Love Becomes Her. Donna Hill
Ann Marie blurted out. “You look awful.”
“Thanks,” Stephanie murmured and rolled her eyes. Ann Marie was always the one looking for a dig, but Stephanie was determined not to let her prying eyes or fast tongue get under her skin tonight. She took a seat at the end of the couch and put her laptop on the table. “So what’s with the big powwow? She leaned back against the cushions, looking from one to the other.
Ann Marie spoke up, using her polished British accent that she employed when dealing with her realty clients. “After our discussion last night, I did some research on available property in the neighborhood and found three buildings that could meet our needs.” She pulled out three printouts from her leather portfolio and placed them on the table. “This one—” she pointed to the first picture “—is on One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Street. This one,” she indicated the next picture, “is on One Sixteen. But this one I think is the best.” She passed the picture around. “It’s a four-story brownstone just off Fifth Avenue on One Twenty-four. It has all the original details, a finished basement, an ample backyard, four bedrooms, two huge sitting rooms and an enormous kitchen. But the best news is that it is in foreclosure, which is good for us.”
“What’s the bad news?” Barbara asked, ever practical.
“Well,” Ann Marie dragged out. “It’s in major disrepair. There has been a lot of water damage, the electrical system must be upgraded and it needs a new roof.”
The trio’s hopeful expressions sank. “Oh,” they chorused.
“But there are tons of programs to help buyers with those kinds of repairs,” she added quickly to quell their fears. “The thing now is to get in there, make a bid and get the property. The rest will take care of itself. And because it needs so much work, the asking price is much lower than the other two.”
“How much are we talking about?” Elizabeth asked.
Ann Marie’s lips pinched for a moment, this was always the time when her clients balked. “The asking price is only five hundred and sixty-five thousand.”
“Only!” Stephanie squeaked.
“You’re kidding,” Barbara stammered, visibly appalled.
“That’s more than a half million dollars for a house that’s falling apart,” Elizabeth added, the alarm in her voice almost comical.
They all began talking at once, wanting their point to be heard, and, of course, nothing was.
Finally Ann Marie stood, all five feet of her elevated by her heels, and held her hands over her head. She began a tirade in a dialect so thick that all the other women could do was sit and stare. They couldn’t be sure if they were being cussed out or advised.
Now Ann Marie’s hands were braced on her rounded hips as she told them in no uncertain terms the value of property ownership, the financial rewards, tax breaks and more than anything, their dream coming true.
“We can do this. Just because the house costs that much doesn’t mean we can’t negotiate. Between us four we can make a solid down payment and I can work the numbers so that it won’t break us.” She waited for them to absorb her advice.
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