The Homewreckers(14)

Mo flashed two thumbs up. “More,” he mouthed.

“What else can I say?” Hattie asked. “I’m not all that interesting.”

He rolled his eyes. “What do you do when you’re not working? Hobbies? Interests?”

She laughed. “I’m always working. When I’m not on the job, I’m thinking about the job. Lately, I’ve been on the hunt for another old house to rehab. I drive all over town. I check the monthly foreclosure notices, talk to real estate agents about what listings they might have coming on the market. And then, for the houses themselves, I’m always on the lookout for salvaged building materials. I’ve even been known to dumpster dive if I spot a good-looking old mantel sticking out of a trash pile.”

“Where do you keep all that stuff?”

“I’ve got a shed out back.”

“No hobbies at all?” Mo looked doubtful.

“I hang out with friends. I read a lot.” She gestured at the bookshelves. “I like those old paperback mysteries.”

“So, you’re really into murder?” Mo asked.

“Not the gory stuff. I’m interested in why seemingly decent people cross the line.”

“What else do you like to do?”

Hattie had to think about that. “I take Ribsy for walks. And he rides shotgun when I’m out scouting for a house to save.”

“Ribsy?”

“My dog.” She whistled, and after some scratching at a door at the end of the hallway, the dog, a furry brown-and-white blur, came hurtling into the living room, nearly knocking over the tripod with Mo’s phone on it. He lunged at Hattie, who laughed and wrapped her arms around him, while he proceeded to slobber all over her face.

“This is my main man.”

“We talked about this a little bit, before the interview started, but tell me why you’re interested in doing this show,” Mo said. “Saving Savannah.”

She scrunched up her face while she thought about it, choosing her words slowly.

“Every day, I drive past old houses in this town that are just sitting there, slowly deteriorating. Once a house is empty or abandoned, nobody is there maintaining it. The roof goes bad, you get water damage, rot, termites. Squatters move in. They set fires in the winter to keep warm, strip off anything they can sell to get money for booze or drugs. At some point, it becomes too late to save a house. And that makes me sad. It’s such a waste.” She placed the palm of her hand on her chest. “It hurts my heart to see that. It’s our history, you know? The history of our community.”

“And?” he prompted.

“Maybe, with a show like this, I can inspire people to do what I do. Take a look at their community, find a house that needs some love, and fix it up. Or just appreciate the house they live in. I’d like to do a show where I could show people the proper way to prep and paint woodwork. Or to tile a bathroom, or re-glaze an old window. And maybe I’d talk about the wrong way to do stuff. I’d want to be—approachable? Is that the word for it?”

“And relatable.” Mo was coaching her now. “What else? Do you want to say something about Savannah?”

“Like what?”

“Like, maybe, you want to show off the beauty of your hometown, give something back to a town that’s given you so much? Preserve a vanishing piece of the community.”

Now it was Hattie’s turn to roll her eyes. “Didn’t I already say that? Like, when I talked about how it hurts my heart?”

He clicked the remote to stop the video.

“Okay, yeah. You did sorta say that. For now, let’s try this. I want you to look right at me. Smile. And say something like this: ‘I’m Hattie Kavanaugh. And I’m saving Savannah. One old house at a time.’”

She shook her head. “That’s dumb. I’m just one girl. How am I going to save Savannah?”

“Do you have to question everything I say? Just do it, okay? It’s like, a metaphor. What we call a tag line. These network execs are looking for personality more than anything. You might feel like it’s over the top, but the viewer needs to sense your energy. Your enthusiasm. You gotta sell it, lady.”

Hattie gave a long, belabored sigh. She posed herself in front of the fireplace, fluffed her hair, and wet her lips. “Go,” she told him.

He clicked the remote, then counted down with his fingers. Three. Two. One.

“I’m Hattie Kavanaugh. And I’m helping to save my hometown of Savannah. One old house at a time.”

“Perfect!” Mo said. “See, you’re really good at this when you want to be.”

Hattie collapsed onto the nearest chair. “I need a cold beer.”





7

Tybee Time




“It can’t be done,” Hattie told Cass, closing the lid of her laptop computer. “There’s absolutely nothing on the market in this town in our price range. Nothing that qualifies as even remotely historic with a price under our budget.”

Cass sat at the desk facing Hattie’s in the cluttered, no-nonsense offices of Kavanaugh & Son. It was a small, crowded space, less than a thousand square feet, with a glass storefront facing Bull Street. There were three battered army surplus metal tanker desks in the main office, one each for Cass, Hattie, and the office manager, Zenobia, who also happened to be Cass’s mom. Tug had his own tiny space.