3 Fat Chance

by Rhonda Pollero

  “Finley!”

  “Sorry,” I muttered, leaning back so the server could put my second course in front of me. “Thank you.” I swallowed only one bite of my fried shrimp when I noticed my mother’s fork still hovering above her untouched salad. I did a little mental calculation: napkin in lap—check. Fork in correct hand—check. Feet crossed at the ankles—check. I met her gaze. “Is something the matter?”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me why I invited you to lunch on a Thursday?”

  If my memory served me correctly, it wasn’t exactly an invitation. But I knew nothing would be gained by pointing that out. “Sure. Why did you need to see me today?”

  Reaching into the large Chanel tote tucked next to her chair, my mother produced a neatly folded, multipage document with a pale blue cover. Dramatically, she laid it on the table, then slowly slid it in my direction with the tips of two manicured fingers.

  Resting my fork on the edge of my plate, I took the papers, unfolded them, and felt my breath catch in my chest as I read the caption: CONTRACT FOR PURCHASE. Scanning the first paragraph, I blinked twice, then read the words again. “You’re selling me a house?”

  “Yes. It’s a property Jonathan and I owned. It was his wish that you have it.”

  “He died fifteen years ago,” I said. If it was Jonathan’s wish for me to have it, I asked myself, still a little stunned, why was my mother making me buy it?

  “Yes, and I have been waiting for you to show some responsibility before giving the property to you.”

  “This isn’t a gift,” I said as I read the terms. “You’re selling it to me.”

  “People rarely appreciate what they get for free. I’m transferring the house to you at well below the appraised value,” she pointed out. “The lot alone is worth a fortune. I’m selling it to you for twenty-five thousand.”

  My mother wasn’t given to random acts of kindness. There had to be a catch. “I don’t have twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “How much do you have?”

  In the bank or in outstanding loans? Admitting to the former would be less painful. “I’ve got twe-ten thousand dollars saved.” Close enough to true. I’d gotten my bonus check on Monday, and other than the car lease, I hadn’t spent a penny of it in four days. That was saving. Kinda.

  “You can give me that as a down payment, and I’ll hold a mortgage for the other fifteen.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” she asked as she elegantly lifted a fork full of lettuce to her lips.

  “If you’ve had this property for years, why sell it to me now, and why offer to let me make payments for the outstanding fifteen thousand?”

  My mother’s face pinched with impatience. Well, the parts that hadn’t been Botoxed pinched. “Most homeowners carry a mortgage, Finley. It’s far better than paying rent. In the end, you will have something to show for all those monthly payments.”

  The tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickled as I read the address. “The house is on Palm Beach. Nothing there costs twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “The house might need a little work. There is some hurricane damage.”

  I looked up and met her gaze. “How much hurricane damage?”

  “I’m hardly a contractor, Finley.”

  “If I give you all my cash, how am I supposed to fix hurricane damage? Or pay the taxes? Or the insurance?”

  “If you don’t want it…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Of course I want it. I’m just a little confused. What’s the catch?”

  She shrugged slightly. “No catch. Well, except for paragraph eleven.”

  Moistening my fingertip, I quickly turned to that section. “If I ever want to sell the property I can only sell it back to you for the original purchase price?”

  “It has sentimental value. It was the first piece of property Jonathan bought when he came to Florida. Oh,” she added, smoothing a lock of chestnut-colored hair off her chemically wrinkle-free forehead. “And paragraph twelve.”

  Reading further, I discovered that in the event I sold the house back to my mother, I’d forfeit any money paid to her, as well as a one-time assessment of 5 percent of the appraised value of the home. “So, worst-case scenario, if I decided I didn’t want the house, I’d lose my ten-thousand-dollar deposit plus whatever mortgage payments I made plus another however much for the assessment?”

  She shook her head. “Conservatively, we’d be talking about an additional fifty to one hundred thousand. But that would only be an issue if you reneged on the deal prior to paying off the purchase price or—”

  “Or what?”

  “Or if I die first. Obviously, the house would be yours free and clear in the event of my death. That’s in paragraph seventeen.”

  This is the point in the conversation when I’m supposed to cry, “No, Mom, don’t die!” but the best I could muster was a slight tilt of my head. Thank God this conversation wasn’t being taped. No court in the land would acquit me if she suddenly croaked. I didn’t want her to die, but I did want to know what was behind this unexpected show of generosity. “I’ll have one of the attorneys look at this when—”

  “I’m afraid I need your decision now.”

  I blinked. “Right now? Why?”

  “The house has been vacant for about six months.”

  “Vacant? Who was living there?”

  “Do you remember Melinda Redmond?”

  “Jonathan’s assistant?”

  My mother nodded. “She rented the house after she had her epiphany.”

  “What epiphany?”

  “Fifteen years ago Melinda decided to get out of advertising and devote herself to children. Can you imagine?”

  Yes, Mom. Some people actually like their children and don’t see them as disappointing burdens. “That’s quite a change.”

  Sighing heavily, she said, “Melinda paid more attention to those children than she did to caring for the home. I had no choice but to ask her to leave.”

  “You evicted a foster mother?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Which has created this opportunity for you, Finley. And a responsibility. Given the fact that you just tossed aside your future with Patrick, I need you to demonstrate that you’re capable of taking on responsibility. Of making important decisions.”

  “This is an important decision,” I agreed, wishing I’d ordered something a lot stronger than iced tea. “One I shouldn’t jump into without thinking about it.”

  “What is there to think about?” she countered. “I’m offering to sell you a home in a prime location on the beach at a fraction of its fair market value. I’ve already spoken to your bank, and they’ll give you a home equity loan for any repairs with the house as collateral. In the event you fail to meet your obligations, I’ve agreed to guarantee the loan. All you have to do is sign some papers at the bank. I’ve arranged for a line of credit up to two hundred thousand dollars. I will cover the taxes and insurance until you pay off the fifteen thousand dollars you owe me. That payment is set at two hundred fifty dollars per month. Since I have a long-standing relationship with the bank, if you borrow the maximum amount I’ve guaranteed, you’re looking at a combined monthly payment of about seventeen hundred. How much is your rent?”

  “Fifteen hundred.”

  “So,” she said smugly. “For two hundred dollars a month, you’re actually working toward owning a sizeable asset.”

  I felt a vine-covered pit opening beneath my feet. I smelled my own fear. My mother never gave anything without weighing her options. If it was good for my mother, it was bad for me. I knew that. It was a given. But, damn. The offer sounded so tempting. I could find two hundred extra dollars a month. Right?

  A homeowner. A house right on the beach. The payments sounded doable. The sell-back terms sucked, but if I took her up on her offer, I wouldn’t want to sell the house back to her.

  Run away, I told myself. “I-I know.”

  “I’m your mother, Finley. Are you insinuating
you can’t or won’t trust me?”

  Yes. “No, of course not. But I’d like to have Becky take a look at the contract.” Becky was a contracts attorney at Dane, Lieberman, and Zarnowski and one of my best friends.

  “I want this resolved now, Finley. Accept my generous offer, or don’t. Make up your own mind.”

  Oh, boy. “Okay. Where do I sign?” Becky didn’t trust my mother any more than I did. And she wasn’t going to be happy that I’d contractually bound myself to buying a house without her going over the contract with a lice comb first.

  “Then let’s get Julianna over here.” My mother raised her hand in the direction of the maitre d’.

  “Who’s Julianna?”

  “She works here at the club. She’s a notary. Philippe can be a witness.”

  I heard the sound of a train barreling over me, and my mind flashed an image of my body flattened on imaginary tracks. I’d come to Iron Horse Country Club for a simple lunch, and in under an hour, I was signing a contract and writing a check.

  An hour later, still dazed, I walked into the lobby of Dane, Lieberman, and Zarnowski. Margaret Ford was planted behind the horseshoe-shaped mahogany reception desk, Bluetooth tucked behind her right ear. She glanced over at me, then made a production out of checking her watch. Yeah, yeah, like I needed her snarky expression to tell me I was twenty-seven minutes late getting back from lunch.

  “Messages?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I turned and headed for the elevator. Other than arranging for a site appraisal on the Melanie Dryer estate, my afternoon was pretty light. By the time I reached my office on the second floor, I was dying to get a look at the house I’d just bought.

  The faint scent of lavender from a plug-in air freshener mingled with the strong aroma of coffee. After dropping my purse in a desk drawer, I filled my mug with the dregs from the carafe and navigated my way to a satellite photograph of Chilian Avenue. I was still having a hard time wrapping my brain around the idea that I was the owner of a home on Palm Beach.

  My fingernail tapped impatiently on the arrow key, annoyed that the satellite photo was so fuzzy. All I could really make out was a basic outline. The roof of my house was approximately one-tenth the size of the garage on the neighboring property to the left. And smaller than the pool of the house to the right.

  So what. It was right on the beach, and it was mine. Well, mostly mine.

  As much as I wanted to race out and see the house, I decided it should be a celebration. And who better to share my newfound land-baron status with than my nearest and dearest? I emailed Becky, Liv, and Jane, sure that if I called them I’d spill my guts and spoil the surprise. In less than five minutes, I had confirmations from all three.

  I called the appraiser, then devoted my attention to surfing for decorating ideas. My friend and neighbor, Sam Carter, is an interior designer, and he would probably cut off my fingers if he knew I was picking colors and furnishings unsupervised. His disdain wouldn’t be wholly unwarranted. The décor in my apartment lingers somewhere between yard sale and college dorm. Sam was at some home show in Vegas, but I was sure that once he saw the house, he’d have strong opinions.

  Hell, I wanted to see the house. Glancing at my Kuber watch, I pressed my lips together. It was only a few minutes after three. Drumming my fingers on my desk, I glanced at my open case files, deciding which one I could use to my best advantage. There was no way I could get past surly Margaret and her file room flunkies without a viable excuse.

  Margaret’s been stationed at that desk for twenty-five years—probably one of the things that’s made her so bitter. That and she resents the fact that I make more money than she does. In Margaretville, lawyers should earn the big bucks and the rest of us should be paid according to seniority. Coincidentally, that would make her the highest paid non-attorney member of the staff. But I was the one with the degree. And I was the one who’d just brought five new clients to the firm. As far as I was concerned, she could go suck her Bluetooth.

  With a draft of the Jessup estate accounting tucked into the pink alligator leather tote I bought as a consolation gift after my last confrontation with Patrick, I scooted my chair back, clicking the button on the wireless mouse to hibernate my computer, and made a stealthy exit.

  “THIS IS YOURS, FINLEY?”

  It was hard to hear Becky Jameson’s voice over the excited thudding of my heart in my ears as I closed the car door. The magnitude of this moment made it hard for me to remember how to breathe normally.

  The idea that I was a homeowner before I hit the big three-o qualified as a major milestone. And not just any home. My new abode was a darling cottage on the north end of Palm Beach. The Palm Beach.

  “Yep,” I said as I hoisted my tote and purse higher on my shoulder.

  Becky lingered by the car, whistling softly as she gave the exterior a once-over. “What’s the catch?”

  I believe those were my exact words.

  Becky’s tone echoed the uneasiness knotted in my stomach. We’d been friends since college, so like me, she was stunned when I told her that my mother had sold me the house for a fraction of its value. “The contract she had me sign was really straightforward,” I insisted. I had the five-page document tucked inside my tote.

  I focused, transfixed, on the tidy turquoise cottage with a small front porch and coral accents that, as of a few hours ago, was my new address. Like Weezie Jefferson, I’d moved on up. The Palm Beach address was a huge step up from my apartment in West Palm. Under normal circumstances, it was also far beyond my meager means.

  Becky slipped her sunglasses down on the bridge of her perfect nose and gave me one of those “I’ll bet” looks. She was a little miffed that I’d made my first real estate transaction without so much as calling her for advice.

  Which I would have done if my mother hadn’t put a ticking clock on the transaction.

  “Are we going in?” Becky asked as she moved around the front of her car toward the house.

  “We have to wait for Liv and Jane.”

  Becky lifted her auburn hair off her neck and twisted it into a messy knot. “Great. You get a house and I get heat stroke.”

  “Let’s walk around back,” I suggested.

  The small yard circling the building was landscaped, and the grass was freshly mowed. A small, uneven stone pathway led around the side of the single-story home. Someone had recently planted white flowers in the flowerbeds that rimmed the house. Hopefully that someone would keep it up, since I have the blackest thumb in all of south Florida. I didn’t make eye contact with the plants, afraid they’d pick up on my botanical death ray and die on the spot.

  Other than a cement slab, the backyard was nothing more than a glorious slope of sand leading straight into the Atlantic Ocean. The surf lapped softly on the deserted shoreline, sending a cooling, salty breeze to greet us. I slipped off my shoes and felt the cool, fine-grained sand beneath my feet. Besides a few clumps of sea grass, nothing impeded my glorious view. On either side of my beach—I paused to repeat that in my head: my beach—the neighbors had privacy fences with some sort of vines growing over them for aesthetic purposes. I didn’t care; the small red flowers perfumed the air, enhancing the whole experience.

  “This is my sand,” I said as I wiggled my toes.

  “I’m pretty sure the sand belongs to the state,” Becky remarked, hooking the straps of her wedges over one finger.

  Unlike me, Becky didn’t have to resort to online auctions and outlet shopping. Thanks to her JD, she earned a decent salary. “Want a roommate? This view is incredible,” Becky sighed. “This place has to be worth a few million, easy.”

  True. It was one of the few prime beach-front cottages still standing. Most of the small lots in Palm Beach had been gobbled up by developers. Cottages like mine—I got a rush just hearing that thought in my brain—were practically extinct.

  “You could flip this place and—”

  “No, I can’t,” I explained. “That was
one of the provisions my mother put into the contract.”

  “You can’t sell it?”

  I shrugged. “I can, but only back to her. Apparently she has a deep emotional attachment to this place even though she never lived here. She had the same tenant for most of the past fifteen years, but six months ago, Melinda left. It’s been vacant ever since.”

  “Melinda? You knew the tenant?”

  “Kinda,” I said, shading my eyes as the sun behind me painted the surf gold. “She was Jonathan’s assistant in New York and then somehow went from that to fostering kids. My mother didn’t give me the details, just that she evicted her.”

  “That’s cold,” Becky remarked without surprise. “Where is your mother now?”

  I turned and looked at my friend. “How should I know? And what difference does it make?”

  “None, I guess. But I’m having a hard time with the notion that your mother just had you write a check and handed you the keys? No warning, no nothing?”

  I shrugged. “A random act of kindness. Who cares what her motives are? Bottom line? I have a beautiful, three-bedroom oceanfront house.”

  “What other restrictions did she put on the sale?”

  I waved my hand dismissively. “Just general stuff about maintaining it properly, blah, blah, blah. Oh, and”—I lowered my voice, hoping it would drown in the sound of the waves—“I can’t borrow against it for anything other than maintenance and repairs.”

  Becky shook her head. “She dangled the bait and you impaled yourself on the hook.”

  “Look around you,” I said. “I could work for the next gazillion years and I’d never be able to afford this place.”

  “Can you afford the taxes and the insurance?” Becky countered.

  “I don’t have to until I’ve paid off fifteen thousand I owe my mother. Can you go pull the wings off a different butterfly?”