On Turpentine Lane(4)

“Which means what?”

“That you don’t have to go through with it.”

“What if I want to?”

“Everything’s negotiable.”

“Don’t do anything yet,” I instructed.

I went back inside, called to Joel’s friend—a softball teammate, it turned out—“Wally? How’s it going?”

His answer, not more than a grunt, sounded farther away than just one floor. Mystery solved: the ladder that led to the crawl space was now dominating the hallway between the bedrooms. “You’re brave,” I yelled up to him from the bottom rung.

“Not in the least,” he answered.

“Is there a light?”

“Flashlight. Mine.”

“Can you stand up?”

“Almost.”

“They told me it was dry and empty. Is it?”

“Dry enough. Clean. Pretty empty. Some stuff.”

A snapshot at that moment would have captured me with a dreamy smile, antiques floating in my mind’s eye. A steamer trunk? A dressmaker’s form? A trove of love letters? A Flexible Flyer? “Anything good?” I called.

“A whatchamacallit—a cradle.”

“Is it a nice one? I mean, an antique?”

“People expect me to know stuff like that. I don’t.”

I figured, at best, hand carved and charming. At worst, I’d put it out on the curb with a sign that said FREE.



Sometimes things work out because it’s in the stars or because a smart real estate lawyer picks up her phone. In my case, the break came from the deceased seller’s distant daughter, who must’ve seen a future filled with more dud inspections and thought Faith Frankel might be 10 Turpentine Lane’s only hope.

My lawyer called me at work, and gushed, “Are you sitting down?” Before I could answer, she said, “The seller is paying for all the fixes. For the roofing, the asbestos removal, the stuck windows. She didn’t budge on the stove’s pilot lights, but that was an easy gimme. What else? Doesn’t matter. She’s taking care of just about everything we asked for.”

I said, “I didn’t expect this! I thought you’d talk me out of the deal.”

“I first tried to knock another fifteen grand off the purchase price, and this was her counteroffer! Who wants to have to hire all those people and coordinate the repairs?”

“Did you accept?”

“Not without running it by you. I’m going to ask that we choose the contractor so you don’t get some unlicensed handyman.”

“When will all this happen?”

“The work? ASAP. Before you take possession. I mean, you can move in before every little thing is fixed, but what’s the rush? You don’t want to be there with asbestos being excavated and a racket on the roof.”

“But it’s officially mine now?”

“If you still want it, and all the contingencies are met . . . absolutely.”

“Yes, I want it. Tell them my answer is yes to the repairs. It’s off the market, right?”

“Definitely. Besides . . . no, never mind. It’s nothing. We’re fine.”

I knew her unspoken words were No one else had given this house a second look, let alone made an offer.

I didn’t care. Even if it was the mangy one-eyed shelter dog of real estate listings. To me that made it all the more lovable.



Both Joel and my mother came for the walk-through the day before we closed. Tammy the agent was present, but I led the tour, pointing out my favorite features. The newel post! The leaded glass in the china cabinet—a corner china cabinet. The pantry. Who gets a pantry anymore? A clothesline in the basement! Hardwood floors in the bedrooms.

“Not sure if pine is considered hardwood,” Joel volunteered, then opened the nearest window—still stubborn despite new ropes and pulleys.

“Does it smell a little musty in here?” my mother asked.

I pointed out that cold air would fix that; let’s open another window and get some cross ventilation.

“Has Stuart seen it?” my mother asked. And to Tammy, employing a tone I recognized purely as a way to dispense with her spinster daughter’s social status, “Stuart is Faith’s fiancé.”

I pretended to be studying the unexciting view of the driveway from the parlor window until I came up with “Not an issue. Stuart gave me power of attorney.”

“That sounds right,” said Joel.

“Who did you say was the previous owner?” my mother asked Tammy.

“A Mrs. Lavoie.”

“Widowed?”

“I should think so—she was at least ninety!” I said.

“Children?”

“One. In Hawaii.”

“Nieces or nephews? No one close by?”

“Ma! What’s with the third degree?”

“If it’s the title you’re worried about,” said Tammy, “everything’s in order. No one but Mrs. Lavoie’s family owned this house. Her in-laws came here as newlyweds, and apparently she and her husband took it over when the parents died.”

“Did they die here by any chance?” my mother asked.

Tammy said, “That I don’t know.”