The Flip (3 page)

The flashlight in Brad’s phone illuminated the cave-like quality of the room. He hugged the
wall, knowing he was deep in the ground, below the basement. He held up the light, the breath escaping from his lungs. The room was filled with rows and rows of boxes and crates. They were stacked nine feet high, some broken from the weight. The contents of two containers had spilled out; papers and knickknacks littered the dirt floor. He bent, his fingers going through the rubble to pick up a leather box, its binding cracked. He opened it to find an antique sewing kit, complete with colored thread that hadn’t seen the light of day for over 150 years. He shoved at a container lying sideways on the floor, jumping back, his heart racing, when a rat skittered over his booted foot. “Pussy,” he muttered, disgusted with himself. His face heated, and he wondered where all this unease was coming from. He had
seen things during his four years overseas that would have broken his late mother’s heart, but had hardly rocked him. He couldn’t understand what unnerved him about this house. Reaching up, he pulled down a box, finding housewares, gloves, all kinds of delicate lacework, tablecloths, dishes, tools—it was a treasure trove of junk, the stuff of everyday life dating back to who knew when.

He pulled out his phone and dialed the trash people, letting them know they had to pick up the filled Dumpster and replace it, and that he needed a larger one for at least another week. He slid out a credit card and read them the number to pay for the additional equipment. Going through this pile was going to add an extra week
he really couldn’t afford. It meant delaying the repairs, which would result in showing the house later. Brad cursed, knowing that with winter around the corner, they might be stuck with this wreck, paying their contractor loan into the spring. It also meant they couldn’t afford to move on to the next house, so he cursed again. He looked at the four walls of the room. He was on the other side of the subbasement. He knocked on the wall, hearing its hollowness. Punching a hole through the plaster, he realized he was on the other side of the outside of the house. It was a secret room deep in the bowels of the house, sealed with plaster to be hidden away for perhaps a hundred years or so. He considered for what reason the room might have been walled off. There was a good chance they might find some
valuables. Why else would there be a secret room? Perhaps they’d find some things to sell to compensate for the delays. He coughed, his throat clogging from the odor. Something had died in the room. Brad recognized the smell of decay.
Probably a nest of dead rats
, he thought grimly.

Brad eyed the dusty boxes in the corner with distaste, but he knew he had no choice. Pushing them through the narrow opening and then carting them up the rickety staircase, he made a neat pile in the center of the parlor. Cold, damp air seeped in from outside; the salon echoed with emptiness. In the living room, there was a faint musty smell, and a giant rusty watermark stained the carved plaster of the ceiling. It was a huge area, with a scuffed parquet floor, the walls
a depressing mahogany paneling. It was so big it probably had doubled as a ballroom. A filthy wooden dado spanned all the walls around the room, empty but for mice droppings. He wondered if these boxes contained all the knickknacks that had decorated it, for which the fussy Victorian era was famous. Flowered wallpaper hung in shreds over the high paneling. Hands on hips, Brad surveyed the exotic wood covering the walls almost to the high ceiling. He walked over to rap on the surface with his knuckle.

Gerald, observing from the doorway, laughed deeply and said, “Knock, knock.”

Brad cocked his head, as if he had heard something. “Boo,” he whispered to the empty room. They could get a nice few dollars for all this
wood. He knew of a place in Connecticut that could probably sell it on consignment. Getting rid of it would certainly lighten up the room a bit. Victorians weren’t his thing. He preferred the clean lines of midcentury modern, with organic colors. The walls, painted dark gray and with their oppressive gothic woodwork, were overbearing. He and Julie did not see eye to eye on this style. But, now he had a group of boxes to investigate for anything interesting and worth keeping. He pulled over a builder’s paint can to sit on while he sifted through the many boxes.

Most held clothing from the early twentieth century. He damn near had a heart attack after tearing one box open to find a moth-eaten fur wrap. It had six little rodent heads, with
twelve glass eyes caught in a permanent look of surprise. “Ugh.” Gingerly, he picked it up with his index and thumb and threw it onto the growing pile of refuse. “Are you the guys responsible for all the mouse shit in here?” He laughed. The triangular faces stared at him blankly. He stood, scanned the room for an old towel, and threw it over the faces. “Rest in peace, you little suckers.”

“If he throws away my fox stole, you are going to have to kill him,” Tessa said.

“Me? Why me? I certainly don’t care. I hated that thing on you. It aged you dreadfully,” Gerald replied, seating himself on a box. “He really is making a mess here.”

“You never even saw me in it. I got it
after—”

“Oh, Tessa, I saw you in it.”

Tessa ignored him as she stared at Brad. “Look at his shoulders. I could just—”

“You could just not,” Gerald corrected. “Not your place. He’s married.”

“Since when did that matter?” Tessa sniffed. Coughing, she waved her graceful arms before her. “Oh, the dust.” She used to be a tall woman; people had called her robust. To Gerald, she was enchanting, with her masses of red-gold hair and mysterious gray eyes. She had porcelain skin with a hint of roses in her full cheeks. He never tired of staring at her—or at her magnificent bosom.

“Cut it out, Tessa, you can’t breathe anymore. Stop waving. He doesn’t notice you.”

“Yet.” Tessa looked at Gerald with a faint moue of distaste. He was still here, even after all these years. When was that man going to understand that she wasn’t interested in him? He was as boring now as he had been back then. Her narrowed eyes compared her companion’s lean form to the vital human stirring up all the dust, as well as her desires, in the parlor. She watched the fabric of Brad’s shirt tighten against the muscles of his taut shoulders. He brushed back his bothersome hair that fell against his damp face, the weak sunlight glinting off the sweat of his burnished forearms. Shivering with need, she licked her lips and exhaled deeply, turning into
smoke to envelop Brad.

Brad stood still, his features frozen. He looked around the room, cocking his head. What was that? Bands tightened around his chest, and for a minute his breathing became labored. He thought he must have pulled a muscle carrying up that last box. Stretching, he stood to spread his arms wide, trying to get air into his lungs, but he found it difficult to breathe. He leaned forward, attempting to relieve the pressure. Maybe he was having a heart attack. His dad had died of heart disease. Sweat beaded his brow, and his hair slipped out of its ponytail to curtain his wet face.

“Stop it. You’re choking him.” Gerald swirled around her.

“But he feels so good,” Tessa purred, relishing the feel of human contact. “A few minutes ago, you were trying to scare him into leaving.”

“A few minutes ago, he was sweeping up my newspapers. He’s a nuisance, but I don’t want to hurt him.” He watched her spirit glow as she sucked the strength from the young man. Tessa was intrigued, and that was bothersome. This one was almost too handsome, and that could turn into a problem.

The room dimmed; as his sight narrowed to a pinprick, Brad thought for sure he was going to pass out.

“He’s swooning.” Strong arms grabbed
Tessa, forcing her to let go. She inflated, her eyes glowing red as she reared up in hatred.

“Leave me alone, Gerald. You never let me have any fun.”

“You were killing him, darling. I can’t let you hurt them,” he said as she flew up the chimney in a fury. “You don’t want the Sentinels to interfere, do you?” he called after her ominously. His voice echoed back to him. He chuckled, his rakish face smiling. He circled the interloper in a fine gray mist.

“Handsome is as handsome does,” he said, admitting with a shake of his head that this was a rare specimen of male perfection.
Why couldn’t he be fifty and bald?
he speculated. This was going to
be a problem. Tessa was attracted to this human, and he could see why. Materializing above the mortal, Gerald watched him struggle for air, hating the fact that he knew this man was vital and alive. Gerald was tired of being stuck here in this sort of limbo, waiting for Tessa. He really should just leave, he thought, as he dissolved into yellow smoke to follow Tessa up the chimney.

The howling wind in the fireplace flue was the first thing Brad noticed as his breathing returned to normal. Doubled over, the crushing weight had disappeared with the same haste as it began. Whatever it was, he was fine now.
No more burritos for breakfast
, he thought. He was going back to egg whites. Clearing his throat, he shook his head; his pulse slowed to normal, and he
decided he was just winded. What else could it be? He rested his hand on the dark wood mantel, feeling a strange vibration in its surface.
This was getting too weird
, he thought. He had to shake off the feelings of doom and gloom. He had work to do, and it wasn’t going to get done by itself. The longer they took with the flip, the more his wife would get attached to it. The sky was darker, rain was coming on, and he would have liked to finish tomorrow, but knew he had another good hour of work left. Saturday would be easier with the two of them going through the mountains of refuse. Julie would be able to tell whether some of this junk was valuable.

He lit the flimsy chandelier with its tulip glass shades. Its light flickered and wavered,
bathing the room in a buttery hue. Brad shivered a bit, then sat down on the can to start sorting through another of the boxes. He and Julie had figured all the valuables had been stripped by the more recent occupants, but he had found a pretty good haul in the undisturbed hole. Forty-five minutes later, he had more piles than he could count: clothes, letters, books, any papers he found interesting, a tidy pile of old money, perfume bottles, canes, old lace-up shoes, parasols, and a growing stack of paintings. He picked up an old glass lampshade covered with grime. Brushing dirt from the mosaic pattern of the glass, his breath caught in his throat when the trapped colors were freed to reflect in patterns on the wall. He held it up to the late sunlight streaming in the bare window and spun it slowly, watching the
reds, blues, greens, and yellows paint the dull room with vibrancy. It was like spring had entered hell, he thought with a wry grin. Might be valuable. He gingerly placed it in an empty box to take home. His eyes smarted from the dust, and as much as he’d wanted to go through the rest of the house, his back was aching. This work was filthy.

Brad had agreed to this business because he hated driving the limo. After being in Afghanistan, chauffeuring the rich and spoiled seemed superfluous. It was hard to keep his mouth shut when they demanded he speed up to risk a ticket because they were running late. Some paid him just to walk their dog. It was stupid work. This was much more satisfying. He
had worked with his father around the house when he was a kid, so most of the minor repairs were easy. Brad had liked the feeling of pride when he handed over the keys to the young couple who’d bought the flip they finished last month. It was a two-bedroom Cape, an easy fixer-upper they bought at foreclosure for less than $40,000. Twenty thousand went toward insulation, a new kitchen, one new bath, and a fresh coat of paint. They did it in the industrial style, all lean lines, and it sold for over $180,000. They made a tidy profit, their biggest, and Julie had spotted this monstrosity on the way home. Why, he thought to himself, did he choose to take the long way home? Normally, they went on the highway, but that night he took the scenic route, and Julie had screeched for him to stop when she saw the for-
sale sign swinging in the breeze.

“Oh…my…God! I love this place.” She urged him to go up the winding driveway. It was steep and narrow, made more for horses and carriages. They got to the top of the hill, and Julie leaped out of the car.

“Jules, stop!” he called to his five-foot-nothing wife as she casually jumped the short iron fence. “You can’t go—”

“Come on. This place is amazing.” She waded through the overgrown yard and got up on the porch to peer through a window.

It was big, a genuine Victorian, with dirty white shingles and a dilapidated porch that wrapped around the house, supported by posts
decorated with gingerbread woodwork at the top. He admitted to himself, it did have a certain charm, if you liked fussy details.

“It’s Second Empire,” his wife informed him, looking at the flat-topped mansard roof. “Oh, it has a cupola.”

“A what?” he asked.

She pointed to an onion-shaped blob on the top of a tower, its gold paint tarnished and peeling off in large strips.

“It’s ugly,” he told her plainly.

“I think we’ll go gray and white with red accents.” Julie ignored him as she stared into the gloom of the interior through the wavy glass. “Look at the size of that entry. Brad,” she
whispered in awe, “the staircase looks like it’s never been touched.”

“Yeah, Julie, I don’t think anything’s been touched here. Besides, we’re trespassing. It’s probably over our budget.” Brad only saw mountains of work. “The pipes would have to be pulled out. They’re probably lead. Look, Jules.” He pressed his work boot down on the warped wood. “The whole place is rotted. This will be too hard for us.” He scanned the dilapidated roof, slates broken and missing in spots. The shingles sagged in the center portion of the house. “It looks like the Addams family lived here,” he told her wryly, but he knew her mind was made up. “Lurch?” He cupped a hand to his face and called loudly, “Hey, buddy. Lurch. Trick or treat.”

Julie nodded absently and, smiling with the determination of a Sherman tank, pulled out her phone. “Please,” she pleaded. “Maybe it’s a great buy and we’ll make a ton. I mean, just look at this place.” She held up her arm expansively. It was at least three stories, with a widow’s walk facing the calm waters of Cold Spring Harbor. It was nestled in a tangle of overgrown foliage, roots breaking through the floorboards of the porch. The house had a round tower on the side, shaped like a witch’s hat. He silently counted the windows. There were forty just on the side he could see. It was too much, he knew—way beyond their capabilities as flippers—but he knew her mind was made up.