“She wouldn’t mind.”
“No.” Morgan looked back toward the white stone. “She’d understand.”
Paint was cheap, and so was her labor. She painted the walls a neutral off-white she decided she personally hated. Taking her cues from HGTV, she went sell-this-house neutral everywhere.
She removed personal items, boxed up photographs, some sweet and silly knickknacks.
She cleaned every inch of what had been her home and now represented a fight she’d already lost.
The house sat on the market for six weeks without a single offer before the Realtor advised a slight price reduction.
Morgan agreed, and cleaned the house again for what the Realtor called a postholiday showing. By the middle of January, and a second slight price cut, she’d sold her living room furniture, which helped pay bills and allowed her one deep breath.
And she started researching bankruptcy.
An offer came in.
“It’s twenty thousand below asking price, so they’re lowballing you. I suggest we counter with—”
“Just take the offer.” She sat at the table on a Sunday evening, knowing people had gone through the house yet again while she’d nursed coffee in a café. Gone through, judged, criticized, imagined what they’d change.
“Morgan, I know this hasn’t been easy for you, but with settlement fees, that offer won’t cover what you owe. Let me do what I do. Let me counter.”
“All right.” She stared into the bowl of canned soup she’d tried to eat. “But I’m giving you permission to take the offer if they balk at your counter. To take their counter to the counter if they make one. I need to move on.”
“Understood. I’ll get back to you.”
“Thanks.”
Pushing the soup aside, she pulled over the old laptop Sam had given her. No arguments, Morgan, she remembered him saying. Just take the damn thing.
She’d taken the damn thing and now did some calculations.
Belinda the Realtor had it right, of course. The offer on the table wouldn’t cover her debt. But instead of owing about three hundred thousand, she’d owe roughly seven.
She could live with that. She was currently living with a lot worse.
Belinda called back. “The buyers are willing to split the difference. I’d like to counter.”
“Take it, please. Just take it. It gets me out from under.”
“I understand, but I hate for you to settle for less than it’s worth.”
“Belinda, a woman was murdered in this house. We both know that lowers the value to most buyers.”
“You deserve better.”
“I’ll take what I can get. How soon can we settle?”
“Thirty days.”
“Okay, I’ll be ready. Thanks for this. I mean it.”
She sat back, shut her eyes, and realized she felt nothing but relief.
* * *
Thirty days moved fast. She gave her bosses her notice, helped train her replacements. Since she’d have no need for them, she sold or gave away the rest of her furniture, the contents of her kitchen cabinets, even her cleaning supplies.
No matter how she’d braced for it, saying goodbye proved harder than she’d imagined.
On the morning of the settlement, when she locked the empty house for the last time, the relief she fought to cling to dropped into misery.
She’d cry later. She promised herself a champion-level crying jag, but later.
With the paperwork complete, the new owners beaming, she comforted herself that someone would love what could no longer be hers.
Maybe they’d take that wall down, and build a sweet little front porch.
She walked out of the settlement office with a check that totaled hardly more than two weeks’ pay. Since it seemed best not to think about how thrilled she’d been when she’d walked out of that same office as a homeowner, she blocked it out.
She got into Nina’s car with her suitcases already loaded, and drove north.
When she’d made her annual trek to Vermont for Christmas—except this past one, which she’d spent alone—she’d taken the train.
A happy little trip, she thought now, with her single suitcase, bag of gifts, and all that holiday cheer.
The drive from the outskirts of Baltimore to Westridge, Vermont, would take her a solid eight hours according to the GPS on her phone.
She hoped to make it without an overnight stop. And with bigger hope that Nina’s car would make it.
She drove away from the first whispers of spring and into the firm grip of winter, with its shivering trees and a quick squall of sleet.