Celeste
I head downstairs for lunch,only to be greeted by a smell that slams into me with the force of a thousand memories. Grilled-cheese sandwiches. When I’d been maybe seven or eight, Mom spent every Saturday with friends, and I’d be trundled off to the house of a woman who had a girl roughly my age, a girl who struggled to make friends, and so her mother was happy to babysit me in return for the “gift” of a bottle of wine.
I can’t remember the girl’s name. We’d spend the day sitting in the same room, doing our separate things, barely speaking, while her little sister read in a corner. I do remember lunch, though. Grilled cheese, made specially for me. I’m not sure which I liked better: the gooey, rich sandwiches or the idea that someone had cooked something for me.
I walk into the kitchen to find Daisy at the stove, flipping a sandwich.
She glances at me. “Please tell me you like grilled cheese. I know I should have checked, but I hated to interrupt your work.”
I hold out a plate, and she laughs.
“Guess that’s a yes,” she says. “They’re a little basic. I usually go all bougie, with three kinds of cheese and heirloom tomato, but the only thing Tom’s store carries is...” She holds up a processed cheese slice.
“American cheese,” I say. “The taste of childhood.”
“Right? It only needs one more thing.”
She takes a bottle of ketchup from the fridge, and I squeeze a small mountain of it on the side of my plate as she scoops out a sandwich for me.
While we eat, Daisy asks about the renovations I need done. I start babbling, trying to pull my thoughts together, and she lays a pad of paper on the table.
“I did a rough survey,” she says. “As if you were selling the house. I don’t know if that’s your plan...”
“Eventually, yes.”
“Eventually soon or eventually in a few years?” She lifts her hands before I can say anything. “I’m not prying, and I’m not angling for more work. What I’m proposing is an evaluation of the property, with a list of work that you’ll need to hire a contractor for, as well as resale scenarios.”
“Hold on. I need carbs.” I take a huge bite of my sandwich, making her laugh. “Try that again, and see if I understand better.”
“Sorry. I’ve worked with house flippers, so I’m rushing ahead. How long do you intend to live here?”
“A few years, maybe? This isn’t where I’d choose to live but...” I shrug. “I’d like to see if I can make it mine. If I can’t, I’ll sell.”
“All right. So dual scenarios. If you stay, you’d want to reno it to your own specifications. If you move, you’d need to consider resale value. The problem is that old real-estate mantra. Location, location, location.”
“This one sucks.”
“It’s not economically prosperous. Which limits the amount you could hope to get. Also, it was an inexpensive home even when it was built. While she’s a lovely old sow, she’s never going to be a silk purse. In some areas, you might consider bulldozing her for the land. Not here.”
I munch on a strip of crispy bacon. “So what’s the prognosis, doc?”
“Good, actually. She has great bones, and there’s plenty of life left in her. She’s just never going to be a dream home for wealthy retirees. We circle back, then, to the question of timing and intention. The big issue is making sure you don’t put more into her than you’ll get out. Not to pry, but is she mortgaged?”
“No, thank God. Free and clear.”
“That will help. I don’t suppose there was an inheritance that might go toward renovation? An unexpected windfall of cash?”
I snort. “No. My grandmother didn’t believe in life insurance, and there was only enough money to pay for her funeral.”
“That means any money that goes into renovations is straight out of your pocket, balanced against gains if you move, or a future mortgage if you don’t.” Daisy pushes the pad toward me. “Here’s a preliminary list of work that needs to be done. I’ll need to do a more thorough inspection to give you a better idea of costs. This page is the basics—problems that will bring resale down more than they cost to fix. The next page is extras—work that will show some profit, but it’s all relative.”
“Got it.”
Daisy rises, water glass in hand, and nods at mine. I lift it, and she refills both as she talks.
“Let me look around,” she says. “Take measurements and assess the plumbing, the wiring, the roofing... I don’t want to be intrusive. If there’s any place you’d like me to stay out of, just say the word.”
“That attic is a disaster, as you saw. I don’t know if you’d need to assess anything up there, but if so, just ask me to give you a hand, and we’ll put on some old clothes and move boxes.”