Sometimes things work out because it’s in the stars or because a smart real estate lawyer picks up her phone. In my case, the break came from the deceased seller’s distant daughter, who must’ve seen a future filled with more dud inspections and thought Faith Frankel might be 10 Turpentine Lane’s only hope.
My lawyer called me at work, and gushed, “Are you sitting down?” Before I could answer, she said, “The seller is paying for all the fixes. For the roofing, the asbestos removal, the stuck windows. She didn’t budge on the stove’s pilot lights, but that was an easy gimme. What else? Doesn’t matter. She’s taking care of just about everything we asked for.”
I said, “I didn’t expect this! I thought you’d talk me out of the deal.”
“I first tried to knock another fifteen grand off the purchase price, and this was her counteroffer! Who wants to have to hire all those people and coordinate the repairs?”
“Did you accept?”
“Not without running it by you. I’m going to ask that we choose the contractor so you don’t get some unlicensed handyman.”
“When will all this happen?”
“The work? ASAP. Before you take possession. I mean, you can move in before every little thing is fixed, but what’s the rush? You don’t want to be there with asbestos being excavated and a racket on the roof.”
“But it’s officially mine now?”
“If you still want it, and all the contingencies are met . . . absolutely.”
“Yes, I want it. Tell them my answer is yes to the repairs. It’s off the market, right?”
“Definitely. Besides . . . no, never mind. It’s nothing. We’re fine.”
I knew her unspoken words were No one else had given this house a second look, let alone made an offer.
I didn’t care. Even if it was the mangy one-eyed shelter dog of real estate listings. To me that made it all the more lovable.
Both Joel and my mother came for the walk-through the day before we closed. Tammy the agent was present, but I led the tour, pointing out my favorite features. The newel post! The leaded glass in the china cabinet—a corner china cabinet. The pantry. Who gets a pantry anymore? A clothesline in the basement! Hardwood floors in the bedrooms.
“Not sure if pine is considered hardwood,” Joel volunteered, then opened the nearest window—still stubborn despite new ropes and pulleys.
“Does it smell a little musty in here?” my mother asked.
I pointed out that cold air would fix that; let’s open another window and get some cross ventilation.
“Has Stuart seen it?” my mother asked. And to Tammy, employing a tone I recognized purely as a way to dispense with her spinster daughter’s social status, “Stuart is Faith’s fiancé.”
I pretended to be studying the unexciting view of the driveway from the parlor window until I came up with “Not an issue. Stuart gave me power of attorney.”
“That sounds right,” said Joel.
“Who did you say was the previous owner?” my mother asked Tammy.
“A Mrs. Lavoie.”
“Widowed?”
“I should think so—she was at least ninety!” I said.
“Children?”
“One. In Hawaii.”
“Nieces or nephews? No one close by?”
“Ma! What’s with the third degree?”
“If it’s the title you’re worried about,” said Tammy, “everything’s in order. No one but Mrs. Lavoie’s family owned this house. Her in-laws came here as newlyweds, and apparently she and her husband took it over when the parents died.”
“Did they die here by any chance?” my mother asked.
Tammy said, “That I don’t know.”
“Do you know what year it was built?” asked my mother.
I was too annoyed to do anything but sputter, “It was 1906, okay? Would you like to count the rings on the trees in the backyard?”
“Don’t be so sensitive,” said my mother. “You know I’m interested in genealogy.”
“Since when?” asked Joel.
“As I’ve said so many times, it’s a little doll house, don’t you think?” Tammy cooed.
“And it does have what one might call personality,” said my mother. “Have I said that yet? Nearly charming. I can see the appeal . . . for you.”
Joel laughed. I’d taken a half day off for this walk-through and signing, and soon these five and a half rooms would be officially mine. Wait till my New York friends heard that I’d bought a whole house with two bedrooms, an eat-in kitchen, a parlor, a claw-foot tub, a backyard, and a garage for the price of a studio in Queens. As soon as the house was spruced up, I’d invite everyone to Everton for a housewarming. So far, no one knew that Stuart had proposed. Though I’d pictured a squealing dinner in a Dumbo café, with the sudden appearance of pink champagne, I’d hold on to that announcement. It’s the kind of news you want to tell your friends in person.
5
The Secret Life of Henry Frankel
HOW DID MY FATHER FEEL about Stuart? Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, they’d never met because my allegedly happily married father and mother had lived apart since Dad retired, just as Stuart was heading sort of west. For many months no one adequately explained why Dad had moved out, except for the wishy-washy reassurances that this was not an official separation. He dined with my mother a few times a month, and with Joel and me about half that. Once we learned of his semimonthly visits with Mom, Joel jumped right in and asked if their sleepovers were conjugal.
“I told you. He pays the bills and mows the lawn, just like always.”
Joel asked me in private, “Do you think Dad moved out so he could fool around?”
I said, “Ask him.”
When we did see our dad, it was in Boston, at restaurants. We talked in generalities—about my work, about Stuart’s progress, about towing and plowing, which was Joel’s latest business venture. In retrospect, I see that we assumed that life in his little Gainsborough Street studio was too sad to ask about—just TV, the Sox, the Patriots, beer, and General Tso’s chicken too many times per week.
I began calling the situation “The Secret Life of Henry Frankel,” which I’d reference even in front of my mother. Finally, several months into the allegedly friendly separation, she said, “He’s made himself very clear. He wanted to paint, and he needed a studio.”