Читать книгу Her Road Home - Laura Drake - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

A HALF HOUR LATER, top down, she scuttled through the weekend-busy town. She idled at the four-way stop at its center, feeling like she was sitting in a display window. Naked.

Hunching her shoulders, she peeked from behind her hair curtain. Reactions from the strolling tourists ranged from smiles of recognition to baffled expressions. The distinctive chug-whine of the old VW engine caught even more attention when she accelerated through the intersection. Maybe her bad-boy mechanic could get her bike back to her quick, or another loaner would get returned and she could swap.

Look on the good side. In the meantime, this beats walking.

She took the turnoff at Foxen Canyon, just because she liked the name. The sun warmed her shoulders and the wind tore through her hair. The radio played a perfect road song: Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car.”

The road wound between hills in sweeping, perfectly canted curves. This drive would be great on a motorcycle. She tapped into the song’s rhythm, accelerating on the straights and leaning just a bit into the corners, imagining her bike beneath her. Scenery blurred to slashes of blue, green and gold, rushing past the windscreen. The wind softened the engine’s whine and carried the scent of freshly turned soil. Small champagne bubbles of joy rose in her chest to explode in her brain.

Topping a rise, a vineyard stretched ahead, rows precision straight. She passed a tasting room, a low adobe-style building with a broad, shaded porch. The winery was a sure tourist magnet. It looked like a large home, owned by people who would welcome visitors as family.

She let the road lead her deeper into the hills. Farmhouses appeared around a few bends, but for the most part, the hills stood as wild and empty as the first man who found them.

A few miles farther, she came out of the trees and saw it.

An old house, deserted and in sad disrepair, perched atop a hill overgrown with wild oats. Slowing, she pulled into the weed-choked gravel drive. The Victorian rose two stories, with a deep shaded porch dressed in broken gingerbread trim. A rounded gable graced the right front corner, the scalloped wood siding was worn and broken in places. Crossing the yard, Sam stumbled over a real estate agent’s sign buried in the tall, straw-colored grass.

She circled the building and spied an old-fashioned garage, which had likely served as a carriage house in a former life. A property line of eucalyptus trees shaded the yard and the breeze blew their dusky scent to her along with the chatter of mockingbirds.

This house had good bones, from what she could see. It would be such a blast to restore the old lady to her glory. She itched to get her tools in her hands—to fix what was wrong here—to create a home out of a wreck.

She came around the corner of the house. The view past the sagging picket fence stopped her cold. Hills dotted with live oaks rolled away to the west like waves on a golden ocean.

Just that fast, she fell in love.

After fumbling with her cell phone, she dialed Homestake Realty, the company listed on the sign.

After setting up an immediate showing, she wandered back to the porch and lowered herself to the sun-warmed steps with a sigh. Leaning against the railing, she closed her eyes. The heat eased the aches of the accident, and something inside loosened.

I’ve got to tell Dad. She actually lifted the phone, then, remembering, she let it drop to her lap.

His death hadn’t been a shock. He’d battled the cirrhosis a long time. She’d spent countless evenings at the hospital after work, watching the baseball game and sharing the news of her day until he fell asleep. But one restless night, he’d wanted to talk.

“I thank God that you’re a good girl, Sammy. I know I can’t take credit for that. Hell, you took better care of me than I ever did you.” He’d held his hand up to halt her protest. “One thing dying does is make you to take a hard look at things.”

“Dad, I don’t want to talk about this.” She’d looked away.

“You don’t have any choice, Sammy. I’m tired, and ready to join your mother. Now shut up a minute.” His voice, soft as flannel, blanketed the sting of the words. The fluorescent light above the bed blanched his normally florid face, crumbling her wall of denial. He looked like a talking corpse.

“I can’t give you any good advice, Sam. If I’d had any, I’d have made better decisions myself. But one thing I do know. Life is cold. You’ll need to build a warm corner for yourself.”

He fell silent a moment, fighting pain. She sank onto the mattress beside him to hold his hand.

“Working or not, I always paid two things—the mortgage insurance, and my life insurance, so you could have seed money to start your own business. It’s time to make your own dreams, Sam, and let me go so I can stop mourning mine.”

He’d put her hand aside and pushed himself up in bed. “Now, turn on the dang game, we’re missing the first inning.” He dashed his hand across his eyes, and they’d pretended to get absorbed in a game neither one cared about.

Three weeks later, he was dead.

Funny how she forgot that sometimes.

I miss you, Dad.

She’d drifted into a light doze when the sound of a car engine laboring up the hill roused her.

A petite blonde woman in an immaculate peach business suit and high heels alit from a new Cadillac sedan. From the looks, Homestake Realty did well. Sam glanced down at her T-shirt, jeans and motorcycle boots.

This should be interesting.

“You called about the property? I’m Honey Conklin, Homestake Realty.” She watched her footing as she navigated the yard in a vain attempt to keep her heels from sinking in. When she’d tottered close enough, the woman extended a hand with bones as thin and delicate as a bird’s.

Sam shook with her left hand. “Samantha Crozier. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

Honey stepped onto the porch, holding out her designer handbag as ballast, taking care that the heels of her pumps didn’t stick in the cracks.

“This is a lovely old home. One of our founding families built it in 1902. It sits on four acres of land, and you can see, it has a beautiful view.” She halted the pitch at the sagging screen door to search a full ring for the correct key.

When she opened the door, the house sighed the past into Sam’s face with the unique smell of sunlight, plaster dust, and old wood that was inherent in old houses. Remembering her ribs, she only took small breaths of the rare perfume as she stepped over the threshold. A staircase on her right ascended a few steps, turned at a landing and continued upward. A tall, slim etched glass window let in as much sun as the dirt would allow.

Honey led her to the left, through glass-paned double doors into a small parlor with tall windows overlooking the front porch. She prattled on, reciting the home’s selling points. Blueprints unfolding in her head, Sam tuned her out, having assessed the retail market from the picturesque town.

They proceeded to the rear of the house. On the left, in a large formal dining room, a water-stained ceiling sagged in places. Windows, with a large fieldstone fireplace between them, opened onto the covered side porch.

A small door across the hall revealed a cubbyhole area under the stairs, saved from gloom by a round, beveled-glass window. The dog-trot hallway ended in a large, dark country kitchen. The green linoleum floor was worn through in places, the old-fashioned porcelain sink chipped and badly stained. A narrow opening beside the back door led to a laundry room, where the ceiling had collapsed entirely.

Sam interrupted the woman’s chirping sales pitch. “Could I see the upstairs?”

Honey gave her a blank look, then recovered and pasted on her best sales smile. “Of course.”

Sam could almost hear her thoughts. I’m probably wasting my time.

In the long hallway at the top of the stairs, several doors opened to small bedrooms. The reason for the ceiling damage below became evident when Honey opened the door on the left. Blinding sunlight streamed through the hole in the roof. The hardwood floor had rotted and buckled.

“Don’t go in there. The floor’s not stable.” Honey pulled the door closed like a child with a messy bedroom—if you don’t see it, it doesn’t exist.

This house wouldn’t work for everyone. But a young couple could love it.

This is what Sam did. As a building contractor, flipping houses was more than a career; it was her passion.

The last door at the end of the hall opened into a large bathroom. With a black-and-white checkerboard tile floor that was yellowed and cracked. An enormous claw-foot tub took up one corner.

This is even better than it looked from the outside.

They retraced their steps to the front porch.

“How long since anyone lived here?” Sam asked, while Honey vainly attempted to remove a smear from her designer skirt.

“Almost seven years.”

“Has it been for sale all that time?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “It was in better shape then, but the owners wanted too much for it.” Her sparrow eyes brightened. “Now, of course, the area is in higher demand.”

Sam cut in before Honey could launch into a discussion of the local market.

“Okay, I get it. So, keeping in mind that the roof is a complete loss, the left half of the house is severely damaged, all fixtures need replacing, not to mention any dry rot, termite damage, or structural unsoundness I might find—how much is it?” Sam calculated the balance in her business account.

Honey seemed dazed, but rallied and quoted a price.

Sam smiled; they must be desperate to sell, given the home’s condition. Mentally decreasing the quote by twenty percent, she gave Honey her offer.

“Now, you don’t know me, but please believe me when I tell you that this is my only offer. It is contingent, of course, upon a termite and structural inspection. How long until I can expect an answer?”

Honey looked at her as if she were from a different planet.

Sam took pity. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude. I just don’t enjoy price negotiation.”

“You want it? Just like that?” Her pouty voice made it clear Sam had taken away all the fun by cutting to the chase.

“I wouldn’t put an offer on a property I didn’t intend to buy.” Sarcasm was lost on the woman, who seemed confused that the deal wasn’t proceeding according to her formula.

“I guess I could call the family when I get to the office.” Honey jotted Sam’s cell number, then wandered off through the tall grass to her car, dusty smears marring the butt of her peach skirt.

God save me from real estate agents named Honey. Sam went to investigate the carriage house.

She guessed the large structure could house six full-size cars. The large wooden door opened in a shriek of protest. Cool air washed over her. The smell of damp soil drifted from the dirt floor. She stood just inside the door, letting her eyes adjust.

A rough staircase against the wall appeared out of the gloom. She ascended it gingerly, testing the integrity of the staircase and her injured knee at the same time. The door at the top landing stood locked, so she peered through the glass panes into a large unfinished room.

Of all the homes she’d renovated, this one could be the most beautiful.

And bring in the most profit.

Roof replacement would top the long list of tasks. And the upstairs floors were so unstable it would be economically impractical to repair them. Her brain worried at the puzzle.

“Relax, Crozier, you don’t even own the thing yet.”

But I think I may have found the next dream, Dad.