A Mile in My Flip-Flops (27 page)

The granite countertop is in place by Wednesday morning, and later that day Noah hooks up the plumbing to the countersunk sink himself. It all looks wonderful.

“Nice work,” I say as I admire the faucet, which actually works.

“Nice choice of materials,” he says to me. And once again we are pausing to look at each other, and I wonder if he’s about to take me in his arms again. I think I may simply leap toward him. And maybe I would … except my confidence is just not there yet.

“We make a good house-flipping team,” I finally say, then I wish I hadn’t. Maybe it sounds too presumptuous. Or maybe it sounds too final.

“I never would’ve guessed this house could turn out so well,” he admits. “When I first saw it, I honestly thought you were crazy.”

“You’re not alone there.”

“And if I could afford it, I’d buy this place myself.”

“You mean you can’t afford it?”

He laughs. “Did you think I was rich?”

I shrug and glance away uncomfortably.

“Well, as you know, I used to be,” he admits. “But life and Camille and my mom… It all continues to take a toll on my savings, and working as a carpenter is not exactly lucrative.” Then he smiles. “Although that was my goal—to live a simpler life. So I’m not complaining.” And that’s it. The moment has passed, and we’re both back working against the clock to finish this thing.

By Thursday the last of the work is complete. In my mind the
house is perfect, and I am ready to stage the rooms. Dad thinks staging is a waste of time and energy, but Betty is all for it, and Noah, fellow HGTV fan, understands too. He helps me move some of the larger pieces from my apartment to the house. I also borrow a few things from Dad, and Betty even loans me some nice pieces. It’s an all-day task, and Noah has to leave to pick up Kirsten before I’m done. But I am driven. All I can think about is getting things in place, being ready for the open house, selling this place…and then what? I can’t think that far ahead anymore. I’m too tired.

“This looks awesome,” says Holly on Friday night. It’s almost ten o’clock now, and tomorrow is the open house. She’s helped me with the final cleaning and tweaking, and now we’re hanging pictures.

“You’ve been a great help,” I tell her as I straighten a black-and-white photo of Kirsten and Riley sitting on the tailgate of Noah’s pickup.

“I assume you took these photos, Gretch.”

“I did.”

“They’re amazing. Everything is truly fantastic.”

“I hope the buyers think so.” I frown as I consider the price I’m putting on it. “Betty said that it might be a challenge.”

“Why?”

“Because of the price.”

“I’d buy it if I could,” she says.

“Me too. But Betty’s worried that we might be overpriced for this neighborhood.”

“Oh…”

But the open house seems to go wonderfully. Everyone appears to be very impressed. With everything but the price, that is. As it
turns out, Betty was right. While they all agree the house is absolutely fantastic, which I admit is almost enough for me, the consensus seems to be that the neighborhood is not so hot. Consequently, the price is too high.

By the end of the weekend, Betty strongly suggests that we reduce the price.

“After only two days?” I plead with her. I’m having dinner with her and Dad tonight. She cooked this time, and I’m probably acting like a baby. “Cant we wait a week or two?”

“You can wait as long as you like, Gretchen, but it’s doubtful anything will change. Other than you’ll be sending the wrong message to Realtors; they’ll think you’re not serious about selling.”

“But the house is so nice,” I point out. A fact that no one has denied.

“Yes, but all the Realtors insist it’s overpriced,” she tells me. “Even if a buyer wanted to purchase it, a conventional loan wouldn’t be approved for that much—not without a substantial down payment, which a first-time buyer probably won’t have.”

“Why wouldn’t it be approved?”

“Because the house’s appraisal won’t equal the amount of the loan.”

“Oh.”

“Unless you had a buyer come in with lots of cash and a burning desire to buy the house despite the lower values of neighboring homes, no one would want to pay that much.” Betty sadly shakes her head. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news.”

“But the facts are the facts, Gretchen.” Dad pats my hand. “It is what it is.”

“In other words my flip is a flop.”

“No, not at all. You’ll still make a little bit of money,” Betty points out.

“And well be able to pay back the loan.” Dad looks hopeful now, like maybe he really was worried about losing his condo. “And you’ve learned a lot,” says Betty.

I nod. Obviously, I have no choice but to agree. And I know I should be thankful, but I feel really deflated. Naturally, Dad and Betty assume that my less than cheerful demeanor is because of the reduced price, but the truth is, I think I am grieving. I cannot believe I won’t be going to work on the house tomorrow. I won’t be spending the next week with Noah and Kirsten. Add to that the fact that Noah hasn’t even called. I know that it’s over. Not that it had ever begun…not really. But, besides that, I feel lost. Like there’s nothing left to do. Nothing to distract myself with. And every time I think of Noah, I feel a great big stab of pain in my heart, and I wonder if I might be the next one to undergo coronary bypass surgery. Hadn’t I known it would come down to this? Why did I allow myself to be taken in?

Finally I can’t stand it anymore. It was sweet of Dad and Betty to invite me over, and they’re trying to be kind, but I know I’m being a party pooper. I hate to spoil their time together since I know for a fact that any day now my dad is going to pop the big question—maybe even tonight. So I tell them good-bye, and I get into my little Bug and go home to my little apartment where my big dog is also in deep grief. He misses that backyard and green grass and freedom. And maybe he misses Kirsten too. I don’t want to think about it.

I spend the next couple of days in serious grief. I won’t even go
to the house—it hurts too much to see it. Plus, it adds insult to injury that the price is being reduced so much that, once the loan is repaid, I won’t have enough for a down payment for anything bigger than a travel trailer, which means I’ll be stuck in this apartment for another year.

Although I am beginning to toy with the idea of flipping another house. Part of me thinks it’s crazy, and I can’t believe I would dare to entertain such a thought. But Betty told me it’s probably like childbirth: it’s painful, and you swear you’ll never do it again, but in time you sort of forget, and you go through it again. Maybe next summer. Who knows? And maybe Noah would help me again…or would that be asking for trouble? Not that it matters. I can’t stop thinking about him anyway. Why doesn’t he call?

On Wednesday afternoon Betty calls, and there is genuine excitement in her voice. She has a full, “unconditional” offer for my reduced price and wants to know if I will accept. Of course I know I must accept. So I tell her it sounds fine. And I know I should be happy—and greatly relieved that Dad’s condo is no longer on the chopping block—but I am still grieving. I hate to let it go.

“Oh, there is
one
condition,” she says as I’m about to hang up and indulge in a good long cry.

“I thought you said it was
unconditional.”

“Well, it’s not a
written
condition, but the buyer has requested that you show the house yourself. Apparently there are some questions, some concerns about how things were done during the remodel, and you need to discuss—”

“Maybe Noah should talk to the buy—”

“No, Gretchen,” she says firmly.
“It has to be you.”

“Well, fine,” I almost snap at her. “When am I supposed to meet with them?”

“Tonight at six.”

“At six?”

“Maybe the buyer can’t get time off work during the day. Do you want to sell the house or not?”

“Fine,” I say again. Then I hang up and feel guilty for being such a grouch to her. Poor Betty. She thought she was giving me good news, and I bit her head off. I know I’ll have to apologize later. Maybe I’ll even take her flowers. I’m thankful she’s a forgiving person.

As I get dressed, thinking it might not be too impressive to show up in my grungy old sweats that I’ve worn for two days straight, I decide it’s time, once again, to give this whole thing to God. Really, why am I being such a baby? Here I thought I had grown up, and suddenly I’m going backward again. So I pray, and my attitude improves.

It’s nearly six now, and Riley is running around the apartment like he can read my mind. Like he knows I’m going somewhere he wants to go. So I think, what the heck? Why not just take him with me? I mean, the house is still officially mine, and the backyard is still officially mine. What can it hurt to let him run around a bit…one last time?

When I arrive at the house, I’m surprised to see Noah’s pickup in the driveway, but I decide Betty must have taken my suggestion. After all, if the buyer has serious questions, Noah is the man to answer them. I’m halfway tempted to keep on driving and let him deal with
it. But I go ahead and park behind his pickup. I lead Riley to the side gate and let him loose in the backyard. He is in doggy heaven once again.

But as I walk around to the front door, I begin to feel nervous, and my heart is pounding. I know this is not related to showing the house to my perspective buyer. This is about Noah. I am all aflutter to see him again.

The door’s not locked, so I assume he’s inside. Taking a steadying breath, I slowly open the door. But as I enter the great room, I feel a huge lump in my throat. Why should it hurt so much to let go of this place? You’d think I’d be glad and proud of the work I’ve done. Suddenly I notice there’s soft jazz music playing—a nice touch. And there are candles burning—another nice touch. Why has Noah gone to so much trouble for a buyer who’s already sold on the house?

“Welcome,” says Noah. He smiles as he motions me into the kitchen, where it seems that someone has actually prepared dinner. Okay, I know that scents reminiscent of home, like cooking spices, are supposed to help sell houses, but isn’t this going a bit far? Then I notice that my dining room table is completely set. And I see there are even
more
candles, as well as what looks like a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket that doesn’t belong to me.

“What’s going on?” I ask, feeling like I’m in a dream. “Where is the buyer?”

Noah looks sheepish as he points his thumb to his chest. I blink and reach for the back of a dining chair to balance myself because it feels like the world is suddenly tipping sideways.

“You
are the buyer?” I finally manage to say.

“I am … but there is one condition.”

I feel weak, like maybe I should sit down or faint or something. “Betty said it was an unconditional offer.” Okay, I know how lame that sounds, but it’s the best I can do at the moment. I’m having trouble breathing.

That’s when Noah goes down on one knee, and he takes my hand in his, and I seriously think I am going to faint now—or throw up or something equally humiliating.

“Gretchen Hanover, will you please marry me and share this house with me and help me raise Kirsten and—”

“What?” I stare at him in disbelief.

“I know I haven’t done it all right,” he says quickly. Then he stands, and I suddenly worry he’s about to take it back. Or maybe I’ve misunderstood. But then I look around—the candles, the champagne…. I get the picture.

“I wanted to tell you after we went sailing that I love you. I wanted to take things slowly, but then I needed to tell all this to Kirsten… I needed to get things in order. I’m sorry if I’m catching you off guard.”

“No no,” I say quickly. “That’s okay.”

“Do you love me?” he asks.

I take a deep breath … then I nod. “Yes, Noah, I do love you.” I can’t believe I just said that, and yet I am so glad to have it out in the open.

Now he goes back down on one knee. “So, I repeat, Gretchen Hanover—”

“Yes!” I shout out. I don’t even let him finish. I don’t even hesitate. I don’t want to think about it anymore. I absolutely know that this is what I want. What I’ve wanted for some time but couldn’t
admit—even to myself. And now he’s standing and laughing, and I’m laughing too, although I have tears streaming down my cheeks. And the next thing I know, I am in his arms again, and once again he is kissing me—passionately!

Just like that scene in my make-believe movie, we are fading out … and it’s clear this happy couple will live happily ever after, right here in this house. Or perhaps we will sail out into the sunset on Noah’s beautiful boat.

But I soon discover that’s not to be the case. At least not the part about sailing off into the sunset. As Noah serves me dinner, a meal that’s actually quite good, we talk about everything—replaying all that’s gone on these amazing past six weeks and how God’s been at work in both of us and how miraculous it is that we found each other and all sorts of sappy, wonderful, romantic things.

“But how can you afford this house?” I finally ask. Dinner is done, and we’re standing outside on the deck, wrapped in each other’s arms. I hate to bring up a subject like finances in the midst of romance, but it’s been in the back of my mind since we finished dessert.