A Mile in My Flip-Flops (4 page)

“Well, yes, but this is pretty extreme.”

“Fine,” she says in a sharp business tone. “Just bring the key back to my office. I think I already have a buyer for it anyway.”

“You have a buyer?”

“Yes. I have someone who regularly flips properties coming by here first thing in the morning. He has essentially told me he’ll be making an offer tomorrow.”

“An offer? Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Like I said, this guy is a pro at flipping houses. He’s done dozens of them. And trust me, he knows real-estate potential when he sees it.”

“And he’s
seen
this place?”

“Not the inside, but he did a drive-by just an hour ago, and he’s very interested.”

“But it reeks!”

She actually laughs now. “Have you ever done this before?” she asks me. “Flipped a house?”

“Well, no…”

“It’s possible that you’re not cut out for it then. Some people just don’t like to get their hands dirty.”

Now, I resent this. She doesn’t even know me. “I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty,” I say defensively.

“Well, renovations are extremely hard work. If you don’t believe me, I can give you the name of the contractor who wants to buy that ranch house. I’m sure he could tell you a thing or two about—”

“My dad’s a contractor,” I snap. “And I happen to know a thing or two about renovations.” There’s a brief pause, and I wonder if I’ve offended her.

“Yes … I understand that,” she says calmly. Almost the same tone of voice I might use with a cranky five-year-old who just doesn’t get it. “But this would be your first house flip, Gretchen. Perhaps you need a house that’s in better shape. Come to think of it, there’s a cute little cottage on the west side that needs some work. It’s listed at $550,000, but it could probably go for more than six if it was fixed up a little.”

“That’s out of my price range.”

“Oh … well, then maybe you should consider a condo. I’ve got a nice unit in Parker Place for sale, and it’s listed for just a little more than the Lilac Lane house.”

“No thanks,” I tell her. I don’t mention that my ex fiancé and his wife live in Parker Place and that you couldn’t pay me to buy a condo there. I’m looking at the neglected ranch house again, thinking that
perhaps I’ve been too hasty in my judgment. Maybe it just needs a little TLC. Okay a lot of TLC. But really am I nuts to let a bad smell drive me away? And what if that other buyer snatches it out from under me, fixes it up, and sells it for big profit? Then how would I feel?

“You’re sure the tenants have moved out?”

“Yes. They were evicted several weeks ago.”

“And you have actually been inside the house yourself?” I ask.

“Yes. And it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. But there’s definitely potential. Have you seen the backyard yet?”

“Well, no…”

“I suggest you go have a look. Before you do that, maybe you should open up the doors and let some fresh air flow through the house. After that, take a quick walk-through, try to ignore the messes, and see if you don’t discover the possibilities.”

“Okay…”

“Then get that key back to the office. It’s the only one I have. We just listed the house and haven’t even made copies yet. I only let Betty have it as a personal favor.”

“Sure…yeah, I’ll do that.”

“And don’t feel bad if it doesn’t work for you. House flipping isn’t for everyone. Sometimes it’s better to leave things like this to the pros.”

So I thank her, hang up, and then go around to the backyard. To my surprise, it is pretty nice. Although like the front, the grass is brown and dry and the flower beds are filled with weeds, it does have some mature trees and is fairly good sized. Unfortunately, though, there are as many dog-poop piles as there are weeds. No one used
baggies to pick up around here. It’s like walking through a minefield just to make my way to the back door. But then again, there’s a covered deck that could provide a shady place to sit if it wasn’t piled high with filled trash bags and various pieces of junk, including about twenty old tires stacked like a privacy fence and a bunch of broken yard toys.

I unlock and open the back door, hoping that Judy’s theory of air flow will work. But the smell that comes out from this end seems even worse than the front. I’m seriously considering my ax murderer theory again. There could be a whole pile of rotting corpses inside. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like that on
House Flippers
yet, but it would probably raise their ratings some.

Moving carefully through the land mines, I walk all around the outside perimeter of the house, checking it out. More peeling paint, more broken windows, missing screens, junk, and garbage. But even as I continue to find more flaws with this house, something in me seems to be coming around. I’m starting to envision the house with a fresh coat of paint in an inviting color, maybe an earthy sage green with tan trim, some new windows, some landscaping… That really could transform the place. Maybe all this house needs is someone who cares.

I try to imagine the original owners of this house, probably back in the early sixties. Maybe they were a young couple with two kids. I’ll bet the kids were dressed all nice and neat. The house was probably squeaky clean. The furniture might’ve been that sixties modern-contemporary style that’s considered retro now. And for all I know, there might still be hardwood floors underneath that nasty carpet.

I dig in my faux D&G bag until I find a small sample of Poison
cologne that a Macy’s salesgirl practically forced on me when I shopped for my dads birthday present last month. I apply this strong-smelling scent generously to my wrists and my neck, using every drop so that it’s overpowering as I stand in the front yard, mentally preparing myself to do this walk-through. I wish I had a scarf to tie over my nose and mouth like a bandit, but maybe I can hold my breath. I take several long, deep breaths, psyching myself into this. And then, feeling strong and confident, I march up to the front door and go inside.

The perfume trick works for about ten seconds, and then it’s futile. Since no one’s around to witness, I pull my T-shirt up over my nose, revealing my not-so-slender midsection and part of my bra. Then I literally run from room to room throughout the house. I quickly take in what appear to be three good-sized bedrooms, also piled with trash and junk, two full but filthy bathrooms, a smallish, dark living room, and a barely there family room, or maybe it’s a dining room off the small kitchen.

And finally, thinking I’m about to die and wondering how long it will take for someone to find me expired on the dirt-encrusted floor of the disgusting kitchen, I explode out the back door and run across the deck, where I stand hunched over at the edge of the backyard right next to several piles of old doggy doo-doo and brace myself to throw up. I think it would be a relief to hurl just now, a way to purge the foul things I just inhaled. But the fresh air slowly revives me, and I think perhaps I’m overreacting.

I find an old plastic lawn chair that’s only moderately filthy and carry it over to a semicleared corner of the deck, where I sit down and consider this whole crazy house-flipping plan. Did I expect it to be
easy? No. Did I think I’d get a house that was “nice and neat”? No. Am I too much of wimp to do this? No. Am I ready to give up? No.

Perhaps a smarter woman would turn and run just now. But something inside me seems to be standing up and saying,
I can do this
. Maybe it’s that image of the freshly scrubbed family moving into their “modern” sixties home that’s encouraging me, telling me that there’s hope for this house. Or maybe the house itself is calling to me, saying, “Help me!” Saying it wants to be restored…it wants to be clean and decent again … it wants to be a welcoming place—a place to come home to.

During my whirlwind tour, I did notice that one of the bedrooms had a hardwood floor. Okay, it was in pretty bad shape, but it’s a good sign that more hardwood floors might be lying dormant beneath that horrible carpeting, which I’ve decided must be the source of that disgusting stench. My guess is that pets used that nasty brown carpet for their toilet.

But once the carpets are removed and taken far from this place, and once the wood floor is properly cleaned, most of that ghastly smell should be eradicated. Then with fresh paint and new surfaces, it will be nothing more than a bad memory. Then I’ll do updates and upgrades to the kitchen and baths, replace the light fixtures, windows, and doors, and before long—hopefully by the end of the six weeks my loan allows me to flip this place—the worst house on Lilac Lane should be restored and ready to go on the market. Easy as pie.

I tiptoe my way around the dog piles again, this time so I can peek over the wobbly backyard fence to see that the yards on all three sides seem to be in much better shape than this one. That’s a good
sign. Then I walk back to the front yard and check out the surrounding houses on both sides of the street. Certainly, they’re not in pristine condition, and quite possibly are rentals, but they are not anything like this place. And, who knows? Maybe if I fix up this eyesore, others will be inspired to follow suit. It’s possible that some day this street will be one of the nicest parts of Paradise … and I will have been a part of it. That’s a nice feeling.

I go back to my car and call my dad now. But he’s not home, and his answering machine must be turned off again. My dad hates technology. He refuses to own a computer and only got a cell phone because, as a contractor, he needed it. But now that he’s retired, he just leaves it in his desk, where it probably has a dead battery anyway. For all I know he might’ve cancelled service on it long ago.

I try Betty’s number, but she must still be getting beautified. Finally I try Holly, who answers her cell phone on her way home from work.

“I think I’ve found a house,” I tell her. She knows about my house-flipping plan and has even offered to help me when she can. “Good for you,” she says.

“But I want a second opinion,” I tell her. “Any chance you could stop by?”

“Oh man, I’d love to see it, Gretch, but I promised to meet Justin at his mom’s place. It’s his dad’s birthday, and—”

“That’s okay,” I interrupt. “I understand.”

“How about tomorrow?” she offers. “After work?”

“Maybe … but I might have to make a decision before that.”

“Before
tomorrow?”

“Well, there’s another guy interested. And this house just came on the market, and you know how hard it’s been to find a fixer in the right price range.”

“Are you sure the Realtor’s not just feeding you a line for an easy sell?”

“She’s a friend of Betty’s … and I’m pretty sure she’s legit.”

“So maybe you should jump on it.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Has your dad seen it yet?”

“No. He’s not home.”

“Oh…”

“Well, I don’t want to keep you on the phone while you’re driving, Hol.”

“Yeah, I just promised Justin that I wouldn’t talk on my cell on the road. He thinks it might be dangerous.” She sort of laughs. “But let me know how it goes, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“And if it seems right, maybe you should just go for it, Gretch. Pray about it and listen to your gut.”

I tell her I’ll do that and then say good-bye and hang up. Okay, I know that I need to be more understanding of Holly. I realize she’s still a newlywed and her allegiance needs to be to Justin. But the little girl inside me is screaming,
What about me? You used to be my best friend, and now what am I to you, chopped liver?
I know that’s incredibly immature and selfish, but it’s how I honestly feel. Well, that and a bit jealous. Oh, I’m happy for Holly. But how is it that she found Mr. Perfect and I’m still single?

After a few minutes I realize this juvenile temper tantrum is getting
me nowhere. So as I sit in my car, I play back her advice. And then I actually take it. I close my eyes, and I pray about the situation. When I open my eyes, I look at the house, and once again I picture how nice it could be—what a transformation. It would be almost like a miracle. And that’s when I know that I want to be part of this miracle. I want to take something that seems nasty and worthless and turn it into something wonderful.

I imagine the open house I’ll have only six weeks from now, after all the hard work is done, when the house and the yard are picture perfect. I envision the excited Realtors, maybe even Judy, coming and patting me on the back, saying what an amazing job I did. I can just see the pride in Dad’s eyes as he brags to his building buddies about how his “little girl” flipped a house. And I imagine myself later on down the line, perhaps before the school year begins, with Riley proudly beside me as I buy my very own home. Maybe it will be something similar to this one, a house that needs TLC but with solid potential. And suddenly I know that I’m going to do this: I’m going to buy this house.

S
o did you decide to look for something else?” asks Judy as I hand her the key. It’s five thirty now, and she’s ready to go home. “Something less challenging?”

“No…” I shake my head. “Not exactly.”

“Does that mean you’re interested?”

“I actually am.”

Her eyes brighten. “So you see the potential?”

“Yes. That smell was disgusting, but if that was gone, I think I could handle the rest of it just fine.”

She nods. “I totally understand. Certain aromas can really get to me too. But in my line of work, you see and smell all kinds of things in people’s homes.” She chuckles. “It’s funny how people don’t even realize what their own homes smell like—whether it’s cooking odors or pets…” Then she gets an odd look. “Sort of like women who wear too much perfume.”

I have to laugh. “You must mean me. I had to douse myself with a sample of Poison just to get through that house. I must smell like a perfume counter.”

She smiles. “It’s a little strong.”

“Sorry.”

“No problem. So, do you want to make an offer?”

I consider this. “An offer?”

“On the house. Like I said, I’m pretty sure that I’ll get an offer on it tomorrow. Do you want to make one first?”

“Is there an advantage to making one first?”

Her brow creases. “Sometimes. Especially if the seller is eager.”

“Is the seller eager?”

“Actually, he is. He and his wife just moved down to Mexico, and he told me he wants the property off his hands as soon as possible.”

“But I’ve never done this before,” I admit. “I don’t have a clue.”

“That’s where I come in, Gretchen.”

“Right … but I should talk to my dad first. I mean, he hasn’t even seen it.”

“Want to come back into my office and give him a call?”

So I follow her back inside, dialing Dad from my cell phone as we go, and this time he answers. I quickly explain the situation and how there’s another interested party who might make an offer tomorrow. “Can you come and look at it right now?”

“I wish I could, honey, but it’s the church elder dinner tonight. I was just getting dressed to go.”

“Oh…”

“Why don’t you tell me about it? Like, how old is the house, and what kind of shape is it in?”

“Well, it smells horrible. It was a rental.”

He laughs. “That’s not the kind of information I mean, sweetie.”

“Right.” I put on my business hat now. “It was built in the sixties. It’s a three-bedroom, two-bath ranch house. It has a big yard with mature trees. A covered deck. Oh yeah, it’s in a subdivision called Paradise.”

“Paradise?” he says with interest. “Those used to be considered some really nice homes back in the day. Your mother and I even looked to buy there once, but they were out of our price range, so we built our own house.”

It’s hard to imagine a house like I looked at today being too expensive for my parents. “Well, Dad, the house you built for us was much nicer than the one Im considering,” I admit.

“Thanks. But those houses in Paradise were well built. Sturdy and with good materials.”

I remember running through the house now. At least I didn’t fall through any floorboards, and I didn’t notice any shaking going on. “Yes, the house did seem sturdy enough.”

“And good bones?”

“How do you mean?”

“The basic structure, the lay of the rooms—did that seem okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, I might want to open the family room and living room into one great room, but the rest of it was good. And I think it has hardwood floors too.”

“What’s the square footage?” he asks. I relay this to Judy, and she slips some paperwork in front of me, pointing to various lines.

“It’s 2,145 square feet,” I tell him. “And it was built in 1962.”

“Sounds nice and spacious. And is it within your price range?”

I tell him the listing price. “But Betty thought I could offer less.”

“Did Betty see the house?” he asks hopefully.

“No, but she sort of found it for me.”

“Well, then…” He pauses, and I can imagine him doing some quick calculating. “Why don’t you go ahead and make the offer, Gretchen.”

“Without you seeing it?”

“Based on what you told me, I think it should be fine. I’m guessing the only changes you’ll make to the house will be cosmetic. A lot of elbow grease and cleaning, some fresh paint, new countertops, fixtures…”

“Exactly!”

“Go for it,” he says.

“Really?”

“If you think that’s the right house.”

“I do, Dad. I mean, I wasn’t sure at first, but I think I was just reacting to the smell.”

He laughs. “We’ll get a crew in there to rip out that old carpeting, and I’m guessing the smell will be gone by the end of the day.”

“So how much should I offer?”

“You say someone else is interested?”

“Yes.”

“Then you don’t want to lowball them too much. How about $455,000? That will leave you at least $45,000 to fix up the place, and based on the age of the house and the fact you won’t be changing the footprint—”

“Footprint?”

“You know, like where the bathrooms and kitchen are. You don’t plan on moving a bathroom, do you?”

“Oh no, not at all. But I would like to take out a wall or two, to open it up.”

“As long as it’s not a bearing wall. Or if it is, we’ll put in a beam. But if you’re not moving toilets or sinks or anything like that, it shouldn’t be too costly. Fifty grand ought to do it—just as long as
you stick to a budget and don’t get carried away shopping for upgrades. You won’t, will you?”

I laugh. “I quit my shopaholic ways ages ago, Dad.” I don’t mention that I gave it up right after Collin gave me up.

“Then you should be just fine. Go ahead and make the offer, and see how it goes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Are
you
sure?” he asks.

I take in a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Then go for it.”

“You really trust my judgment on this?”

“I do.”

“Okay then. Thanks. I’ll let you know how it goes. Hey, why don’t you turn your answering machine on so I can leave a message?”

“Will do.”

I close my phone and turn to Judy. “Okay. Let’s write up an offer.”

She nods happily as she pulls out a form and begins to fill it in. It’s just a little past six by the time she finishes. “The seller has a fax. Let me give him a call and tell him to watch for it. If we’re lucky, he may have an answer for us sometime this evening.”

“Really? That soon?”

“It’s possible.”

“So, do I just go home and wait then?”

She smiles. “Yes, just go about your business, but keep your cell phone on. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”

I am flushed with excitement as I drive home. I wonder if this is sort of how it would feel to be pregnant—this happy expectation of something that could change your life. But then I figure that’s
probably carrying it too far. Still, I feel like I’m on the edge of my seat, just waiting for the phone to ring.

I keep my phone with me and turned on while I take Riley for the promised walk. And then, after a quick dinner, I load Riley into my car and, with the top down, drive back over to what I’m now thinking of as my house. I’m surprised by how much better the house looks in the dusky light. I try to imagine what it would look like all fixed up, with lights glowing cozily from the inside. I consider getting out and walking around, but the idea of Riley, my baby, in a yard so strewn with doggy-doo and who knows what else makes me decide to wait until the place is cleaned up.

It’s after nine when my phone finally rings. I anxiously pick it up, but it’s just my dad wanting to know how it went.

“I made the offer,” I say. “Just like you said. And the Realtor thought we might even hear back tonight.”

“Well, I’ll get off the line in case she’s trying to call.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“And I was praying about this,” he tells me, “while driving home. I prayed that if it wasn’t the right thing, God would close the door.”

“Oh…” “ I don’t like the idea of God closing this door, but I don’t say so.

“I wouldn’t want you to get into something that was over your head.”

“I know. But I think this is the right house. I really do.”

“Good. Let me know how it goes…but not tonight, sweetie. I
played eighteen holes of golf today, then that dinner meeting… I think I’ll call it a night.”

“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow with updates.”

About five minutes after I hang up, the phone rings again. This time it is Judy. “Sorry to call so late, but it’s an hour earlier in Baja,” she says.

“That’s okay,” I say quickly. “Have you heard from the seller?”

“He just called … but he countered your offer.”

I feel a flood of disappointment washing over me as my house seems to vanish in a puff of smoke right before my mind’s eye. “What’s his counter?”

“Four hundred sixty-nine thousand dollars.”

“Right…”

“You can either accept his counter, or you can raise your offer to somewhere between the two figures.”

Okay, I feel like I’m getting in over my head now, and I want to call Dad, but I know he’s tired … maybe already in bed. So I grab a pen and write down the numbers: the asking price, what I offered, and what he said he would take. And I just stare at them.

“Are you still there?” asks Judy.

“Yeah … I was just thinking.”

“Do you want to wait until tomorrow?”

“No,” I say quickly. “How about if I offer him $460,000?”

“I can give it a try.”

“Is that too low?”

“You never know.”

“It’s just that I need to have enough money left to fix up the place and keep my head above water if, heaven forbid, it doesn’t sell
for as much as it needs to when I’m done with it,” I explain. “So I don’t think I could pay any more than that.”

“I understand.”

“Can you tell him that I
really
want the house,” I say feebly, “that I
really
care about it and that I’ll make it look
really
nice?”

She laughs now. “I can tell him that, but I don’t know that it’ll make any difference.”

I feel embarrassed now. “Right. I mean, I realize it’s business.”

“Do you have a fax machine?”

“No.”

“I really should get your initials on the new offer,” she says. “But since he’s out of the country, maybe we can bend the rules. If he’s interested, I’ll have you pop in first thing in the morning, and we’ll do it right.”

“Do you think he’ll be interested?”

“I don’t know.”

“So, you’ll let me know what he says?”

“As soon as I know, I’ll let you know. But that might not be until morning.”

“Okay.”

So I go to bed feeling a mixture of emotions. I’m trying to be hopeful, trying to believe that the impossible is possible, but I feel anxious and worried. Finally I remember what Dad said about God closing a door. I think that might be what’s happening. Maybe this is not going to happen. Maybe I was never meant to be a house flipper. Maybe all I will ever be is a single kindergarten teacher, living in a tiny apartment with an oversized dog who likes to chew on expensive shoes.