging to that idea. Especially since, as days have gone by, finding the right house has begun to seem unlikely and fairly impossible. So I’ve been trying to trust God. Hoping for the impossible to materialize. On the bright side, and as Dad pointed out, this waiting period has given me time to work out the financing and get preapproved so I’ll be ready to jump when the opportunity arises. Maybe it’s today.

“So, where’s the house?” I ask Betty, feeling unexpectedly hopeful as I unlock my car, open it up, and stand outside for a moment, waiting for the interior to cool off. It’s been a long day. The kids know that the school year’s nearly over, so they’re getting antsy. For the last couple of hours, all I’ve wanted to do was go home, kick off my shoes, and dive into a new carton of B&J’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie yogurt. Yes, I’m talking about frozen yogurt,
not
ice cream. After harping on Dad about his dietary choices and after witnessing the shape of my thighs, I decided it was time to cut back on some fat and carbs myself. As a result, I’ve been eating frozen yogurt for more than a week now, and I’m almost getting used to it. At least it’s chocolate, and it’s cool and refreshing. Okay, I still watch HGTV when I’m not out hunting for a house. But now I consider it a research resource, a form of education, like Remodeling 101. But suddenly the lure of chocolate frozen yogurt and TV pales in comparison to seeing this house.

“It’s on the east side,” says Betty.

“East side…” I consider this. It’s the least desirable section of town, but it’s also the cheapest. “What’s the house like?”

“I haven’t seen it yet, but the price is in your ballpark.”

“Which part of the ballpark?”

“It’s just been listed at $479,000. But my real-estate friend Judy says she’s sure they’ll have to come down. Apparently it’s been a rental for quite some time … and it sounds like it’s not in very good shape.”

“That’s what I’m looking for.” I get in my car now, turn on the engine, and crank up the air conditioning.

“Anyway, I have the key if you want to stop by and get it from me. I’d offer to go with you to check out the house, but I need to get to my hair appointment in a few minutes. I thought maybe you could meet me in town.”

“I have to run home and take care of Riley first,” I tell her. “He’ll need some exercise. But then I could swing by your place and pick it up if that’s okay. When do you think you’ll be finished at the hair place?”

“I expect it’ll be a couple of hours. After my hair, I’m getting a manicure and pedicure. You know I’m going on that European trip with my sister, and I have to get myself all fixed up before we leave.” She laughs lightly.

“When do you go?”

“Friday morning.”

“And you really plan to be gone for two whole months?”

“Yes. Louise and I will start with a two-week Mediterranean cruise, just to relax and catch up. And after that, we’ll tour around France, Austria, Germany, and Switzerland in a rental car. We want
to take it at a leisurely pace, lingering in certain places and basically just soaking it all in.”

“Sounds wonderful. Dads really going to miss you.”

“Well, I have a feeling you’ll be keeping him pretty busy with your house-flipping project while I’m gone.”

“I hope so.”

“Gretchen, just don’t let him overdo it, okay?” I hear warmth in her voice now, like she might care for him more than I realized. For Dad’s sake, I hope that’s the case.

“Of course not. He’s simply going to be my consultant.”

“Great.”

“Now what about the key? I’m dying to see this house!”

“How about if I leave it, along with the address and Judy’s card, with the receptionist at Simi’s Salon?”

“Sounds perfect.”

“And if I don’t see you before I leave, good luck with your project.”

“Thanks. And you have a great trip.”

“Oh yes, I intend to. Louise and I have been planning this for years.”

“Make sure you take lots of photos,” I say.

“Yes. And you too. I want to see how things go with your house. Too bad you couldn’t be on that
House Flippers
show so I could watch the whole thing. Have you considered actually looking into that?”

I laugh. “I’m not sure I want the whole world to see my first house flip.”

“Maybe next time then.”

“Maybe.”

As I hang up, I feel somewhat relieved that Betty will be out of the picture for a couple of months. It’s not that I don’t like her, but I have a feeling that, having worked in real estate, she’d have her own opinions about how things should be done. And I’m not sure I want someone looking over my shoulder. Plus, and selfishly, her absence will allow Dad more free time to spend with me … and my house. It feels like a win-win to me.

I go home and take Riley to the park to get some fresh air and to do his business. As usual, I have several plastic baggies handy for removing his doo-doo piles. I’m not sure I’d do this if there weren’t a fee for leaving them. I deposit the filled baggies in the trash can, then throw a ball for Riley. But after only ten minutes, I tell him that’s it. I know he’s disappointed as we head back to the apartment, where I quickly change my clothes. When I come out of my room, Riley is waiting expectantly by the door, tail thumping in happy anticipation.

“Sorry, boy,” I tell him. “But I think it might be considered bad etiquette to bring a dog to look at someone else’s house.” I pat his head. “And I can’t exactly trust you alone in my car yet.” I probably won’t trust him with much of anything until he gets out of this chewing stage, which the vet assured me should end soon. In the meantime it’s driving me nuts. Yesterday he devoured one of my LL Bean sandals. When I found it in his bed, it looked like someone had put it in the food processor on high. Of course, the other sandal is still in perfect condition to remind me that they used to be a pair. I wish Riley didn’t have such good taste in shoes. Why can’t he go for those cheap pumps from Target? Or even my old flip-flops. But no, he has to sink his teeth into pricey LL Bean and Cole Haan. Note to self: put all expensive shoes on top shelf of closet ASAP.

“Be good,” I tell him as I grab my purse. “If you can keep from destroying anything, I’ll take you for another run when I get back.” Then I hurry down to my car and quickly drive downtown and park behind Simi’s, a very nice salon I wouldn’t mind going to someday—if I could afford it.

When I pick up the envelope containing my precious key, I spy Betty not too far off in a comfortable-looking chair with a young woman hovering over her and doing something with her hair. I consider waving and saying hello, but she looks so relaxed I don’t want to disturb her. Besides, I’m eager to see this house. As I hurry back to my car, I think that Betty’s got the life. And I suppose I sort of envy her. Okay, it’s not like I want to be in my sixties, but if I could remain my present age, I would love to be in her shoes. I’d love to be getting my hair done, then having a pedicure and manicure before I left on a two-week cruise, followed by six more weeks to “leisurely” explore Europe.

I sigh as I get into the car. Well, who knows? If this real-estate venture goes well, I might become a regular house flipper. Even if I only turned over one house a year, it could add up. Maybe in thirty years I could be sitting pretty too.

I read Betty’s note with the address and directions. The Realtor’s business card is paper-clipped to it—and there is the key. I hold the brass key in the sunlight, seeing it as if it were a precious jewel. Then I drive east until I reach an older subdivision called Paradise. Well, the name might be a bit of a stretch, but maybe it seemed like paradise back in it’s day, which I’m guessing was about fifty years ago. It’s a tract-home subdivision with what I’d estimate to be about a hundred
ranch-style homes. Some houses look fairly well maintained with landscaped yards. But many are not. And when I get to Lilac Lane, the street where “my” house is located, I am decidedly unimpressed. My guess is that most of the houses along here are rentals. And all are lacking in curb appeal. But when I get to the house with the For Sale sign in front, I can find only one thing that’s right about it: it’s the saddest looking house on the street.

“The best investment opportunity” Betty told me last weekend, “is to buy the worst house in a good neighborhood.”

Well, I’m not so sure about the neighborhood, but this is clearly the worst house in the entire subdivision. I park my car on the street and just sit there looking at this pathetic house. I’m not even sure I want to go inside. The paint is peeling. A screen door is hanging on it’s hinges. The front picture window is cracked. The yard is brown, and what once might’ve been flower beds are overgrown with weeds. But then I realize that these are all fixable things. And, really, not terribly expensive either. Good grief, what am I thinking? This is perfect!

“Come on,” I say to myself. “This is just what you’re looking for.”

Feeling confident, I go up the cracked cement walkway and onto the porch, where I unlock the front door and give it a push. But I notice the house isn’t empty. There are things inside. So without entering, I cautiously call out, “Anybody home?” Then I stick my head inside and am nearly knocked over by the smell. I don’t know if it’s from pets or a decaying corpse in the bathtub, but this place totally reeks. I blink and step away from the door, gasping for fresh air and wondering if foul air could seriously harm someone. I
remember stories of archaeologists who dropped dead when they breathed the toxic air inside the pyramids. Could this be anything like that?

I stand on the front steps and stare at the neglected yard. The house may be perfect for my project, but it’s nothing like what I had hoped for. I’d imagined a charming bungalow in need of some TLC. Or maybe even a neglected beach house. Something with some personality. This is a boring old ranch house that smells like an outhouse. Or worse. No way can I go inside there, even to just look around. And to work in a place like that? I’d have to be insane. Only a complete idiot would take on a nasty place like this. I’m convinced it’s probably a health hazard. Not only does the place reek, but there’s all that junk I saw on the mud-colored carpeting. For all I know someone might still be living here. Maybe it’s an ax murderer with dozens of dead bodies rotting away beneath the floorboards.

I go back to my car but then realize I didn’t lock the front door. In fact I didn’t even close it. Not that anyone with any sense would dare to go inside. Suddenly I feel mad. What kind of a Realtor sends a poor, unsuspecting home buyer to a place like this? I dig the business card from my purse and dial the listing Realtor’s number. Her smiling photo gives the impression that she might be a decent person, but I imagine devil horns poking out of her sleek brunette hair. When Judy answers, I tell her who I am and immediately launch into a quick but candid description of the house of horrors she’s trying to sell.

“Betty told me you wanted a fixer-upper,” she finally says in an obvious tone, like the giant litter box I’m staring at is an answer to prayer.

“Have you even
seen
it?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t list something unseen. And yes, it’s in bad shape. But Betty said you wanted a house to flip—you can’t deny that this one has lots of room for improvement—and the price is quite a bit below what other homes have recently sold for in that same subdivision.”

“I should hope so.”

“So I don’t see the problem.”

“The problem is that it totally stinks. And it looks like someone might still be living there—or something inside might even be dead.”

“The house is vacant. But the renters did leave some things behind. This isn’t uncommon in eviction situations. And that’s one of the reasons the house is priced as low as it is.”