Here, Home, Hope

by Kaira Rouda

  “Make way for cornbread and the best chili in Grandville,” Patrick proclaimed.

  “It’s so great to be home,” Kathryn said. “I actually feel happy for the first time in so long. And Mel knows this, but I just felt like I had to keep going, to prove myself or something. But really, down deep, I was afraid: afraid to do anything different; afraid to get off the treadmill. You know, until I was let go, I didn’t know how good change could feel. I just worried about the risks, not the rewards.”

  “Mom, what are you talking about?” Mel asked, looking at her.

  “The point is, you’ve got to take risks to change,” Kathryn said. “And I’m ready to go. I was stuck for too long, in my marriage, in my job. I was on a treadmill, really. Great chili, by the way, Patrick.”

  After Melanie and Kathryn helped clean up dinner, they packed up Melanie’s things and headed back to the home they’d both shared with Bruce, the one they’d be leaving soon as they started over. Kathryn told us at dinner she was thinking maybe a condominium would be fun for the two of them, and Mel agreed, as long as it had a swimming pool. All in all, they both seemed happy, peaceful, and recovering. As long as Beth worked with both of them and Bruce remained cooperative, Mel was going to be fine.

  I’d keep an eye on Kathryn. And, quite honestly, I would love her help with my new, suddenly busy business. She’d offered a proposition at dinner—probably promoted by Mel—that if I’d stage her home to sell, she’d help get the business systems rolling and off the ground for the next couple of months. Sounded like a great idea to me, and it would give us a chance to test the waters of working together. I’d heard Kathryn was tough in business, and I didn’t want to be overshadowed while pursuing my newfound purpose.

  As I headed upstairs to get ready for bed, Oreo climbing the stairs behind me, I wondered if Charlotte was the listing agent for Bruce and Kathryn’s house. I guess that would keep it all in the family, but if I were Kathryn, I wasn’t sure I’d be comfortable with it. I guess that’s life during divorce; things get messy. Or perhaps the mess that was already there came to the surface.

  I joined Patrick, my ox, in our room. He, being a low-maintenance man, was already in bed reading. His grooming ritual consisted of brushing his teeth. Mine, on the other hand, would take me twenty minutes on a good night.

  I wondered how many hours I’d wasted, washing my face and applying lotion only to wash my face the next morning and apply more lotion? Now, though, with my new sonic cleanser, I was cleaning even deeper each time. Scrubbing off those pesky lines. And with my bangs, I could pass for a youngish middling home stager. That was something, I supposed, but nothing to put on my business card. Thankfully, unlike a lot of real estate agents I knew, I didn’t put my photo on my cards.

  Just a happy hydrangea for me, thank you.

  ALONE AT MY KITCHEN TABLE DESK THE NEXT MORNING, I tackled the remaining voice mail. After deleting the overtly disturbing ones, I was left with twenty messages that seemed to fall into three categories. The first and largest category was messages from desperate sellers whose homes had been on the market for months. Most of these callers lived in lovely neighborhoods, and I knew I could help. The second category was from people considering putting their homes on the market and wanting my advice to make their homes ready for sale. I could do that. Surprisingly, the third category of messages covered people who wanted me to stage their homes for events. One had a daughter’s wedding at the end of the summer, another was hosting a company party, and a third was planning a charity fundraiser at her home.

  Did I do event home staging? Was there such a thing? I guess my background in event planning would make this a natural extension. But I’d have to be perfectly clear that I was not an event planner; that was an entirely different business. I’d call these three women back, explain my fees, and go from there. If they balked at the cost, I’d focus on my core business. If not, I’d add event home staging to my business cards and website.

  I decided to call the doyen of society about the fall charity event staging and see what she had in mind. I had to admit, I was intrigued. Mrs. Clark had explained in a very matter-of-fact way that she had enjoyed watching me on the television program and thought I could bring a heightened sophistication to her upcoming party. She’d never had her home staged before an event, just decorated by the caterers and the party planners. She wondered how much I’d charge. So did I.

  “Hello, Mrs. Clark?” I asked.

  “No, this is her house manager. May I help you?”

  “I’m returning Mrs. Clark’s call inquiring about home staging services,” I said in my most professional yet warm voice, I hoped.

  “Ah, yes. She wanted me to inquire about the charges for your services. Do you work for an hourly rate or a flat fee, and what should we allocate in the event budget? The party is on September 22.”

  Unfortunately, I hadn’t gotten to the part in the course where it told me how to price an event at a mansion—and it was an imposing mansion in every sense of the word—so I was sort of stumped. But I knew what I could do. “My hourly fee is $100, and I’d estimate six to ten hours, depending on the requirements of the job. Does that fit into your budget?” I smiled at the conclusion of my first business pitch.

  “Please just forward your contract, with your fees spelled out. We’ll be in touch.” The house manager hung up.

  Jeez. She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no. I made a note to get my contract together; I’d seen some samples online that I had forwarded to our attorney. I needed to find out if he’d had any changes. I added that to my business To Do list.

  I returned the call about the other two party staging jobs and told them I charged $100 an hour. They both said they would give me a call back after considering their budgets. I put each of them down as a “no” on the spreadsheet.

  Next I started in with the desperate home sellers. Marjorie Davis, who lived two blocks over, begged me to come over right away. We made an appointment for 3:00 pm, giving me time to finish making all of the desperate seller calls. My next five calls went to voice mail, where I left an official-sounding message and invited them to visit my website, email me, or call me back. Of the other four sellers I reached, all of them wanted appointments today. I made one other appointment for 4:00 pm, and booked the other three for Tuesday morning.

  The “I’m thinking about putting my house on the market” calls were the most interesting. Four of the potential sellers hadn’t hired a real estate agent yet. They were calling me first, for my opinion. That meant I had the power to refer these folks to a real estate agent of my choosing. This was a great way to start building my credibility with top listing agents, my upcoming party aside. I’d need to include Charlotte, but I couldn’t recommend her exclusively. Not now.

  It was just after lunch, and Mel and Kathryn arrived as I hung up from my last call. I smiled, knowing I had a team. My plan was to put Mel in charge of returning other telephone calls and setting up more appointments. Kathryn, if she was willing to do so, would be in charge of the party, based on Patrick’s ideas of foot traffic flow. She could handle calling and selecting as well as meeting the caterer.

  “Kelly, could I take a look at your spreadsheet, too?” Kathryn asked, settling in at the command center/desk/kitchen table. “I read your business plan, and I have some ideas I’d like to implement. I’m an expert at the business process.”

  “Ah, yes, have at it, please,” I said, blushing a bit as I handed her my hand-drawn checklist.

  “You go get ready for your meetings, and Mel and I will handle this,” Kathryn said. “Go get ’em!”

  Marjorie Davis’s home was cluttered with all of the equipment necessary for a family with very young children, starting outside with the Little Tykes toys littering the driveway and the plastic swimming pool on the front lawn—filled, but not in use. Marjorie had asked me not to ring the doorbell in case her children were napping. That had been my other clue. I’m quick, after all. The For Sale sign
in the yard was from a do-it-yourself Internet company.

  As I walked through the toy maze and up to the front door, I took out my notepad and started jotting down details. I figured, if nothing else, taking notes would help calm me down during my first official home staging appointment. The door swung open and a rather frantic looking brunette ushered me in with a whispered, “They’re still asleep.”

  I nodded and followed her down the hallway to a dark-paneled, dark brown Formica counter–topped kitchen. Hmm. This was an easy fix, I thought. Marjorie seemed diminished in the darkness of her kitchen, swallowed up in brown. We sat at a dark oak table. It was sticky on top from kid crud. Two rolling high chairs were pushed into the corners of the crowded room.

  “My husband will be here in a minute,” she said in a hushed tone. “We’ve been at this for six months. Everything we have is in this house, and we just can’t sell for less than what we’re asking; we can’t. Can you help us?”

  “I can, but I need to know what you’re willing to invest to get the price you deserve,” I said. “From what I can tell already, we need to clean up the front, get all the play toys into the back, plant more flowers in your beds, and get that grass watered. You never get a second chance to make a good first impression. If I was a buyer and drove by right now, I’d be turned off. Especially if I didn’t have young children.”

  Marjorie nodded. She seemed open to my opinions, even if they were negative. She looked like she needed help, and I wanted to help her.

  “This kitchen needs paint. It’s too dark. This is the heart of your home. And all of the photos of your kids, which are lining the hallway on the way back here, need to be taken down right away,” I explained. “It’s about depersonalization. You need to allow prospective buyers to picture themselves here. They don’t want to picture you and your family living here.”

  Just then Sam walked in and introduced himself. He immediately asked about my fee. I told him I estimated four hours at $100, not including what they’d pay painters or anyone else for tasks I suggested. He said they’d do everything themselves and that was fine with me. I did a walk through of the house, quietly, and sketched a floor plan. I saw every room except the kids’ bedrooms. I told both Marjorie and Sam I’d have a plan ready by Wednesday. I knew that was a fast turnaround, but I was excited and ideas were bursting from my pen to the notepad. I knew I could help. As I was leaving, I made one more suggestion.

  “Think about hiring a real estate agent to help,” I said. “Agents don’t like to show ‘for sale by owner’ properties because even if your sign says you’ll pay a commission, they aren’t sure. And they end up doing all the work for both sides of the deal because they know you aren’t familiar with the process, the legalities, all the contracts, and the like. It is worth the fee, I’ll guarantee it. We could list the house with someone next week if you two can devote the rest of this week to the improvements I’ll specify. Think about it.”

  After we all signed the contract (hot off my printer), I left with $250—I required half the estimated fee upfront—and a huge smile on my face. I knew I could help the Davis family.

  The second appointment, at a house double the size of Marjorie and Sam’s, went just as smoothly. The home was listed with Grandville Realty, a local boutique shop, but the listing was expiring Sunday, and Mr. and Mrs. Wurst—they didn’t tell me their first names, and I didn’t mind—were going to make a change. As we walked through their elegant home, they asked me for a referral to a real estate agent. I told them that as I drew up their home staging plan I would also spend time thinking about who would be the perfect agent for them. I promised that their plan would be ready at the end of the week. I left without knowing their first names, but with a check and contract in hand.

  I drove home, parked Doug, and burst through the door between the garage and the mudroom and started yelling.

  “What? Are you okay?” Patrick yelled back.

  “Aunt Kelly?” Mel called.

  “I’m fine everybody, just excited!” I yelled back as I met Patrick, Mel, Kathryn, and Oreo in the hallway. “I got two jobs today! Two out of two. Look!” I held up the checks and the contracts, like a fifth grader showing off a great report card.

  “Congratulations, superstar!” Patrick said, wrapping me in a hug.

  “That’s a great close rate,” Kathryn said, and seemed genuinely impressed.

  “I’ve scheduled four new appointments for you, but they’re next week. Mom thinks you should take it easy this week with the party and all,” Mel said.

  We were having our first staff meeting.

  “Caterer is booked. Flowers ordered. Rental table and chairs ordered,” Kathryn reported. “Oh, and you have an actual spreadsheet. Can’t wait to show you! This is fun.”

  “Kelly, just let me know when I can retire. It sounds like it’ll happen soon,” Patrick said, smiling as we all made our way over to the kitchen table command center.

  That night, in bed, all I could think about were my two new jobs. Marjorie and Sam’s drawing, along with a detailed plan and color chart, was almost complete in my mind. I just had to finish it on my laptop. I propped up pillows and made a desk. Patrick smiled over at me, and then went back to reading.

  “How late do you plan to be working in bed?” he asked a few minutes later.

  “Until I get this finished,” I answered. “Hope I’m not disturbing you, but I am on deadline.”

  “You’re fine, tonight. I hope this doesn’t become a regular thing, though. You know I’m a light sleeper. But I do love looking over and seeing you smiling while you work on your computer.”

  I realized I had been smiling. This was much more fun to think about, I decided, than how much to scrub my wrinkles. Tomorrow, I’d start the Wursts’ plan in between appointments. Maybe I should offer Charlotte Marjorie and Sam’s listing as a good faith gesture? Perhaps the Wurst’s, too.

  I was full of faith, I thought, and most of the time, it’s good.

  SOMEONE HAD DECIDED IT WAS ACCEPTABLE TO CALL OUR house at 7:30 am.

  This, to me—a non-morning person who had stayed up late the night before writing the final home-staging plan for Marjorie and Sam—was a completely unacceptable hour to talk to anyone except Oreo. Patrick was long gone to the office. I picked up the phone and used my most grumpy voice, hoping to scare whoever was on the other end into hanging up immediately. It didn’t work.

  “Hi Kelly, it’s Carol from Dr. Bane’s office to let you know your bottom guard is in,” said the perky, singsongy voice. It wasn’t her fault that I got the heebie-jeebies when that office called. “We have time today at three o’clock or four o’clock. Which would you like?”

  “Actually, I’m busy all this week, Carol. I started a home staging business and I’m booked, all day, all week long. Let me call you back next week, when I can squeeze in some time.”

  That felt good. And actually, even though I hadn’t been paying attention to it, so did my jaw. My mouth wasn’t achy. Maybe I’d stopped grinding my teeth? Maybe I was cured, at least of this particular affliction.

  Invigorated by my incredibly full schedule and my relaxed jaw, I jumped into the shower. My first appointment was at 10:00 am, and I had to organize my team before then. Beth was coming over to meet with Mel at nine, as usual. We’d all agreed to keep her schedule intact and in neutral territory, at my house. Kathryn was bringing Mel over; I hoped Kathryn would stay and work. It was beginning to dawn on me that I really needed help.

  After getting ready, I decided to call Charlotte.

  We exchanged pleasantries, and she shared that the funeral would be in the evening, with a small number of people, and all of the details were being handled by Jim’s family. She didn’t sound like the Charlotte I knew, but I chalked that up to her state of grief.

  “Do you want me there?” I asked, somewhat shocked at how fast it had been planned and how calm she seemed.

  “No, I’m fine. Bruce is coming, and the girls will sing, and it w
ill be fine. Thanks, though, Kelly.”

  She didn’t sound fine; maybe she was on some drugs? Bruce had mentioned trying to get her something to control the crying.

  “If you’re sure, Charlotte—by the way, I had my first meeting about home staging and my clients are a for-sale-by-owner,” I said, thinking that would stir up her competitive juices. Or any juices.

  “A lot of people try that, even here,” she said listlessly.

  “Yes, well, they’re tired of trying that and want to work with a real estate agent. Are you interested? They are a lovely young couple, with kids a bit younger than your girls.”

  “Sure, Kelly. How about if I call them later, maybe tomorrow? Would that be alright?”

  She sounded like she was sleep talking.

  “I’ll give them your name when I drop off their plan later today. I’ll explain you’re busy until later in the week.”

  I was excited I’d put the plan together a day early. I would put Charlotte’s name and contact information at the end of my home staging plan for Marjorie and Sam, along with a note that I would need at least another hour for the final walk through and staging after they’d executed the improvements I’d outlined. I was proud of the presentation and of the ideas. I’d even provided them with paint swatch colors and paint names, and I’d gone onto Target.com and done screen grabs of inexpensive accessory pieces I wanted them to purchase, and where they should place them.

  I asked them to paint the kitchen table and chairs white, to cover the table with a plastic tablecloth for everyday kid use, and then to set the table as if for a dinner party when the house was shown. I’d picked out four place settings, place mats, stemware, napkin rings, and even the silverware I wanted them to use. I also insisted on fresh flowers in a vase on the table. The kitchen counters were to be replaced with white Formica and the kitchen cabinets painted white. I’d selected hardware they could order online from Restoration Hardware, or they could head to the store. I had made this type of a plan for each room of the home. Now, it would be up to them to execute.