Fat Chance (3 page)

Becky slipped her sunglasses down on the bridge of her perfect nose and gave me one of those “I’ll bet” looks. She was a little miffed that I’d made my first real estate transaction without so much as calling her for advice.

Which I would have done if my mother hadn’t put a ticking clock on the transaction.

“Are we going in?” Becky asked as she moved around the front of her car toward the house.

“We have to wait for Liv and Jane.”

Becky lifted her auburn hair off her neck and twisted it into a messy knot. “Great. You get a house and I get heat stroke.”

“Let’s walk around back,” I suggested.

The small yard circling the building was landscaped, and the grass was freshly mowed. A small, uneven stone pathway led around the side of the single-story home. Someone had recently planted white flowers in the flowerbeds that rimmed the house. Hopefully that someone would keep it up, since I have the blackest thumb in all of south Florida. I didn’t make eye contact with the plants, afraid they’d pick up on my botanical death ray and die on the spot.

Other than a cement slab, the backyard was nothing more than a glorious slope of sand leading straight into the Atlantic
Ocean. The surf lapped softly on the deserted shoreline, sending a cooling, salty breeze to greet us. I slipped off my shoes and felt the cool, fine-grained sand beneath my feet. Besides a few clumps of sea grass, nothing impeded my glorious view. On either side of my beach—I paused to repeat that in my head:
my beach
—the neighbors had privacy fences with some sort of vines growing over them for aesthetic purposes. I didn’t care; the small red flowers perfumed the air, enhancing the whole experience.

“This is my sand,” I said as I wiggled my toes.

“I’m pretty sure the sand belongs to the state,” Becky remarked, hooking the straps of her wedges over one finger.

Unlike me, Becky didn’t have to resort to online auctions and outlet shopping. Thanks to her JD, she earned a decent salary. “Want a roommate? This view is incredible,” Becky sighed. “This place has to be worth a few million, easy.”

True. It was one of the few prime beach-front cottages still standing. Most of the small lots in Palm Beach had been gobbled up by developers. Cottages like mine—I got a rush just hearing that thought in my brain—were practically extinct.

“You could flip this place and—”

“No, I can’t,” I explained. “That was one of the provisions my mother put into the contract.”

“You can’t sell it?”

I shrugged. “I can, but only back to her. Apparently she has a deep emotional attachment to this place even though she never lived here. She had the same tenant for most of the past fifteen years, but six months ago, Melinda left. It’s been vacant ever since.”

“Melinda? You knew the tenant?”

“Kinda,” I said, shading my eyes as the sun behind me painted the surf gold. “She was Jonathan’s assistant in New York
and then somehow went from that to fostering kids. My mother didn’t give me the details, just that she evicted her.”

“That’s cold,” Becky remarked without surprise. “Where is your mother now?”

I turned and looked at my friend. “How should I know? And what difference does it make?”

“None, I guess. But I’m having a hard time with the notion that your mother just had you write a check and handed you the keys? No warning, no nothing?”

I shrugged. “A random act of kindness. Who cares what her motives are? Bottom line? I have a beautiful, three-bedroom oceanfront house.”

“What other restrictions did she put on the sale?”

I waved my hand dismissively. “Just general stuff about maintaining it properly, blah, blah, blah. Oh, and”—I lowered my voice, hoping it would drown in the sound of the waves—“I can’t borrow against it for anything other than maintenance and repairs.”

Becky shook her head. “She dangled the bait and you impaled yourself on the hook.”

“Look around you,” I said. “I could work for the next gazillion years and I’d never be able to afford this place.”

“Can you afford the taxes and the insurance?” Becky countered.

“I don’t have to until I’ve paid off fifteen thousand I owe my mother. Can you go pull the wings off a different butterfly?”

Becky raised her hands in surrender. “You’re right, I’m sorry. This is a huge thing, and I’m sorry for pissing on it.”

We started back toward the house. “How much do you think a total face-lift will cost?” I asked.

“How much have you earned in the past nine years?”

“You’re still pissing.”

“Sorry.”

Olivia Garrett and Jane Spencer were walking up the pressed concrete driveway as we came around the house. Liv was balancing a champagne bottle and a picnic basket. Jane raced toward me, grabbing me in a tight hug that lifted me off the ground. Jane’s very athletic. In fact, we met at the gym. We pretended to be friends so we could take advantage of the two-for-one special. The friendship had lasted. The gym membership, at least for me, had been a one-visit thing.

Jane is an accountant who looks more like one of the Pussycat Dolls. Her hair is long and dark. Her smile is brilliant, and she has a body that looks better than the airbrushed models in fashion magazines.

Liv owns an event planning business with her partner, Jean-Claude. She’s as smart as she is beautiful. There’s something exotic about her features that makes men literally stop dead in their tracks. If I were a lesbian, I’d definitely go for Liv.

Spreading my arms, I said, “Welcome to Chez Tanner.”

“Oh my God!” Liv gushed.

“It’s perfect!” Jane practically squealed before covering her mouth with her hands. “I hear the ocean. I’m so jealous, I hate you,” she added, and then she looped her hand through my arm. “Finley, this is so great.”

As we walked to the front door, I felt my pulse quicken again. I fumbled inside my purse, feeling for the loose key I’d carefully tucked into the side pocket. My hand was actually shaking as I inserted the key, then I heard the unmistakable click of the dead bolt sliding open.

As soon as I pushed open the heavy teak door, I was slapped in the face with the foulest odor in the history of stench.

“What is that smell?” Becky gagged.

The alarm chirped seven times before I pressed the code to disarm it. Not an easy task, given the fact that my eyes were burning from the rancid fumes and I suddenly realized that my bare feet were wet. Looking down, I realized that I was standing on moldy, squishy carpet that was foaming as if having some sort of convulsion.

From the outside, the cottage looked fairly pristine. The inside looked like a scene straight out of
Extreme Makeover Home Edition
. Exposed wiring hung from the ceiling. Not a light fixture to be seen. Probably a good thing, since the standing water would have conducted current and we all would have been electrocuted.

I wondered if my mother had actually evicted Melinda or if she’d left of her own volition. Probably the latter. The house looked as if nothing but cursory repairs had been done in the three years since back-to-back-to-back hurricanes had slammed into Palm Beach.

“What is that?” Liv asked through her fingers, pointing at the wall.

Some sort of brown gunk dripped from the bowed ceiling until it met a furry patch of black mold leeching up from the mildewed carpet.

“It’s alive,” Becky mocked in a horror flick impression. “I can’t believe a tenant put up with this.”

Neither could I. Bravely, I walked through the living room toward double glass doors. My fingernail polish chipped as I battled the latch to unlock, then push open, the door. Blissfully, fresh air whooshed though the house, allowing us to stop using our hands as protective masks.

Sucking in a deep breath, I turned to see that I was standing
in the center of a breakfast nook. I was no expert, but I was fairly sure the grout between the ceramic tiles covering the floor wasn’t supposed to be black. Nor was the kitchen counter supposed to have a crack in the granite that looked a lot like the San Andreas Fault. A grimy square outline marked where a stove had once been connected. Three of the cabinet doors were missing, as was the refrigerator.

Liv said, “Who would let a piece of primo real estate like this go to hell in a hand cart? Sorry, Finley, but this is a dump.”

“A dump smells better.” Becky’s voice was muffled by the hand she still had clamped over her nose and mouth.

“The mold might be toxic,” Jane suggested somberly.

Crying seemed like a good idea. “I hope it kills me quickly,” I said, hating that my voice cracked.

“Hang on,” Becky said, coming over to put an arm around my shoulder. “It’s still a beautiful location. It just needs some TLC.”

“Are you on LSD?” I asked. “The whole place has to be gutted.”

“And?” Becky prompted.

I blinked a few times, my mind in hyperdrive. She was absolutely right. I started looking around. Really looking. If I started from scratch, I could turn the place into my dream house.

“I could make this whole back wall doors and glass,” I said, excitement budding in my stomach. “A sleek kitchen with a wine chiller.”

“You’ll need a lot of wine to forget about the mold,” Jane said. “How could anyone live here?”

I shot her a stern look. “I don’t know, but I guess that’s why my mother arranged for my bank to give me a home equity loan for repairs. I knew there was a catch. I feel like a fool.”

“Don’t,” Becky said. “Look on the bright side. The place has potential. Forget the mold for now.”

“You’re right. I can get rid of the skanky carpet. Hardwood floors, maybe?” Leaving my shoes, tote, and purse on the counter, I went off to explore.

My friends followed along, crouched behind me so that we looked like the Tin Man, the Lion, and the Scarecrow on their way to see the great and powerful Oz. There was a small powder room off the hallway. The toilet bowl and sink were missing. “At least I won’t have to pay to have them removed,” I said, thinking aloud. Farther down the hall I found two small bedrooms opposite one another. There was another bathroom, sans shower stall. The master bedroom was at the end of the hall.

“It’s small,” Liv said. “How many foster children lived here at one time?”

“No clue,” I answered absently. “I can take down this wall,” I suggested. “Combine the master bedroom and one of the other ones. I can build a killer closet and maybe do a spa bath.”

Jane wandered over to the accordion doors lining one wall. As soon as she touched the scratched knob, the door fell off its tracks. The closet was narrow, and the rod was missing. She laid the cheap door on the floor, stepped over it, and walked into the adjoining bathroom.

Coming up behind her, I placed my hand on her hip and moved her to one side. It looked like something you’d find in a youth hostel. Tiny tub, sink affixed to the wall. Mirror hanging above the chipped sink and a toilet sandwiched in between. There was a narrow rectangular window mounted in the shower stall near the ceiling line. Judging by the blistering of the plaster, I was already resigned to the fact that it leaked.

“So,” I said as I rejoined Liv and Jane in the bedroom. “I guess I’ll need a Home Depot credit card.”

“No,” Jane scoffed. “You need an Extreme Home Makeover.” Her green eyes glinted mischievously. “The team can do the house and I’ll do Ty Pennington. Deal?”

“I get Ty!” Jane called as she headed back toward the smaller bedrooms.

“Was that champagne you brought?” I asked Liv.

She nodded. “And some fruit and cheese. I didn’t bring an ice bucket because I thought—”

“C’mon,” I interrupted, leading Jane and Liv back down toxic alley to the kitchen. “You coming?” I called to Becky as we passed the smallest bedroom.

“Be right there.”

So what if my new house was uninhabitable? It didn’t have to stay that way. I had my apartment, so it wasn’t as if I’d have to sleep in moldville. “Sam will help.”

“We’ll all help.” Liv started gathering up the picnic basket, and I grabbed the champagne. “Jane, run out to my trunk and grab the blanket. We can have drinks on the beach.”

Jane half-ran, half-hopped across the living room mush, muttering curses as she went.

I heard a loud bang and yelled, “Becky, what are you doing?”

“Trying to open the frigging closet in here,” she called back.

“Leave it. We’re going out to the beach.”

“I can make this work,” I told Liv a few minutes later as I twisted the metal net off the top of the champagne bottle. Using the hem of my skirt, I eased the cork loose without losing a single bubble.

“Nice,” Liv complimented as Jane arrived and spread the blanket on a level patch of sand.

Looking back at the house, I had a zillion ideas running through my head. Okay, so I was discouraged, but I was also excited by the challenge. “I wonder how much it will cost.”

“Won’t be cheap,” Jane said as she held up a flute for me to fill. “But you can’t go wrong.”

“I can’t?”

She shook her head. “It’s location, Finley. Since you barely paid anything for the property, whatever you put into this place, you’ll get back at least fifty times over. Palm Beach real estate is a great investment. If this place was built prior to 1929, I can even help you apply for some tax deferment programs and rehab grants.”

“Really?”

“You’ll need a contractor,” Liv said. “Though I’m all for calling in Ty Pennington.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Get a hot contractor,” Jane insisted. “You don’t want some old, fat guy with a bad comb-over and his butt crack showing.”

“To Finley’s new status as a land baron. And to hot contractors,” Liv said, raising her glass.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Becky?”

“Naw, we’ll just refill our glasses.”

I grinned at Liv, enjoying the soft tickle of the dry champagne as it washed over my tongue. “The lease on my apartment isn’t up for another three months. Think that’s enough time?”

“Probably not. You need to talk to someone who knows construction,” Jane said. “What about Liam?”

“He’s still on my To Be Avoided list.”

“I thought what he did was gallant,” Liv sighed, then popped a grape into her mouth. “Any other guy would have screwed your lights out.”