The Flip (6 page)

Her sister was silent for a moment. “Marriage is all about compromise. Julie, you can’t push a guy like Brad around. He’s not your lackey.”

“Lackey, are you kidding me? Just because I want to better our life, I get a bum rap. If I were a guy, everybody would say I was ambitious.
When you’re a woman, you’re labeled a bitch if you want to get ahead.” Julie snorted. “Anyway, where is the compromise? We both want to make money, so I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It’s like he’s scared of the house.”

“Brad?” her sister scoffed. “Brad’s not afraid of anything. I’ve never met a braver guy. He married you, after all.”

“Screw you, Heather. I’m a prize.” Julie laughed.

“Of course you are, honey. Men get like that. Scared. Sometimes they feel like they’re losing control.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Think about it, Jules. He does most of the
flip himself. I know what’s his name—”

“Willy.”

“Willy helps, but the whole thing sits on his shoulders. Your success or failure depends mostly on him. That’s a lot of responsibility. Sounds to me like Brad just wants to make sure you stay on track and don’t get overwhelmed.”

“I don’t know,” Julie replied skeptically.

“No, listen, I only have a minute or so before I have to hang up. Sounds to me like Brad wants to take smaller risks and not get stalled by a project that may be too big for him. Life goes fast, really fast, Jules. First we were dating, then married, and now I’m holding on to the tail end of my thirties with my fingernails. Jack turned forty
last year! That’s middle age, if we are lucky enough to get to eighty.”

“Oh, stop it,” Julie laughed. “You have years and years.”

“Cooper is going to middle school next year. Lainey, the year after that. Soon they’ll be driving. It goes fast. You know Mom always said that the days drag, but the years fly.”

“I can’t believe she’s gone five years already.”

“See what I mean? Don’t waste time on stupid stuff, Julie. Don’t fight with him over nonsense. In the end, it’s all bullshit. Nothing matters.”

“OK, OK, I hear you. You’re creeping me
out. You are only six years older than me, and you’re talking like you’re in AARP.”

“Oh, I can’t believe this!” Heather said with disgust. “Coop missed the bus. I have to take him to school. I said I’m coming! Call you later, but I mean it. Brad’s a great guy. Don’t fuss over the nonsense.”

Julie clicked off her phone. The train would be there any minute. She slid out of her car and climbed the steep steps to wait by the track. It was still warm, with fall just around the corner. A breeze picked up, and she was sorry she hadn’t taken her pashmina wrap to wear over her blazer. It was always so stuffy on the train that she never liked to overdress. She leaned close to a big poster on the platform, trying to duck out of the wind.
Turning, she studied the woman staring back at her from the picture. She had a familiar face, but Julie couldn’t quite place her. She was short, with white hair in the front of her short hairstyle, black in the rear. She reminded Julie of Cruella de Vil. Julie backed up a bit to see the advertisement. “Georgia Oaken—Resident Medium,” the black lettering proclaimed. “Tuesday 9 PM on the Ghost Network.” She remembered now; this woman had her own program where she communicated with the dead.
I wonder how well she communicates with the living
, Julie thought. Maybe she should hire her to help her communicate with Brad better. Julie grinned. The train chugged into the station, the whistle announcing its presence. Julie slipped through an open door, her gaze glued to the poster
of the psychic as the train pulled out of town.

Chapter 7

Brad cursed and hit the top of the steering wheel with his fist; he’d forgotten to tell Julie about the Tiffany-style lampshade. He had a feeling it was worth a few bucks. He loaded it back into the truck along with the paintings. He would try to swing by Sal’s and move it quickly. Maybe he would sell it and surprise Julie by putting the proceeds toward a new counter in their kitchen. He pressed a button on the steering wheel and said, “Telephone, Sal, cell.”

The disembodied voice of Siri repeated the information, and three rings later, Sal’s gravelly voice filled his truck.

“Sal, it’s Brad. How are you?”

“Crazy busy. I have an auction planned for Saturday. You got something?” he asked hopefully. “I need filler.”

“I got a bunch of stuff. We bought the Hemmings place.”

“Hmm, Bedlam House, that dive. You found anything in there?” Sal inquired.

“Paintings, boxes of Victorian crap.”

“Any silver?”

Brad thought for a moment. “Nah. I did see some old colored glass jars with little silver handles.”

“What colors?”

“Two blues and a rose one. The rose one might be cracked, though.”

“Bonbon jars. Doesn’t matter. The blue ones are the more valuable. Red is more common. I can get about a buck or a buck-fifty for them. I’ll give you forty apiece.”

“Make it fifty. I have a few paintings. I have to look up the artists.” Brad paused. “There’s a fur wrap.”

“Take it to a secondhand store. Fur’s not politically correct right now.”

“It has, like, six faces on it.” Brad shuddered.

“Yuck, I hate those things. Forget about it,” Sal said, his Brooklyn accent evident. “I can’t
move them. There’s a little store in Huntington that sells old clothes. I would just give it to them.”

“Give it to your new girlfriend—what’s her name?” Brad offered.

“Molly. She wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those. Anyway, she’s more of a bohemian.”

“I thought she was a Realtor.”

“Hah! Funny.” Sal laughed.

“How much for a…what’s the name? Yeah, a Tiffany lampshade?”

“What’s it look like?” Sal asked.

“I don’t know…like an upside-down salad bowl. Little bits of colored glass—”

“Whoa!” Sal interrupted. “The shade or the whole lamp?”

“Just a shade,” Brad told him.

“That sucks. It’s better with the lamp. What makes you think it’s Tiffany?”

“It’s the tiny glass mosaics. That’s Tiffany, right?” Brad asked.

“Well, there’re a lot of fakes out there. What kind of pattern?” Sal paused. “If it’s genuine, we could be talking six figures.”

Brad stepped on the brake; the truck stopped short. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Is it a floral?”

“You mean like a flower design? Yeah, lots
of flowers.”

“Look for a stamp with a date or the name on the iron part. The early shades are really valuable. See if it has a signature. If you find one, it could mean Louis Comfort might have made it himself.”

“Who?”

“Louis Comfort Tiffany. That would be golden. Look for that name. And tap on it lightly,” Sal advised.

“Why?”

“If it rattles a bit, it could mean it’s genuine. When they’re old, the solder holding it together shrinks so the glass doesn’t fit tightly. Sometimes they make a noise. Don’t be too rough
with it!”

“Could you sell it?” Brad’s hope was rising.

“Does McDonald’s have golden arches?” Sal laughed. “Bring it in before you break it, you clumsy oaf, and I’ll get it in Saturday’s auction.”

“No problem. Sal?”

“Yep?”

“Let’s keep this between us. I want to surprise Julie. I’ll be by later today.”

“Got it.”

Brad pulled into the broken driveway, his head filled with more treasure finds in the attic. He was going on a hunt today.

He met the foundation contractor and escorted him toward the house. He was a big guy, with a belly barely contained by his blue work shirt. It hung over his belt, and his ham-sized hands touched the walls as they descended the external steps into the basement. They went down another set of steps carved from bedrock and entered the subcellar. The walls were made of dirt and stone, the house above them weighing heavily on the support beams. Brad held up a lantern, letting the light pool around them. It was quiet here. Not a sound penetrated the dank interior. He knew the secret room was on the other side of the wall. Their voices were muted in the gloom. Shadows stretched on the whitewashed stone, making them look like distorted giants. Brad stared at walls that seemed to writhe and move as
though someone were trapped underneath. He squinted hard, trying to focus in the darkness. Images of handprints feathered across the stone, the fingers gnarled, clutching the surface as though it were a lifeline. It was a play of light, he reasoned. Julie’s words from earlier that morning came back to him. Perhaps the energy of past occupants still circulated here. Were the shadowy handprints residual memories or refracting light playing with his vision? A whine like thousands of insects filled his ears, and he shook his head to clear it.

“I hate these old places,” the contractor said uneasily. He took out a crumpled handkerchief to wipe the sweat beading on his shiny forehead.

Brad nervously eyed the walls, squinting hard. Everything was hazy, as if the room were filled with smoke. Spots darkened the mossy stone, contracting to dense splashes of gray. They shifted, their patterns ebbing, as though they were breathing. From underneath lowered lashes, he glanced at the other man, wondering if he saw the changing patterns of light as well, but he felt too silly to ask him if he did. A sound like a low moan rent the turgid air. Brad locked his gaze with the contractor, who shrugged, his face devoid of color.

“Did you hear that?” Brad whispered, holding up the lantern so the light reflected off the walls. They slithered, the shadows making them appear as though they were moving. He
walked over to touch the cold surface. It was as solid as rock. What else could it be? “For a minute, it looked like someone was there,” he laughed. The other man joined him, their mirth changing the entire atmosphere.

“It’s the light playing tricks with the stone. Happens all the time. I’m going to have to put in a support beam here.” He walked around the dirt floor. “And here.” He lifted the bowed wooden boards with competent hands. They heard a loud groan, and their eyes met for an instant. “She’s an old lady that needs a facelift—soon.”

“How much?”

They haggled a bit, but not much; Brad thought the estimate fair.

“When can you start?” Brad asked.

Though they were alone, Brad had the uneasy feeling that they were in a crowd. The space hummed; in fact, the air vibrated with energy. The area was confined; lazy dust motes floated on the stagnant air. Turning around, he searched the dark corners, looking to see if someone was there. A rat squeaked, causing them both to jump.

The contractor cleared his throat uneasily; his voice was rusty. “I do this all the time, but it never fails—the old places unnerve me.” They both laughed. “We will start tomorrow, if that’s OK with you?”

“Yeah. Do you want a deposit?”

“I’m not worried about you.” They shook and arranged to meet at seven the next morning.

Brad escorted him out, then stood in the rutted driveway for a long time. He looked back at the house, considering it, debating about where to start. He stared at the cellar entrance, wondering if he should go back and examine it again. Pulling a worn baseball cap from his back pocket, he placed it firmly on his head. He walked up the front steps, the boards musically making his presence known.

When Brad got to the double doors, one swung open, inviting him in. It squealed on its hinges, adding to the macabre atmosphere. A laugh bubbled up from his lips. That’s all they needed—intruders.
Really
, he thought.
What did
they expect to find in this dump?
He cursed, thinking they had had a break-in. He observed the open door. Carefully, he entered, quietly walking through the reception area, his eyes darting around. Looking back, he saw only one set of footprints on the dusty floor. He bent to examine them: there was a single set of tracks and they were his. He stood listening to the silence and knew he was alone. The dust was undisturbed; the house was devoid of all life except for him. Light refracted from the huge chandelier in the main entry, the crystal tinkling gently. Brad looked up to see it swaying, the small ornamental drops clinking against one another. Searching for the source of a breeze, he felt only the decayed, stuffy indoor atmosphere. The chimes danced along his spine to the top of his
head, his blood coursing through his veins. Pulsing with energy, he put his hand on the solid banister, placing his foot on the first stair. The upstairs called to him, drawing him toward the attic.

His phone’s shrill ring broke the silence, Julie’s face lighting the screen. Brad bit his lower lip, unimaginably annoyed by her call. A feeling of impatience welled in his chest, and he found himself fighting the urge to hit ignore. He was in charity with her, wasn’t he? he thought. It was good between them, so why did he feel a gargoyle of resentment resting heavily on his shoulder? As if to confirm it, Brad looked over his shoulder, seeing only weak sunlight peeking through the stained glass windows to light the gloom inside.

He swiped his finger and held the phone to his ear. “Hi,” he said curtly.

Julie was silent for a moment. “Anything wrong?”

Brad snarled, “Why do you think that, Julie? What is it? I’ve got things to do.”

“Sorry for interrupting your busy day. I just wanted to know what happened with the foundation people.”

“I have the proposal. I booked them for tomorrow. It’s a quick fix.”

Julie sighed. “You hired them?”

“Look, if you want to do this yourself, just say so, and I am out of here.” Anger simmered
beneath his skin, running like white lightning through his bloodstream. The words, filled with heat, poured out of his mouth, the same one that had kissed her so tenderly that morning and told her that he loved her. It was as if he didn’t own his own body.

“Sorry,” she snapped. “Usually we discuss the estimates.”

“Well, this time we didn’t.”

“Brad—”

“I don’t have time, Julie. I have to get this place cleaned up before Willy gets here to help with the baths and kitchen. I’ll see you later.” The tension he felt was like a pot boiling over and all his hostility was focused on her. He touched the
phone’s surface, cutting off her good-bye.