A Mother's Homecoming(25)
The man was eerily insightful. She suspected that when she’d said she was going out for a drive to see how the town had changed, he’d somehow known she was going to an AA meeting at a nearby church. Pam had been slow to broach the subject with them because Julia was still so obviously upset by her late sister’s drinking and alcohol-related death.
Ed turned off the car. “Your inheritance awaits.”
They’d met with the attorney this morning, and Pam was the proud owner of one forlorn, neglected house. Last week, all I had to my name was the car, and now I’m a regular land baron. Oh, yeah, things were looking up.
Uncle Ed had discreetly handed her a check for “miscellaneous” costs, like taxes, realty fees and maintenance. But from where she stood, this place needed more than “miscellaneous” repair.
“That additional money you gave me wasn’t from Mae,” she said as they exited the car. “You tried to make it sound that way, as if you were just holding it in trust for me as executors of the ‘estate.’ But there’s no way she had that much.”
“The money’s for you, from family who want to help. Who would have been helping all along if we’d had the opportunity. Don’t worry, our savings are in good shape.” He shook his head. “I had no idea how well your aunt was going to do with her jewelry-making and craft shows.”
“I appreciate the help,” Pam said softly. It would have been less humbling to turn the check down, but she’d learned the value of accepting assistance.
“It’s up to you, of course, how you spend it. You could try to buy a listing for the property and sell the place as-is … or you could invest some time and cash and ask a much better price. Isn’t that what they call ‘flipping’ a house?”
“Mmm.” She didn’t know much about house-flipping, but she was pretty sure no one who was good at it would have picked this particular home. It didn’t offer some of the amenities that were considered standard on newer houses—like a garage—and it wasn’t part of a neighborhood where it could be buoyed by adjacent property values. But she was basing her low expectations on a cursory inspection of the house’s exterior. The inside might be more promising.
Then again. A few minutes later, Pam stood in the kitchen, reevaluating. The inside sucked.
“It could be worse,” Uncle Ed said from behind her.
“Oh, there’s a ringing endorsement. I think that’s how the property listing should read.” Although now that she thought about it, the house might not even qualify for a listing. Didn’t houses have to pass certain minimal inspections before they could legally be sold? She didn’t think the walls were full of asbestos, but it was apparent from the damaged patches in the ceiling that the roof needed work. There were definite plumbing issues, too, from the minor problem that faucets caked with mineral deposits would need to be replaced to the less minor news from Uncle Ed that tree roots had grown through some of the underground pipes. Carpeting and windows needed to be replaced. Vents and ducts needed to be professionally cleaned.
Appearance-wise, the kitchen was the most depressing. The damaged tiles and hollowed-out section of counter told a story of a dishwasher that had leaked water all over the floor and had eventually been removed, but never replaced. Ugly colored paint was peeling off the cabinets, and one or two of the cabinet doors had become so warped they no longer closed properly.
Pam’s lungs constricted in a moment of panicked defeatism. Mae’s parting gift … I always knew she hated me.
“It’s doable,” Ed said, his quiet voice firm. There was something hushed about the rooms around them that encouraged whispering, like a library. Or a haunted house. “It will be hard, sure, but you’ve survived much harder, haven’t you?”
She studied him, temporarily distracted from the two-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath albatross around her neck, wondering how much he’d intuited about her. “How do you know my life hasn’t been all rainbows and rose petals?” she joked weakly.
“We took my car today because you weren’t sure yours would start. And your aunt Julia, who has only been outside the state of Mississippi a half-dozen times, owns an entire matched set of floral upholstered suitcases, while your luggage seems to consist of backpacks and recycled grocery bags. You look like you haven’t eaten in a year, and your eyes …” He trailed off, and she didn’t press him for more grim detail. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it.