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Authors: Shelby Gates

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BOOK: Second Chance
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“You don’t have to, you know,” he said. “It’ll sell no matter what you do. Or don’t do.”

Elle knew this. Evelyn’s phone call the previous night was proof of that. She contemplated telling him. Seeing what he thought.

“You think?” she asked instead.

Cash nodded. “Definitely. Market may be soft everywhere else, but here on the island? People are snapping up properties as soon as they become available.”

Or before, Elle thought.

“So the real estate slump hasn’t hurt you,” she said. She drained her drink, replaced the cap.

“Nope.” He pulled up to the curb, aligning Elle’s passenger door perfectly with the arbor entrance to her grandmother’s house. “Can’t say it has.”

He killed the engine and hopped out of the car. He popped the trunk and started looping bags over his arm.

“I can get them” Elle said, trying to protest. “You need to get back to
…to wherever it is you’re going. And you still need to eat.”

“I still have forty-five minutes. I’m good.” He left two bags for her, lugging the rest to the front door.

Elle grabbed them and hurried up the walk, key in hand.

“You’ve already done a lot in here,” he commented as he made his way to the kitchen.

She glanced around the cottage. It did look better than yesterday. Drop cloths gone, furniture repositioned, floor swept. It looked liveable. Not great and definitely not sellable, but liveable.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he repeated. “I mean, if you just want to get it done and over with, you can.”

Elle started unpacking the bags, setting groceries on the counter. “What do you think a fair price would be?”

“Right now?” he asked. He glanced around. “In this condition?”

“You just said I could sell it right now.”

“You can,” he said. “You’d get more if it was in better shape, but you could definitely sell now. Just like this.”

“So a price?”

He thought for a minute. “I’d have to pull a market analysis. This is a smaller home, one of the smallest on the island, but it’s original. And the view is fantastic.”

“Two hundred thousand?” she asked. “Does that sound about right?”

He frowned at her. “No. Not at all.”

Her heart sank. “No?”

Cash shook his head. “Not even close.”

She wadded up the empty plastic grocery bags and stowed them in a plastic bin underneath the kitchen sink.

“So Evelyn’s offer is a good one,” she said.

“What?” Cash’s voice was sharp. “What offer? What are you talking about?”

Elle opened the refrigerator door and placed the container of milk on the shelf. She grabbed handfuls of produce bags and stowed them in the crisper drawers. “Evelyn Landemeer. She called yesterday.”

Cash rolled his eyes. “Good God. What did that old bag want?”

“She wanted to buy the house.” She closed the refrigerator. “For two hundred thousand.”

His eyes widened and he muttered something under his breath.

“What?”

Cash moved closer, leaned up against the counter next to Elle and folded his arms across his chest. “Do not sell it to her. Not for that amount. It’s worth a hell of a lot more than that.”

“More?” Elle planted her hands on her hips. “Are you serious?”

He nodded. “Absolutely.”

Elle hadn’t considered this. She’d never bought a house before, and had certainly never sold one. She knew what she paid for rent back in Mauston, had a mild idea of what houses would sell for in Madison, her hometown. But here on the island? On the coast? She was clueless.

“Okay.” She thought for a minute. “So, two is too low.”

“Yes. Definitely.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Again, I haven’t done a market analysis. There aren’t a ton of comps to compare to because this house is unique. But the structure is sound, the view is priceless
…I’d put it easily over three. More if you do those cosmetic things you were talking about.”

Elle’s heart beat faster. Three hundred thousand dollars? Her grandmother’s tiny little beach cottage was worth that amount?

“So, the cosmetic things. I can hook you up with a flooring guy if you want,” he said.

“But I like the floors,” Elle said quickly.

“Oh, they’re great,” he agreed. “But the baseboards are rotting.” He pointed to the wood. “And adding some shoe molding wouldn’t be bad.”

Elle nodded, thinking.

He nodded toward the windows. “You might want to replace the windows, too. Helps with the utilities. I know a guy who can do that, too.”

“Those things will cost money, though,” she said. Money she didn’t have.

“But you’ll get it back and then some when you sell it,” he said. “Promise.”

She knew he was right. She’d have to talk to her mom about it and see what she thought. But if Cash was right about what they could sell the house for, she was pretty sure she'd be in favor of it.

“OK, I’ll let you know,” she said.

He nodded. “Sounds good. And, honestly
…I can do some of it. Not the windows, but the floor stuff? I’ve done a little here and there.”

She hadn’t pegged him as a DIY kind of guy. “Really?” 

“Yep.” He pushed himself off the counter. “I should go. And listen, I shouldn’t have been so presumptuous yesterday. You don’t have to use me to sell the house. I can always give you some names. They aren’t local, but they’d jump at the chance to list this place. They’d do a good job for you.”

She’d been taken off-guard by his appearance yesterday. He had brought back far too many memories, memories that she’d locked away for a long time. But, she admitted to herself, she also appreciated that he’d been around to help her both days, by offering free advice and driving her home. He knew what he was talking about.

“No,” she said. “I think I’d like you to do it.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded. “OK. Done then.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to get going. Call me if you need anything. I’ll start looking at the comps so we can plan a strategy.”

“OK.”

He started to say something, then hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was low. “And at some point, we’ll have to talk about it. If we’re going to work together.”

Elle looked at him confused. “Talk about what?”

Cash pulled his keys out of his pocket. He spun them on his finger, fixing her with those eyes that always melted her. “Me and you, Elle. Me and you.”

 

SIX

 

 

Elle thought about what Cash said as she put the groceries away. There was no “me and you” with Cash. At least, not as far as she was concerned.

But twelve years ago, there had been. Twelve years ago, that was all there had been.

She stood at the sink, rinsing a head of romaine lettuce. She still hadn’t eaten. She tore the leaves, sliced carrots and tomatoes and threw together a simple salad. And thought about Cash.

They’d grown up together. For ten years, they’d spent their summers together. Not literally—Cash had grown up on the island whereas she had been a summer girl. At least, that’s what the locals called her when she came to visit. He had his circle of friends and, after a few summers, Elle fell in with her own group of friends on the island, girls with grandmas close to her own grandmother. But she was always aware of him, always knew who he was. The first summer she’d visited, when she was eight, he’d been the one to get her out on the first round of dodge ball at the park. She’d had a bruise on her stomach for almost a week. When she was twelve and banded together with Molly and Kelsey to spend the summer cleaning up the beaches on the island, Cash had been the first boy to offer to help. And when she was fourteen and shyly sported a bikini at the beach for the first time, an aqua-blue two-piece decorated with tiny white hearts, he’d been the first boy to stare openly at all of her new curves.

Those were the summers that had been fine. Normal. Uncomplicated. Those were the summers she would allow herself to think about.

She pushed him out of her mind. She didn’t want to go there. Not now. Not ever.

She polished off her salad and set the plate and fork in the sink. There was no dishwasher in the house, no microwave. Her grandmother had been funny about modern conveniences, embracing some, eschewing others. No new-fangled objects were welcome in the kitchen. But DVR? She’d bought one the year they came out and delighted in showing it off that summer to Elle. Music? She had every Frank Sinatra and Billie Holiday CD there was. Elle was certain that, if her grandmother had still been alive, she’d have an iTouch, a smartphone and whatever other gadget that might take her fancy.

The memories made her smile. Eccentric
…that had been her grandmother. Not elegant and put together like Evelyn, not white-curled and powdery like so many of her elderly friends on the island. She’d been…normal. Medium-length gray hair—she’d had honey blond hair, just like Elle, before it had gone gray, She’d had no interest in dyeing it. Grayish-green eyes. Just like Elle. Not tall, but not short. Just like Elle. Not plump and not thin, but somewhere in the middle. Just like Elle.

And their similarities were more than just physical. Her grandmother liked simplicity, liked for things to remain constant. She loved the sun and the sand and the ocean breezes. And, more than anything, she loved Keefer Island.

Just like Elle.

She sighed. She had so many mixed emotions, being back on the island. Her happiness was somehow muted, as if a blanket were muffling her emotions. The smell and sight and sound of the ocean, the intensity of the sun—it was all tempered. Navigating the familiar streets and walking by the businesses she’d frequented so many times in the past was bittersweet. Being back in the little yellow cottage was comforting, but lonely.

Something was missing. She could pretend it was just her grandmother, try to convince herself that was it. It was the first time she’d been back since she’d passed. But she wasn’t that good of an actress. She knew there was more to it.

Cash.

Her cell phone chirped and she sighed with relief. A distraction.

She answered it.

“Elle?” It was her mother.

She squirted dish soap on the plate and scrubbed it clean, then ran it under hot water. “Hi, Mom.”

“You’re all settled?”

She washed the fork. “For the most part.”

“And how’s the job?” She said ‘job’ as if it were a bad word.

“Well, there was a little problem,” Elle said slowly. She’d already told herself she wasn’t going to bring it up unless her mother did. So much for that.

“What kind of problem?”

“They canceled.”

“The nanny service?” Her mother’s voice was alarmed. “What on earth did you do?”

Elle’s grip on the phone tightened and she tried to swallow her anger. It was just like her mother to think it was her fault, that she’d done something to get herself fired or let go. It didn’t matter that she was almost thirty years old—her mother still treated her like a problem teenager. Which, ironically, she never was.

“I didn’t do anything,” she responded, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. “There was a misunderstanding. The family forgot to cancel.”

“So, now what? You’re spending the entire summer not working? This wasn’t supposed to be a vacation, Elle.”

“I’m perfectly aware of that.”

“Are you looking for something else, then? Maybe you should just come home
…”

“No.” she said quickly. “I’m here for the house, too. Remember?”

“Yes, but…”

She cut her off. “I talked to a local realtor.” She debated how much she should tell her. “He said the market is really good here. We—I mean, you—should have no problem selling.”

“Really?” Her mother sounded pleased.

“Yes.” Elle hesitated. “He also thinks you’ll get a great price.”

“How much?”

Of course that’s what her mother would care about. The only thing she would care about.

“Well, in the condition it’s in now? Probably close to three.”

“Three hundred thousand?”

“Yes.”

Her mother let out a low whistle. “So what are we waiting for? Give me his number. I’ll call him and you can come home. Maybe teach summer school or something. Get a head start on sending out more resumes.”

“Let me finish,” she said. “But he also thinks you can get more. A lot more. If we do some stuff around the house.”

“How much more?”

Elle knew what she was thinking. How much money would she have to spend to make money? And how much more could she get? Her mother wasn’t hurting financially but she had expensive tastes. Expensive tastes that would benefit from having three hundred thousand dollars added to her bank account.

“A lot.” Elle knew it was a vague answer but she had no idea. Cash hadn’t put a number on what the improvements might bring in. “Possibly double.”

“Double?” Her mouther practically squealed her response.

BOOK: Second Chance
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