Carol said, “In my experience, the deeper the roots, the harder the sale.”
“We’re fine.” This was a lie. Ann didn’t feel at all fine. She was racked with guilt, because she knew, even with a missing will, that her parents would have wanted her to make whatever sacrifice was necessary to pass their beloved family home down to Noah. And then there was Poppy, who had already turned her entire life into one long summer vacation. And Michael—no, no. She didn’t want to think about Michael. She couldn’t.
Carol sat down at the Formica kitchen table and gestured for Ann to join her. “This might be hard to hear, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t level with you. A house like this, as charming as it is, can be hard to move. Old homes require special owners.” Carol talked about the house like she was a doctor talking with parents about a child with a tragic congenital defect whose future would not be bright.
“Your home is wonderful. It’s in relatively good shape, for its age, and the lot is nice. But you’re right on Route 6, so there’s road noise.”
“But you can hardly hear it.”
“True. The problem is the address. Some of my clients, they won’t even look at a house on the state highway. And I should tell you that the first thing a buyer will see is what I saw when I first got here: the shingles aren’t in great shape and the roof needs to be replaced. The problem is that your home looks old instead of historic. You’ve only got one small bathroom, and any buyer will want another one upstairs. The fixtures are dated. The oil boiler—you know that will scare people. And the kitchen…” She looked around. Ann had to agree: the kitchen was a nightmare, complete with sticky-looking cupboards, and the funky pink and brown mushroom wallpaper her mother had put up in the seventies. “Kitchens sell houses.”
“What are you saying?”
“I know this is hard to hear, but it might be easier for you to set a low price to reflect the deficiencies.”
“‘Deficiencies’?” Ann felt deflated by that word.
“Given the lot size you can probably get a larger septic system, and that’s a good thing, but it’s expensive to upgrade, I’m guessing about twelve grand. And you’ll need a new well. Water is a problem in this area.”
“What do you mean it’s a problem? We’ve always had water.”
Ann walked over to the kitchen sink and flipped the faucet on, but nothing came out; worse, the handle fell off, clattering when it hit the bottom of the metal sink. “Well, it’s turned off in the winter. There’s water. There’s always been water.”
Carol shook her head. “It’s a known problem.”
“Great,” Ann said. Her stupid suit did nothing to make her feel more in control.
“People want to swoop in for a few days, unwind, drink, play in the sand, whatever. They think about how much they can get for rent in the summer, and a place like this is hard to rent out until it’s fixed up. The house is very special, it is, but it’s easier to rent a cleaner-looking, more generic space. And it’s on the water I guess, but you’re set too far back to get a good view of the cove.”
“You’re saying it’s hopeless.”
Carol’s smile was as unexpected as it was refreshing. “Of course not! I just want you to be realistic. You’ll find a buyer who’s into history, who gets into the old hardware and square nails, the big fireplace, the bean-pot cellar. For those people, the smell of an old house is like the smell of a baseball glove for a baseball player. You’re looking for a romantic.” The way Carol said it, she might have said, You’re looking for … a hopeless loser. “But a more likely scenario is that your buyer will want to tear it down.”
“But it’s, it’s historic. They can’t.”
“It’s not in the historic district, and it’s not listed on the National Register.”
Ann felt like cleaning out her ears. Did this Realtor just talk about the house being torn down? Out loud, in the light of day, practically within earshot of Ann’s dead parents? Selling was one thing; bulldozing the house was something different altogether. It would be like killing a living thing.
Ann said, “Can we make it so that whoever buys it can’t?” She paused. “Can’t tear it down?”
“Maybe you could put a restriction on the deed, or impose a short waiting period, but that’ll drag down the value. If you want to sell, and it sounds like you do, I suggest you try to set your emotions aside. I understand that can be difficult with a family home.”
No, Ann thought. Carol didn’t understand. Carol didn’t have the slightest idea what Ann was going through. Carol wouldn’t want to know.
“So how would you price it?” Ann tried not to sound desperate. Maybe she could finally start her own business, something she’d dreamed of doing since she got her MBA. She wanted to advance out of her old life and into a new one. No matter how bad things got, Ann always believed she could start fresh.
A low number: she could tell by the way Carol looked around and bit her lower lip that that was what she was thinking. Before Carol arrived, Ann thought the house was special and valuable. Now? She felt like she’d have to pay someone to take it off her hands.
“I need to run some figures, look at the comps. What about the title? I’ll need a CYA to be sure you have legal authority to proceed with the sale.”
“A CYA?”
“I’m sure it’s not a problem, but we don’t want to get into a legal snarl with heirs. Happens with houses that have been in the family a long time. I’ll need to know that the title is clear.”
The word “title” made Ann’s stomach twist. She thought about Michael. She couldn’t help but see him here: his thick, dark hair that always hung over his intense brown eyes. She could hear his footsteps on the creaky stairs, see his sandals on the mat by the door, smell the Old Spice he insisted on using because that was what her dad wore, imagine him curled on his side in the twin bed under the eaves in the attic. She felt him here, present to her in a way he hadn’t been in years. She swore she could almost feel his breath. Who knew where he’d gone off to? She wasn’t about to try to find him—certainly not now, even though she knew she probably should.
“The title is all clear,” Ann lied, the same way she lied to the probate court officer when she filed to be the administrator of her parents’ estate. She felt bad about lying, she did, but she was beaten down, desperate. “It’s clean as a whistle.”
Part One
1999
ONE
Michael
Ann ordered Michael to drop his bag next to a long, skinny door that had an iron lever for a doorknob. “Your room will be upstairs,” she said, although there were no stairs he could see. Michael struggled with the handle, and Ann, impatient, pushed his hand away. “Everything here is old and weird. Here—”
She showed him how it worked, pressing the lever with her thumb and tugging the swollen door from the frame, revealing a staircase unlike any Michael had seen. It was so steep it was almost a wall, with only enough room on each narrow step for the balls of his feet, and the pine risers were riddled with scuff marks. “These are the captain’s stairs,” Ann said.