The Realtor

THE REALTOR

Emily Owens, owner of Owensville Realty, pulled up in front of the recently renovated Victorian on Maple Avenue on a mid spring morning in the company minivan. She always prided herself in selling homes, not houses, and nothing said home and family better than a minivan. It was the trademark of the family business in its fourth generation, the only realty company in this small New England town. As she got out of her vehicle, her eyes widened and her mouth opened slightly. She was stunned. Nine months ago she’d sold the property for the third time in five years. This time to an older gentleman, a few years past middle age, maybe a decade older than herself. But dealing with this particular property had always been troublesome to her personally and professionally.

In front of her was her Aunt Kate’s home. She took in every detail, from the new cedar shake roof that accented the gables and turret to the sky blue gingerbread and window trim against the cream-colored clapboard siding that had been sanded, repaired and painted. The new composite shutters and energy efficient windows didn’t take away from the charm of the house. The stained glass window in the front door was lit from the reflected light coming through the south-facing bay windows of the sitting room. The front porch columns, rails and spindles were all repaired and painted in the same shade of blue. The old and crumbing brick walk had been replaced with dark grey pavers lined with daffodils and hyacinths in full bloom that ran up and met the azaleas surrounding the porch. The new sod lawn was a deep green and thick from recent rains. It was the lawn of her youth that she used to roll around on with her cousin on summer evenings.

Emily approached the house, tears welling up in her eyes. She grabbed the tissues she always kept in her jacket pocket and quickly dabbed each eye.

She had heard from friends and contractors what was being done to the property and always said she would stop by. She was glad she had not until now. To see it all at once, the same but different, perhaps even better than she remembered from her childhood. It wasn’t long before her emotions overwhelmed the tissue. Before she could grab a new one, she felt adifferent kind of moisture on her left hand. A big yellow Lab had come up unnoticed and was licking it. She smiled. It was John. How could anyone forget a dog named John? Especially when he snored loudly all through settlement.

“John!” 

The call echoed around the corner of the house and was followed shortly by the dog’s owner, Michael Logan. He stood a little under six foot, with a full head of salt and pepper hair and an Irish smile on his face. As always, he dressed his lean frame in denim. Shirt, jeans and jacket, and a pair of heavily scuffed work boots spotted with various colors of paints. Every Sunday morning he could be seen in the Laundromat filling up several machines with nothing but faded denims, washing away a week’s accumulation of sweat and sawdust. He made his living by buying properties that were in the purgatory of the multiple listings, fixing them up and reselling at a profit. Emily thought he must be doing well because he paid in cash. Other than that, not much was known about him. No mention of wife, family or children, past or presentwas offered during negotiations and settlement. Emily always kept her conversations light and did not ask personal questions. A lesson from her father when dealing with renovators or any other professional business man. If someone wants to talk about themselves, let them. Don’t ask about family or history. Not everyone has a happy story and may not want to share or revisit tragedies. Something Emily understood.

“John, stop that,” Michael said quietly as he approached. John immediately stopped licking, sat down obediently and yawned his resentment to the command.

“Well, what do you think? We do the two-cent tour; show you all the changes I’ve made and get some papers signed? I even furnished it from some of the local auctions to help show the place. Also made up a ‘before-and-after’ photo album for any prospective buyers. We should be out of here before lunch. Are you all right?” 

Emily gave her head a little shake to clear her mind of the past and focused on Michael. That was his style, a quick run of sentences followed by a short question that threw you off balance, engaging but also a little standoffish. She was quickly corrected that his name was Michael when she called him Mike while showing him the property last summer. She saw no guile or temper in him like she in saw in the others that flipped houses as quickly and as cheaply as they could.

“I’m…I’m okay,” Emily responded weakly and quickly regained her composure. “I’m sorry if I seem a bit flustered. I think you may have heard, this used to be my Aunt Kate’s house and before that, my grandmother’s. What you have done here is just, just…” her voice trailed offto an awkward silence.

Michael smiled kindly, broke eye contact and gazed back up at the house. “There are always a few things people fail to mention when homes are bought and sold. So much going on with certifications, titles, deeds, insurance and lawyer-type things. Don’t worry about it. Come on inside and we’ll do the tour. Or would you prefer to look around outside first?”

A butterfly had spread its wings momentarily in Emily’s stomach. She knew that in this small town he would have found out and it was part of her reluctance to come by earlier. His acceptance and forgiveness of the omission eased her conscience.

“I like to start outside. Let me get my papers and notepad.” Emily went back to her minivan, grateful that there was no hint from Michael of any other concerns.

For the first hour Michael explained all the exterior and landscaping work he did while asking Emily what she remembered about what used to be here and there. The willow tree was long gone, now replaced with a maple sapling. Won’t be as climbable, Emily thought. The gazebo was replaced with a fountain surrounded by a flower bed. Nice, but you could not sit in it on a summer afternoon. The more she saw, the more differences became apparent. Yes it was her Aunt’s house, but not her home. It was somebody else’s. And soon, it wasn’t even going to belong to the owner. Michael’s truck was parked out back by the garage, packed with tools and ladders, ready to go to his next project.

When they went inside, Emily didn’t recognize anything that would remind her of her aunt’s home. The downstairs was furnished in nice but unfamiliar chairs, tables, and couches. All the wallpaper had been stripped, the plaster walls repaired and then painted in grayish white. Ready to be repainted to the color choices of new owners. All the molding had been stripped of the layers of paint that accumulated over the past century, sanded and painted in a white semi-gloss. The hardwood floors were also refurbished and given a coat of polyurethane. The old and worn banister was replaced but with a newel post that would discourage sliding down, like she and her cousin used to do. The white kitchen cabinets had been replaced with cherry ones and the large double porcelain sink with side drains was now stainless steel set in a granite counter top. Faux marbled white and grey ceramic tiles replaced the old and cracked green and white linoleum ones.

In the basement, Michael showed that the heater had been replaced and that the house now has central air condition. No more window units to despoil the aesthetics of the exterior. Michael also pointed out that all the electrical wiring had been replaced with Romex by a certified electrician and passed inspection. Gone were the frayed fabric covered wires along withsome old knob and tube wiring that was discovered.

Besides the wiring, all the plumbing had been replaced. Red and blue PEX tubing ran across the ceiling and met a manifold panel with quarter turn valves labeled to which faucet or toilet they controlled. All the copper and terra cotta waste water piping was replaced with black PVC.

Upstairs, some of the plaster walls had been replaced with Sheetrock because of the water damage from the leaking roof. More outlets with cable in each bedroom had been installed. The bathroom was completely redone. The little black square and white octagon tiles she remembered were replaced with large beige hexagons. The bathtub with claw feet that she used to imagine would walk out of the house with her and her cousin Sarah in it, gone. Replaced with a modern one of molded plastic.

Then there was the biggest change of all. One less bedroom. Her cousin Sarah’s room. Sarah, who has been gone so long now. Her room was now a master bathroom with a walk-in closet, rain shower, a large soaking tub and a double-sink vanity with lighting fixtures that matched the faucets. All highly desirable in today’s market Michael emphasized. Emily stopped taking notes and listened numbly to Michael drone on about all the changes, hard work, upgrades and enhancements for selling at his asking price.

Finally, downstairs in the study, Michael went over the papers that gave Owensville Realty the listing for the house while John snored loudly at his feet. Signed and notarized power of attorney papers were presented. One of the small reputable law firms in town would take care of Michael’s interests. Property taxes paid to the end of the quarter with an escrow account available if the property was not sold by then. All occupancy and termite certifications were in order. Upon sale, all furnishings were to go up for auction and proceeds forwarded. Michael had obviously done this many times before, which allowed Emily to just nod and trust him while hermind adjusted to the changes to the home she used to know. When Michael was finished with the last document, he handed her the album of before, during and after pictures of all the renovations with dates and timelines.

Emily eagerly paged through the album, focusing on all the before photos. Michael patiently listened to her for a minute while she identified the rooms from her childhood. When the last page was turned, Michael asked, “Did I mention I fixed that heating problem? You know. The cold spots.”

Emily’s throat and stomach tightened and her breathing stopped.

It was the statement that she knew about the cold spots and the way he said it. All the animation and enthusiasm that he exhibited for the past two hours were gone and his eyes looked deeply into hers. 

“Listen to me carefully,” Michael started softly. “This house is probably my best work yet. And I trust you to find a good family that will make it a home. Do you understand what I am saying? I’ve done my part and now you can do yours. And you can do this without any more remorse. Sarah is no longer here. She is with her mother and Nanny G.”

Emily let out a small choking sound. Her cousin Sarah who passed away when they were both nine. Her cousin who was her best friend. Their secret name for their grandmother was Nanny G. She had not spoken or heard that since Sarah died of meningitis. The same disease that almost took her life back then when they were both so sick, so long ago.

“It wasn’t easy at first. You know, changing things. Power tools would unplug themselves. Things would fall off tables and counters. Paint cans would get tipped over and other small mishaps. Poor John here was having fits…especially when the room would get cold. Her room. But that is how it is done. That and a little conversation with a little prayer now and then.”

Michael paused a moment to let Emily digest what he was saying. She quietly asked, “How did you...?”

“The first family you sold this house to after your Aunt Kate died told friends who told friends who told other friends until someone told me.”

Emily was speechless; stunned by words coming from this stranger who knew so much about her and Sarah.

“Listen, John and I are leaving now. Everything is as it should be.”

Michael stood up to leave. John stopped snoring and went to the back door, ready to jump into the truck. Michael reached into his jacket pocket.

“Here’s a couple of things for you. This is my card and a photo I left out of the album. It is one of the before pictures.”

With that Michael left the room. She could hear his boots and John’s paws as they went out the back. The truck door slammed, the motor started and it moved off down the driveway.

She was down to her last tissue before she could dry her eyes enough to look at the photo. A short but loud gasp expelled from her lungs as her other hand went quickly to her mouth. It was a picture of Sarah’s room as it used to be. And Sarah. Just as she remembered her with her infectious smile. Her eyes caught in the sunlight through the window, showing how much light was in her soul.

Emily then looked at Michael’s card. Above his cell phone number it read:

FATHER MICHAEL LOGAN

Society of Jesus

“Giving Homes Back to Life”

Note: The Society of Jesus are known as the Jesuits

​​​​​​​Dan Lerch -4-25-2024