“None of your business,” Hattie said.
“Eighty-two thousand,” Cass volunteered. “Squatters were living here. It was a bank foreclosure. So, what? You’d buy this house for the show?”
“Cass!” Hattie shot her a warning look.
“No. That’s not how it works. You invest your own money in the real estate, and you earn all the profits off the house when it sells. Of course, we negotiate a standard performance fee for you and your crew and line up some sponsors to trade their product in return for exposure on the show. Just how much have you sunk into this money pit already?” he asked.
“We’re done here,” Hattie said. She pointed toward the back door. “Go. Away. Now.”
Mo shook his head in disbelief. “You know how many people would sell their soul for an opportunity like this? To star in a new network reality show? I passed half a dozen historic houses being rehabbed while I was riding over here.”
“Go trespass on their job sites then,” Hattie said. “Fall through their floors.” She took his elbow and gave him a not-gentle shove. “Move along.”
* * *
When he reached his bike, Mauricio Lopez turned, whipped out his cell phone, aimed, and clicked off a series of photos. The two women stood in the driveway watching him speed away on the fat-tired bike. “You think that guy’s for real?” Cass asked.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” Hattie said. She unzipped her coveralls, stepped out of them, and reached for her cell phone. “I gotta make nice with Ronnie, apologize, and get him back over here to start replacing all those cast-iron pipes.”
Hattie gazed up at the house. She’d been so thrilled when she’d seen the address on the county tax assessor’s list of foreclosures. She’d been watching this street for two years, riding past this particular house on an almost daily basis, stalking it like a jealous lover.
Her secret name for the house was Gertrude, after Gertrude Showalter, an elderly woman who’d lived across the street from Hattie’s family when she was growing up.
She’d seen the busted-out windows, the piles of empty liquor bottles and trash strewn around Gertrude’s porch, watched with dismay as a summer storm sent a huge tree branch crashing through the roof, knowing that the rain pouring in would further deteriorate the structure.
When the foreclosure listing was finally published, she’d been the first to show up on the courthouse steps, two hours before the bidding started, determined to win at any cost, to save this elegant old girl, polish her up, and sell her for a handsome profit.
Tug tried to warn her about buying a house without ever stepping foot inside, but she’d been determined to prove him wrong.
She’d driven directly from the courthouse to her new old house on Tattnall Street with the key clutched tightly in her fist.
Nothing about Gertrude fazed her. Not even the pigeons that had taken up residence in the attic or the petrified possum carcass she found under a rotted kitchen cupboard gave Hattie pause.
It wasn’t just money and sweat equity Hattie had invested in Gertrude. She’d poured her heart into this house. But now, damn it, she was seeing it through the eyes of the ballsy television guy.
The realization dawned on her suddenly, like a cold hand gripping her throat. She’d broken Tug Kavanaugh’s first commandment of real estate investing, the one he’d preached to her since she’d scraped up the down payment for her first flip. “A house is just a bunch of lumber and nails, Hattie. It’s just a thing. Never fall in love with anything that can’t love you back.”
She’d had one great love in her life, and lost it in the blink of an eye. When would she learn? Tug was right, she knew. No amount of love, creativity, or good vibes was going to turn Gertrude into the peacock she’d envisioned. Her shoulders slumped as she thumbed through the contacts on her phone.
She found the plumber’s number, tapped it, and waited. The phone rang once, twice, three times. He picked up after the fourth ring.
“Yeah?” He was still pissed.
“Ronnie? Look, I’m sorry. You were right, but I had to see it with my own eyes. All that pipe under the house is shot. What’s it gonna cost to replace everything?”
“Minimum?” The number he quoted was way north of what Hattie’s gut told her. “Hattie? You there?”
“I’m here,” she said grimly. “Never mind.”
* * *
Tug’s footsteps echoed through the high-ceilinged rooms. It was early evening, and a slight breeze was blowing through the open windows. Hattie trailed after him, resolute in her determination to bite the bullet.