Stripped Down

“We both know a bank won’t lend on this place. There’s no value in a tear-down house.”

Plus, I pretty much am the bank in these parts.

“Auntie Dee’s place is not a tear-down.” Fingers rubbing her arms, she tilts her head back, letting it hit the railing. Maybe, with her eyes closed, she can’t notice the shower of paint flakes that catch in her hair. “Not to me,” she says, but now she sounds tired.

Yes, I think. That’s the plan. “Be reasonable, Rose,” I say instead, because I have no intention of answering her question. “Tell me what’s right about this house.”

She shakes her head as if she can’t believe I’m asking that particular question. “This was our home.”

“Four walls”—barely—”a roof. And a door. I don’t see anything so special.”

She could find a rundown wreck in any one of the fifty states.

“No, you wouldn’t. But Auntie Dee would sit right there”— she waves a hand at the two-seater swing behind us—”and I’d curl up right there beside her. You can see the sunset from here, and we’d watch the mountain go all pink and gold. Sometimes she’d tell me stories about places she’d gone, people she’d known before she settled down in Lonesome for good. Other times we’d just sit there together. It was my job to push.” She stares at the swing as if she can still see the woman who took her in when her mother moved away. As if that old woman really was the center of her world, even after Rose up and went, following in her mother’s footsteps.

“Every night,” she continues quietly. “We came out here and we sat and we smelled the roses. She said that mattered, taking that time together. She’d planted that rosebush when she first moved in here. She joked it took up more space on the porch than she did.”

The rosebush is a Lady Banks, which are known for moderation about as much as Rose is. The tiny yellow flowers climb over the roof of the porch, the sheer weight of the blooms threatening to bring the whole thing down beneath its canopy of green and yellow. Rose reaches out, stroking a soft petal, lost in thought. She doesn’t see just flowers. She sees something more.

I have to wonder what it would take to make Rose Jordan look at me that way. We had sex and she was a wildcat in my arms. She came when I told her, and she gave it up like a dream. And then she killed me by opening up to me. She let me touch and taste her, and now she’s under my skin and I want more. I’m jealous of a fucking rosebush and a dead woman Rose can’t, won’t, forget.

Of course, Auntie Dee was a good woman. I’m the exact opposite of good.

“This place is mine,” she says, talking away even though I’m not answering, not with words. “I’ve spent months dreaming about it, drawing up plans for the renovations. This is my home and my chance at success, and I plan on hanging on to it. Even if it is falling down around my ears and I only own half of it,” she adds wryly.

“Start over,” I suggest, hoping she’ll listen. “My offer still stands. I’ll cut you a check, and you can pick out a place that doesn’t come with the largest colony of termites west of the Sierras.”

She opens her mouth, and I can just about see the refusal coming, when the contractor bangs open the screen door and joins us on the porch. Dare follows behind him more slowly, scrawling numbers on one of those notebooks he’s always carting around in his pocket. He’s never quite adjusted to the whole iPhone thing.

“Christ,” the contractor announces cheerfully. “She’s a tear-down, all right. Not sure why you’d want to put her to rights.” He shakes his head. “Thought you were putting a well in here, Mr. Mendoza, not doing renos.”

And cue the shit storm. I glare at the man, but the damage is done.

“The house already has a well.” Rose sounds confused. “It’s not dry.”

“We’re done here,” I snap.

The contractor nods, glancing down at the yellow legal pad where he’s jotted his endless notes.

“No, we’re not. You don’t call the shots here, Angel. Not in my house.” Rose flies to her feet, looking irritated. “Tell me why I need a new well.”

The contractor looks at me because the man isn’t stupid. I can ensure he never works in Northern California again, but the words are out there, the damage done. I mentally flip it the bird and gesture for the other man to continue.

“You got plenty of water here. This place is sitting on a real nice little aquifer. Mr. Mendoza had a drilling engineer out to check the levels a few months ago. Knock down the house, put in a new well, and you’re golden.”