Sparing the Heart (Pastime Pursuits #3)

by Tracy Krimmer

  “Oh. I want to ask you a couple questions first.” I reach for my pen and notepad and splash tea all over my laptop. Damnit!

  “Don’t bother. Meet me at the house now. I want this place on the market as soon as possible. Do you need directions?”

  “I-“

  “Of course you don’t. Just put the address in your GPS and you’ll be here in no time. See you in twenty.”

  The phone is still on my ear when she disconnects. What just happened? She didn’t give me a chance to ask any of my pre-listing questions. I keep a list I like to ask before I even go visit a property. My mouth hangs open as I place my cell down. “Okay, then.” I shrug and rub my neck. She is going to be an interesting client.

  ••••••••••

  The neighborhood reminds me of The Wonder Years. The street is wide and lined with trees. A few kids ride their bikes on the pavement and an elderly man walks his dog. This is the type of location people want, especially those with growing families. Close to the park and only about ten minutes walking distance from the retail district. This may be an awesome opportunity and a potentially easy sale.

  “Your destination is on your left in 500 feet,” the GPS voice says to me.

  “Thank you.” Yes, I do talk to my GPS. She’s been the only other passenger in this car since I’ve moved here.

  My car jumps over the small cracks throughout the concrete as I park. The raised ranch’s exterior leaves little to be desired with its dirty vinyl siding and garage door sunken in. The screen door is hanging off the hinges and the bay window is cracked. “Spectacular. A fixer-upper.”

  This can go either way. I can find an eager buyer to come in at a low price and renovate it for resale or a first home, or it will sit on the market for ages. Ages.

  I curse the steps as my heel catches in an uneven space. I grasp the railing, but it’s so wobbly I’m afraid the structure will give way. I already expect any offer to demand the owner fixes that and puts in some credit for the driveway and garage. This is going to be such a difficult sell.

  I ring the doorbell, but there isn’t an echo on the inside. I press the button again in case the first time wasn’t hard enough, but still nothing. I knock on the door and a woman calls out, “The door’s open!”

  The door handle is sticky, and my mind immediately goes NCIS. I picture realtors coming to this house and never leaving. I’m the next victim. I signed up for this job, though, so I slowly pull the crooked screen door open being careful it doesn’t fall right off the hinges. The wooden door is much more secure. I open the door and plug my nose upon entry.

  This smell is like nothing I’ve ever encountered before. I can only guess cat urine and cigarette smoke. Shaggy, brown carpeting graces the living room, covered with dark stains, matching ones on the walls. “Hello?”

  A woman with short permed hair and glasses races into the room. “What took you so long?” Her hands meet her hips and her lips are pursed with disappointment.

  I check my phone. Twenty minutes. Right on time. “Sorry.” Why am I apologizing? The client is always right, though. Well, except when they’re completely wrong!

  “Go ahead. Take a look around.”

  “Okay.” I know we spoke on the phone, but I expected her to reintroduce herself to me. Maybe she could give me the tour. We met ten seconds ago and she’s already an odd one in my book.

  She eyes me as I step past her into the kitchen. The cabinet doors are either torn off or hanging by a screw. The dirty linoleum floor is in need of a sweeping. Or sandblasting. Countertops are cluttered with junk. I walk through and glance in all three bedrooms, each boasting a vivid color carpeting. The bathrooms are disgusting and in need of a complete overhaul.

  “What do you think?”

  I jump and clutch at my chest. This woman scared the hell out of me. My honest impression is this house is run down and needs a gutting. I can’t tell her that, though. “It’s definitely dripping with … character.” And God only knows what else.

  “Come on, lady. Kate, right?”

  I nod, fearful of what she’s about to say.

  “It looks like a natural disaster occurred here. My parents lived here and my father continued to after my mother died. He never took care of it. A boy a couple doors down cut the grass and shoveled the driveway for him, but nothing else. He quarantined himself in this house and drunk himself to death. Her death killed him. And now I have this house to deal with.” She twirls a few times pointing at each corner of the room. “I don’t want this. I’ve got a nice place about an hour from here and the last thing I want is this as my responsibility.”

  “Well, if we keep the price low we should sell pretty fast. Homes around this neighborhood typically boast sales around the three hundred thousand mark. We may be able to draw in offers around one-seventy-five and close in a few short weeks.”

  The look on her face is like I just told her I ran over her dog. How can my sales pitch be this horrifying? The place needs work. A major overhaul. No one in their right mind is going to come in here and pay full asking price.

  “Absolutely not. The mortgage is paid off. I can afford to wait for an offer. I won’t start any less than $220,000.”

  I disguise my laugh as a cough. “Excuse me.” I’m never going to sell this house at that price. “Anything over two is quite risky and will take an extremely long time to move.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “But —“

  “My dad left me nothing but this piece of crap house. I’m getting every penny I can. Not to mention, the higher the offer, the more you make.”

  This is true, but I need money now, not a year from now. I’m at a loss of how to market this house at the price she’s requesting. “There isn’t a lot of furniture here. Would you be willing to hire a painter and home stager so we can really make this place pop?”

  Now her eyes are locked on mine as though a third one is placed in the center of my face. Sellers don’t want to hear these things, but you have to spend money to make money. I can make every effort to bring in a sale for her, but unless she meets me halfway and agrees to spice the place up — or at the very least hire professional cleaners — there’s not much I can do for her.

  “I want my dad’s house gone. I’m not putting in any extra cash. None.”

  This part of my job is so difficult. I want to avoid insulting her, but she must understand my point of view. She’s hiring me to sell a run-down home. In order to make this a success, the house has to appeal to buyers. At least somewhat. “Ms. Foley, I realize you want to make as much money as you can, but I don’t think I’ll be able to get the price you want.” Buyers or sellers — they all think they know everything. They’re blinded by dollar signs. I can envision this home a real gem with new cabinets, countertops, and flooring. And paint. Paint fixes almost everything.

  She crosses her arms. “Then maybe you’re not the one for this job. Thank you for your time.”

  I drop my head as I sigh. Great. Now I have to go back to my boss and tell her I screwed this up. I brush past Janice and think about what she said. ‘My dad left me nothing but this piece of crap house.’ She should be lucky her dad left her anything. How ungrateful. Yet, this sale is crucial. In my time at Double West Realty, I can count my sales on one hand. I need to do this.

  I turn and face Janice, who is standing with her hands still on her hips. They must be permanently attached there. “I’m sorry. If you want me to represent you, I will try my damnedest to sell this house for you.”

  She eyes me up and down from my red heels to my black skirt to white blouse. “You can’t be much older than me. What are you, maybe thirty-five or thirty-six?”

  She waits for a reply, but I’m not telling her my age.

  “There comes a time in your life when you have to take what’s rightfully yours. The money this house can make, well that’s mine.” She sticks her finger in her chest. “You’re hired, and I’ll give you no more than ninety days. Got it?”


  Ninety days to sell a fixer-upper at a premium price? Sure. Why not? “Got it.”

  Chapter

  Three

  I’m happy to be joining Gretchen for lunch today. After meeting with Janice, I need a friendly face, even if another new one. She texted me last night and suggested we have lunch at a small cafe. Our conversation at the bowling alley was hardly enough time to familiarize ourselves with each other. I’m grateful because I don’t want to show up at the first practice only knowing her name.

  Tula’s Cafe is quaint and reminds me a little bit of home. While set deep in the heart of Madison, the inside is cozy with touches of country everywhere. The tables are small and round with wooden chairs. They’re weathered, giving them an antique appearance. I love the defined rings and their offbeat patterns in the table tops.

  I scan the room for Gretchen. The cafe isn’t too busy, but her face isn’t etched into my brain yet. A baby cries, echoing through the room, and Gretchen waves when I look over.

  “Good morning,” I greet her as I sit down, wrapping my purse around the chair.

  “Hi! I’m glad you found the place. Parking is horrendous, but the food is worth the pain. I love coming here. They serve breakfast all day. You must try it. You must.”

  Well, if she’s insisting, I guess. I don’t have a craving for anything in particular, so if she can pick for me, great. “Who’s this little girl?”

  “This is Mona. I’m sorry. I forgot to mention her the other day.”

  “No, no, that’s fine. I didn’t realize you’re a mom. That’s wonderful.”

  Mona is cute and chubby with light blonde hair that’s stick straight and thin. Her big cheeks are puffed out and she’s smiling now, bouncing her arms up and down.

  “How old is she?” I’m so bad with ages, especially in regards to babies and kids. I’m not around them very much, either.

  “Almost six months. I’m so glad she’s here. After fifteen years of marriage, we finally got pregnant. We were ready to give up when a test came back positive! Tracking my ovulation and needing Clark to be ready to go at any minute was wearing me down.”

  The waitress interrupts us and takes our drink order. Gretchen sticks with water, and I request an iced tea. Even in my thin strap tunic and floral skirt cut right above the knee, I’m still hot. Summer will be over soon, though, so I should enjoy these eighty and ninety degree days while I can. Soon winter comes. Have I mentioned how much I hate winter?

  Once the waitress leaves to get our drinks, I scoot my chair in some more. “Wow. You’ve been married fifteen years?” I’m not even sure I own anything that old.

  Mona tries to grab the menu from Gretchen, who gives in and lets her take it. “Yep. We’ve actually known each other our whole lives.”

  That’s amazing to me, to be friends with someone your entire life and then marry that person. Besides my brother and my aunt, I can’t think of one person living I’ve known fifteen years. I don’t keep in touch with anyone from high school and my last job didn’t allow any sort of a social life. The time between that I like to forget.

  “What do you do, Gretchen? When you’re not bowling and taking care of Mona?”

  “Not much else. I’m a stay at home mom and I love every minute. This girl keeps me busy.”

  I imagine she does, in between Gretchen giving her kisses. She’s adorable, but a sad reminder I’m not even close to this stage of my life. At this point, I doubt I’ll even be blessed with children. Give me a cat and call me the cat lady because I’m sure that’s what’s in store for me.

  “Are you married? Kids? Job?”

  The million dollar question. Did I think by my mid-thirties I’d have a husband and family? Definitely. The one relationship I expected marriage out of ended once I realized my needs ceased to be important. You can’t be a couple if only one of you is on the receiving end of love. Love is acceptance, appreciation, and support. My ex gave me none of that. Rather than suffer another broken heart, I focused on work. And I still do. But I can’t stand the question. I hate trying to defend my single status. “No, nope, and realtor.” There. All three questions answered, simply.

  As if sensing my need for distraction, the waitress returns with our drinks and to take our order.

  “Try the Eggs Benedict,” Gretchen suggests.

  I decide to try them, but she only gets toast. I don’t ask why she didn’t order the same since she made the recommendation.

  “Bowling.” Gretchen starts. “First practice for you should be next Tuesday. We have a game the first Friday of the month. I told my brother about you and he’s excited. He didn’t want to miss this season.”

  “His fiancée doesn’t mind?” I’m still a tad apprehensive about taking the place of this guy’s soon-to-be wife. Clark and Gretchen made it clear I shouldn’t worry, but it’s not so much worry as sheer uncomfortableness. The league may not officially be couples, but it’s mostly made up of them.

  “Don’t worry about her. You’ll never even meet her. She probably sprained her wrist on purpose.”

  What kind of person would hurt themselves intentionally? I don’t question Gretchen’s comment, though I’m curious. Once we spend some more time together, maybe I’ll ask. She’s piqued my interest a bit with this statement. I wonder what kind of a person this woman is.

  Gretchen pulls out her phone and snaps a picture of herself and Mona. “Should we send that to Daddy?” She asks Mona in a baby voice.

  “What does Clark do?”

  “Software developer. He loves his job and it’s so flexible. He works from home a lot. His boss adores him.” She grabs onto Mona’s hands. “And we do too, right, honey?”

  The food comes and we begin to eat, all the time Gretchen talking my ear off. I can’t remember the last time I was this sociable. Probably college. “Clark helps out around the house then?”

  “Oh, yes! He’s a dream. Most nights I relax while he takes care of Mona. He’s very hands on. Tell me, no one special at all in your life?”

  Why do I need a man in my life? I’m married to work. I like it, and it keeps me out of trouble. Besides, the most special man in my life passed away a year ago. Taken from me. This isn’t what she means, though. She’s wondering the same thing everyone does. Where’s my boyfriend? My husband? Someone with whom to grow a family? Or a friend with benefits? “No boyfriend. No prospects. I’m too busy with my job anyway.”

  “You’re never too busy for love, Kate.”

  I stop chewing my eggs, my fork hovering in the air. Is that it? Do I make excuses not to meet anyone? Do I pass up opportunities without even realizing? “Well, I am. I barely can fit bowling into my schedule.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “Because it’s important to me.” I don’t even need to think about that.

  “Isn’t love?”

  What is Gretchen, some sort of love guru or possibly Leo Buscaglia reincarnated in the body of a housewife? “Sure, love’s important. I can’t help it if it hasn’t found me.” I drink half my iced tea. Can we move onto the next subject?

  Mona lets out a squeak and smiles at me. Gretchen nestles her face in Mona’s neck and gives her a kiss. Maybe I don’t put enough priority on my love life. Maybe I do focus on work more than I should. Why is that a bad thing, though? Why is my choice to live a loveless, childless, work-oriented life looked down upon?

  Except I don’t think I’m choosing it. It chose me.

  Chapter

  Four

  Bowling is something I used to do almost every week, so why is this so difficult? I’m first to arrive at practice, and I’m relieved because I need time to process this. The last time I threw a ball my dad was alive and I was in a much better place. I think I’m ready — at least my therapist seems to think I am. Still, I stare at my bowling carrier, paralyzed.

  This shouldn’t be so hard. With a cautious hand, I unzip the bag and wrap my hands around the red ball. I stay put for a moment, embracing the cold polyure
thane and reminding myself over and over I’m only playing a game. I shouldn’t be frightened.

  “Face everything head on. You’re a strong woman,” my therapist said to me at our last session before I moved. “Soon you’ll start to do the things you did together, and it won’t hurt as much.”

  This does hurt. More than I could have ever imagined.

  I can’t help but scold myself, convincing my heart I’m doing something wrong by being in a bowling alley without him. This was our time together. This is how we bonded. What kind of an adult am I if I’m unable to throw a damn ball down a lane because it’s something I did with my dad? Grow up, Kate. Start moving forward.

  With that, I draw in a relaxing breath and lift my ball up.

  Ten pounds shouldn’t be hard to lift, but today, it seems impossible. I used this ball for years, won and lost my fair share. Now, holding my past in my hands, ready to do this again, it’s surreal. But it is real. This is happening. I’m doing this.

  I cradle the ball as I place it in the ball return like a newborn baby. Soon it will be racing down the lane and crashing through pins. I’ll let it enjoy these last few moments in peace. I take out my tattered shoes and replace my slip on canvas with them. I catch my breath as I hold in a tear, remembering my father in this moment. I’ll survive this.

  While I wait for everyone, or anyone for that matter, to arrive, I pull out my phone and shoot an email to Janice suggesting an open house. I’m clueless as to how I can make this house presentable, especially since she refuses to lift a finger. I’m sure she’ll agree seeing she doesn’t live there so I can pretty much show the property at any time. I answer a few emails and check social media and finally Gretchen and Clark hop into the lane.

  “Kate! You’re here!” Gretchen embraces me as though we’re old pals. I keep my hug back light, but she pulls me in much tighter than I’m comfortable. My goal is to one day be at ease with this, to offer hugs to my new friends and share with them like I’ve been a member of their group for years. Today is not that day. Yet.