Chapter 4. Quitting Time

WHITNEY

Buck scurried back to the fire station, returning a short minute later with an extension ladder. He leaned it up against the front of the townhome, climbed up to the boarded window, and used the claw end of his hammer to pry the nails out of the plywood Gideon and Joanna had hung. After tucking his hammer into his tool belt, he carefully handed the plywood down to me.

"Be careful!" I called up to him. "That broken glass looks sharp."

Buck pulled his hammer back out of his belt and knocked the pointed shards of glass out of the bottom pane of the window. They made a soft tinkling sound as they shattered. Now that the glass was out the way, he climbed through the opening. He disappeared into the townhouse and was gone for a minute or two before the front door swung open. "Come on in."

I hesitated. "Won't we be trespassing?"

Buck snorted. "Who's going to mind?"

He had a point. Avoiding the broken step, I ascended to the porch and stepped inside. Joanna and Gideon carefully followed me. The door opened directly into the living room, with only a three-by-three-foot square of parquet flooring forming an entryway. A closet with folding doors took up six feet of the wall along the right side of the room. Many of the slats on the doors were missing. A built-in bookshelf took up the rest of the wall. The shelves rested at odd angles, support brackets missing. The beige, builders-grade carpeting was stained, the telltale signs of grape juice spills and popsicle drips. The once-white walls were dingy, scuffed, and full of holes where pictures had hung. The plastic covers over the electric sockets and light switches had yellowed with time. Most of the furniture had been removed, probably pilfered by the Bottiglieri offspring.

It was dim, thanks to the accumulation of grime on the windows, and out of habit I reached for the light switch. Nothing happened when I flipped it. The electricity was turned off.

I followed Buck into the kitchen. The peeling wallpaper, blue Formica countertops, and scarred linoleum told me the place had last been updated in the 1980s. The kitchen cabinets were scratched, but nothing sandpaper and a fresh coat of paint couldn't improve on. A door led from the kitchen to the side yard. Sunlight peeked through gaps where weather-stripping was missing around the door. Beyond the kitchen was a half bath and laundry room, followed by the master bedroom. The green faux-marble tile in the master bathroom was a little loud for the space, but at least the tile in the shower and on the counters was serviceable. The floor tiles were cracked and dissolving into dust. Like the kitchen, the bathroom featured gaudy wallpaper, golden roses with greenery climbing on a latticework background.

Buck blew a long breath out of his mouth. "Whoa. This must be what a person sees after taking psychedelic mushrooms."

As we returned to the living room, I noticed a bright white spot of paint in the shape of a cross over the front door where a crucifix had evidently once hung. We continued up the stairs. The second floor comprised three bedrooms, a bathroom, and an open loft area that could be used as a playroom, home office, or den. The bath needed new fixtures and tile, and all of the bedrooms would require new flooring and fresh paint, as well as new closet doors, outlet covers, and light fixtures. The stairwell to the third floor was narrower, stopping at a door that had been left ajar. Buck pushed it open to reveal an attic space. Lest he fall through the floor, he activated the flashlight app on his phone and shined the light around before stepping inside. I stood at the door, looking in. Joanna and Gideon had opted to wait in the second-floor hallway.

"There's a bucket in here," Buck called. "It's half full of water." The flashlight's beam circled upward as he shined it on the ceiling. A dark stain on the plywood indicated where the roof had leaked. He turned the flashlight downward to reveal assorted scat scattered about. Mice, squirrels, and who knows what else had traipsed about in the attic at one time or another.

Our tour complete, we walked back downstairs and out the door, leaving it open. As we gathered on the concrete walkway that led from the porch to the sidewalk, a thirtyish couple came around the corner across the street. The woman pushed a toddler in a stroller, the small but unmistakable bump on her abdomen telling me another bundle of joy was on the way. The man walked two mismatched mutts, a variety pack. One dog was enormous, solid red, and as fluffy as a bathroom rug, some type of chow-chow mix. The other was tiny, silver, and sleek, with a skinny waist, mostly Italian greyhound if I wasn't mistaken. They looked our way, slowing their steps. The woman said something to the man, and he said something back, but they were too far away for me to hear. They were clearly curious, their heads angled, their eyes remaining on us.

Joanna raised a hand to the couple and they waved back, continuing to watch us with interest. Joanna turned back to me and Buck. "What do you think? Is my place at risk?"

Buck told her about the bucket he'd seen. "The roof has a leak, but I saw no signs of mold. Good thing someone put a bucket up there or things would've been much worse. The water could've seeped all the way down to the first floor, caused all sorts of damage."

Joanna frowned. "I bet the tenants put the bucket there. I can't imagine the Bottiglieris going to even that tiny bit of trouble."

When Buck and I had purchased the old country church as a rehab project, we'd been forced into a legal battle with the owner of the adjacent property, who claimed he owned the property through an obscure legal maneuver called adverse possession. We'd consulted a real estate attorney, who'd assured us he was as full of crap as the stalls in his horse barn. "This place could be saved," I said. "It should be saved." If not for Joanna's sake, for its own. The house had stood for more than a hundred years, and it could stand another century with some tender loving care. "I'll check with our attorney, see what it would take for us to get ownership of the place."

Joanna's face brightened. "You will? Thank you!"

I raised a palm. "There's no guarantee we'll be able to do anything. Even if our attorney can find a legal way for us to get the property, I'm not sure we can scrape the funds together. We just got a loan for the firehouse, so we'd have to convince our mortgage banker to give us the additional funds, assure them the townhouse would be a moneymaker. I'd hate to see you get your hopes up if there's nothing we can do."

"Understood," Joanna said. "I appreciate y'all taking the time to look things over. Let me know what you find out."

Gideon raised his index finger. "If y'all fix this place and put it up for sale, I call dibs!"

Joanna cut him an irritated look. "Dibs? I don't think so! If anyone should have the right of first refusal, it's me. I own the other half of the house, after all."

Gideon frowned and gestured to Buck and me. "But I'm the one who noticed them working at the fire station and suggested you talk to them. You hadn't even thought about buying the property until I just mentioned it."

In light of the deterioration that had occurred to the adjacent townhouse, I could understand why Joanna would want to own it—to protect her investment in her own home. But why would Gideon be interested? "Why would you want this place?" I asked. "I thought you already lived in the neighborhood."

"I do." He pointed to a three-story house that sat cattycorner across the street. It was painted dark blue with crisp white shutters and trim. Judging from the four mailboxes at the curb with the letters A, B, C, and D on them, the house had been divided into four units. The fact that there were two doors on the first-floor porch plus two more on the second-floor balcony confirmed my conclusion. "I moved there with my partner in the early nineties. He and I bought the whole building. I live in unit A on the bottom left."

Ah. He's an investor.I took a closer look at the outside of his unit. Gideon had placed flower boxes along the porch railing and filled them with bright orange impatiens and trailing deep purple sweet potato vine. On the wall beside the front doors hung a large kitschy aluminum sign with an outdoor thermometer built into it. The sign had a mustard yellow background with a bottle of brown soda depicted on it, a promotional item for Dad's Old Fashioned Root Beer. The sign must have been at least two feet tall, and eight to ten inches wide. Judging from the rust around the edges, it was probably decades old, a bit of nostalgic Americana. I wondered if the thermometer still worked.

Gideon continued. "I rent out the other units. In fact, Joanna's daughter and son-in-law rent from me. They live in unit B with their own daughter. It's a two-bedroom like mine."

Joanna nodded. "It's been nice having them close, especially since my granddaughter will be heading off to the University of Memphis in a year. It's been such a blessing watching her grow up. Alyssa will be the first person in our family to attend college. It should've been her mother, but that's a whole 'nother story." She shook her head and issued a sigh before resuming her praise of her granddaughter. "Alyssa is smart as a whip. She gets it from her mother." She cupped a hand around her mouth and leaned toward me as if to share a secret. "Her daddy's not the sharpest tool in the shed." She barked a laugh as she pulled back.

With that, the two neighbors bade us goodbye. As Gideon headed back to his home across the street, I noticed the couple with the toddler and the dogs had stopped at the bottom of an exterior staircase that led up to the second-floor balcony. The woman bent over the stroller and unbuckled the baby, lifting him out. The man walked up the stairs with the dogs and unlocked the door on the right side of the balcony. The woman followed, carrying the child into the unit before coming back out to round up the stroller. With the dogs and a child—and another on the way—living on the second floor appeared to be less than convenient for them, but I knew from my experience managing properties that few landlords allowed pets, and tenants with animals often had to take what they could get. With my wedding scheduled to take place in a few months, I couldn't help but wonder whether Collin and I would have children someday, how many we might have, and who they would look like—me, him, or a blend of the two of us. I hadn't realized I was staring at the woman until she looked my way and caught me watching her. My cheeks warmed with an embarrassed blush, and I offered her a smile. She offered a smile in return before collapsing the stroller and lugging it up the stairs.

"Suppose I'd better lock this place up." Buck turned to walk back into the townhouse, closed the door, and locked the deadbolt from the inside. Seconds later, he climbed out the broken second-floor window. I handed the plywood up to him and he nailed it back in place. Done here for now, he gathered his ladder and we returned to the fire station.

Buck resumed his demo work in the bathroom, while I placed a call to the real estate attorney. After giving her the information, she said, "Assuming everything you've told me is correct, that Lorenzo Bottiglieri died without a will, his children would be the default heirs, and there's a fairly simple procedure you could use to become owners of the property. In return for your payment, you'd need each of his children to sign what's called a quitclaim deed. Essentially, it's a way for them to transfer whatever interest they might own to you." She went on to say that, unlike the usual general warranty deed or special warranty deed, a quitclaim deed came with no guarantees. "It's possible a superior ownership interest could be claimed by a third party, like a lienholder or an unknown heir if a will is discovered later. But I can have my legal assistant run a search for you in both the probate and property records and give you some assurance you won't have trouble. The fact that the property has sat there for three years with nobody stepping up to seize it tells me the risk is low."

"Could we get a title insurance policy?" I asked. The last thing we wanted was a deed problem preventing us from reselling the property after we fixed it up.

"Shouldn't be a problem, so long as nothing unexpected shows up in the filings." She said she'd get back to me once her legal assistant had completed the research.

I thanked her and ended the call. After making a quick mental estimate, ballparking what we'd have to spend to fix up the place, we decided $25,000 was a fair price for each of the seven interests in the townhouse, for a total of $175,000. I immediately called our mortgage banker. In light of the unusual situation, it was going to be problematic getting a mortgage loan on the property. Given the fact that Buck and I had a steady stream of income from the Joyful Noise Playhouse, they were willing to extend us a personal loan, but only for a hundred grand. We needed more money if we were going to offer each of the Bottiglieri heirs twenty-five grand for their interests. I believed in this project. To come up with the remaining funds, I'd be willing to dip into my retirement account and suffer the tax penalty. The profit would be worth it.

I'd done what I could for the time being, and resumed the kitchen demo. Despite the fact that the townhome was not yet ours, I found myself mulling over design ideas for the place. We could replace the exterior kitchen door with a glass one to give the space a more open feel and let in natural light. Vinyl plank flooring would be a good option for the living room and kitchen. Not only would it tie the two spaces together, it would also be durable. The intact marble could remain in the master bath, so long as we toned it down with a subtle, solid wall color.

By six o'clock, both Buck and I were tuckered out. Demolition work was exhausting. We locked up the fire station, climbed into our vehicles, and headed home.

My hair was still damp from the shower when Collin knocked on my door at seven Friday evening. I opened it to find him in shorts and a T-shirt, smelling fresh from the shower himself. He'd probably taken a quick run after work. Standing in a carrier at his feet were his two cats—Copernicus, a solid gray kitty with green eyes, and Galileo, a debonair tuxedo with gold eyes. He'd brought them along so they could have a playdate with Sawdust. Might as well get the three used to each other before they officially became family. Of course, Cleo would join in the fun, too.

"I brought dinner." Collin held up a large white take-out bag.

I lifted my nose and inhaled the delicious aroma. "Thai?"

He confirmed that my nose was correct. "Got an order of pad see ew and green curry. Spring rolls, too."

"Yum!" I gave him a warm kiss in welcome and gratitude before relieving him of the bag and stepping back to allow him to carry his cats inside. As Copernicus and Galileo strode out of their carrier, Sawdust and Cleo greeted them by sniffing their faces. Once they'd reacquainted themselves, Sawdust literally got the ball rolling on their playdate by using his paw to send one of his jingle balls rolling down the hallway. The four cats made chase, sending the ball ricocheting off the walls like a game of improvised pinball.

Collin and I ate dinner on my couch while looking through wedding invitation options online. There were so many to choose from! Fortunately, we shared similar tastes and it was an easy decision. We opted for basic white invitations with silver ink and a calligraphy font. That task complete, we set about renting tables and chairs. We compared prices from local vendors and read their customer reviews before e-mailing one to check availability on our wedding date.

These items checked off our to-do list, we sat back to relax and watch a movie, the four cats lounging about on the sofa with us. Throughout the show, my mind kept going back to the townhouse. A lot of things would have to fall into place for the deal to go through, and there was no sense wasting mental energy on it until I knew for certain the place would be ours. Still, I couldn't help pondering the possibilities. I'd told Collin about the place while we'd fixed our plates earlier, and several times during the show he cast glances over at me. When the movie concluded, he picked up the remote and turned off the television. "You've been thinking about that townhouse all this time, haven't you?"

"Busted." I sighed. "It would make a perfect flip project. I just can't get my mind off it."

A sexy grin slid across his lips. "Maybe I can help with that." He leaned over, nuzzled my neck, and any conscious thought disappeared. Townhouse? What townhouse?

Come Saturday morning, my mind was back to wedding matters. Today, my mother, Emmalee, and Colette would accompany me on my quest to find the perfect wedding dress.

Emmalee followed me to my parents' house in the Green Hills neighborhood of Nashville, where we met up with my mom and Colette. Mom was a petite woman whose hairdresser ensured that, no matter her age, she remained as blonde as ever. Colette's dark curls bobbed about her face as she approached me and gave me a hug. She and I had been best friends since we'd met in college. The fact that she'd married my cousin and we were now not just friends but also family was a wonderful bonus. The four of us piled into my mother's car and set off to visit the city's bridal shops.

As we entered the first store, a sixtyish saleswoman greeted us at the door with flutes of champagne. "Welcome, ladies." After determining that I was the bride, she asked, "What style of dress are you looking for?"

I had no idea what type I wanted, or what options would be best for my body shape, so I went with, "A pretty one?"

She laughed. "All wedding dresses are pretty, hon." She looked me up and down as if mentally taking my measurements. "Why don't I choose a few different looks for you to try? It might help you narrow things down."

The woman moved about the store, selecting several dresses for me. Meanwhile, my mother, Colette, and Emmalee flitted about the store, doing the same. A quarter hour later, the saleswoman and I were in a large dressing room, while the others waited in chairs by a three-way mirror outside. The saleswoman helped me into the first dress, a flashy, fitted model with a plunging neckline, a thigh-high slit on the side, and more sequins than a Vegas showgirl costume. Though the dress was stunning, it would be far more appropriate on an actress walking the red carpet in Hollywood than a bride walking down the aisle.

I stepped out of the dressing room. My mother took one look at me and choked on her champagne. When she could catch her breath, she rasped, "Absolutely not!"

The saleslady's lips pursed. "We've sold quite a few in this style to tall brides. It allows them to show off their legs."

"And everything else!" Mom cried, fluttering her hand all about.

Colette attempted to smooth things over by saying, "It's a bit showy for Whitney."

The saleswoman nodded. "We'll try something more traditional, then."

Back we went into the dressing room. Once she'd freed me from the revealing dress, she sorted through the others hanging on the garment rack, sliding aside another that featured more beads than a Mardi Gras parade. She pulled out a gown that was ruffled from neck to ankles, and helped me into it. The dress was actually more retro than traditional, like something a girl would have worn to a high school prom in 1985. Again, I stepped out in front of my mother and friends, twirling to give them a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree look at me.

Colette cringed. "That's not the one."

"No," my mother agreed, but at least she offered the saleswoman some encouragement. "We're getting closer, though."

I tried a third dress that was all ivory lace and bustles. It rustled as I moved.

"It's pretty," Emmalee said, "but it sure is noisy."

Lest I sound like an approaching hurricane coming down the aisle, we moved on to the next dress. This one was bright white brocade and featured an abundance of three-dimensional fabric roses across the neckline, waist, and hem.

When Colette saw me in it, she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. "You can't wear that. You'll be mistaken for the wedding cake!"

By this point, the saleswoman didn't bother to hide her frustration. She grabbed the bottle of champagne, poured what was left into a flute for herself, and tossed it back.

The next dress I tried was a mermaid style. It was immediately clear the design would look far better on a curvier woman than on one whose chest and behind were only slightly less flat than a pancake. Though the next few gowns I tried on were undeniably gorgeous, none felt quite right to me. In light of the hefty price tag that came with a wedding dress, I wanted to be completely happy with my choice.

We thanked the woman for her time and, after a quick stop for lunch, hit two more bridal shops. We had no more luck there. The dresses were beautiful, but they simply weren't me.

We drove back to my parents' house, where Colette and Emmalee climbed into their cars and set off for the dinner shift at Colette's café. After mooching an early meal from my parents' fridge, I drove back home, feeling defeated and stressed. With the wedding only three months off, time was of the essence. I'd tried on dozens of dresses today. Did the right wedding gown even exist?

After giving Sawdust and Cleo some attention, I grabbed my laptop and plunked down on the couch. The stores could carry only so many dresses in their inventory, but the internet would offer virtually unlimited options. Surely, I could find the perfect wedding dress online, couldn't I?

I spent the next hour perusing various bridal websites. Sawdust sat on my lap, purring and kneading my coveralls with his paws, scratching the skin on my thigh and leaving pinprick holes in the fabric. Flinching occasionally, I endured the pain for my sweet kitty's sake. I knew the kneading meant he was happy and that, despite the agony it caused me, he saw it as a sign of affection. No way could I reject his expression of love, no matter how much it hurt.

I went from site to site to site to site, having the same experience as I'd had at the brick-and-mortar stores. Every gown was gorgeous, but each caused me concern. Some contained intricate beading I feared would snag and leave a trail of tiny beads in my wake. Others were so flashy I'd feel more like a Broadway performer than a bride. A simple fitted chiffon dress caught my eye, but the back was trimmed with two dozen tiny fabric-covered buttons that would be difficult to fasten and unfasten. There was also the question of cost. While my father was an otolaryngologist and my parents had plenty of money to pay for a fancy dress, I was simply too practical a person to blow thousands of dollars on a designer gown when others were available at much more reasonable prices. Hmm…

I continued on through several more websites, filtering the dresses by price and available sizes. I was about to give up when a thumbnail image caught my eye. I clicked on it and gasped. That's it. That's my dress! The cap-sleeved white satin dress had a square neckline, a pale blue sash at the waist, and an A-line skirt that hung to the floor. No train to trip me up. No teeny tiny buttons. No beads or sequins. Simple yet elegant, classically feminine. With a flourish, I added the dress to my cart and placed the order.

Things were really moving along now, as far as the fire station rehab and wedding were concerned. I could only hope we'd have as much luck with the townhouse.