Page 14 of The Fix-Up

“Six months would give us some time,” Gilbert said, looking thoughtful. “We’d want to get everything fixed up in order to sell.”

“I suppose so. I would thin?—”

I interrupted. “Wait, what? We aren’t selling.”

“Why wouldn’t we?” Gilbert asked, looking genuinely confused.

“I don’t want to, for one,” I said, attempting to keep my voice calm despite the panic building in my chest. “I’ve spent three years helping to fix it up. I have sweat equity in that house. I love that house and this town. This is my home.”

“That’s not my problem,” he said slowly.

My mouth dropped open. “Not your problem?”

He shrugged. “Buy me out at the end of the six months.”

Was he joking? I had a twenty-plus-year-old car, a job at a small-town café, and that was about it. I could ask Chris for the money, but even the thought made my stomach squeeze uncomfortably. While it would solve all my problems, there was a stubborn part of me that wouldn’t allow it. Chris had done so much for me already; besides, he had his own family now to take care of. He didn’t need to take care of me, too.

I glared across the table. The desire to punch him was strong. Instead, I drew in a long, slow breath and smiled. Because I’d found it was easier to get people on your side if you were polite and nice and friendly. Which punching was not.

“I don’t have the money to buy you out,” I said between clenched teeth. Okay, maybe that wasn’t exactly friendly.

Doug, having lost interest, picked up yet another muffin. “These are heavenly, Ellie. I don’t know what you put in them.”

“Love,” I snapped, my eyes never leaving Gilbert. “They’re made with love.”

And about a pound of pure sugar.

“If you’re planning to sell, you’ll want to fix it up some.” A bit of muffin crumble clung to Doug’s upper lip. “Maybe a new coat of paint, freshening up, that sort of thing.”

The need to laugh manically bubbled up in me. Fix it up some? That was like calling a puddle a lake. Only if you’re a worm. “It needs a lot more than a coat of paint.”

In all honesty, it should probably be bulldozed, but I didn’t want to do that. It was a hundred years old. More than that, it had provided shelter and protection for decades and generations of Ollie’s family. It was a treasure. And the café? Well, that was both my livelihood and my new dream. It would need a complete and total remodel someday. But I could do a little at a time. I’d already started over the last three years. I wasn’t afraid of hard work.

One thing at a time, as Sunny would say. Deal with what’s right in front of you first. Thusly, I glowered at Gilbert.

“I’m no real estate expert.” Doug shuffled through his paperwork yet again and pulled one out. “But I checked around and found out some developers have been looking to invest in some land here in Two Harts, and as you know, the property comes with quite a bit of land. There was some mention of a new high school football stadium, too. A Peter Stone from right here in Two Harts.”

I made a disapproving sound from the back of my throat.

Peter Stone was the former mayor of Two Harts. He’d been sniffing around for a while now since Ollie’s passing, asking if I knew what was happening with the property. Oh, no way was he getting his hands on Ollie’s land. It would be strip malls and big box stores and planned communities for the city folks. Two Harts would cease to be Two Harts. Ollie would come back from the grave to haunt himand meif I let that happen.

“Mr. Holder left behind a good chunk of prime real estate. It could make you a lot of money without having to fix up the house at all. Might end up in a bidding war.” Doug raised his muffin like it was a glass to be toasted.

“But we still have to wait a whole six months before we need to make a decision,” I said, more to remind myself than anyone else.

Gilbert nodded silently, but his mind was busy behind his eyes. Don’t know exactly how I knew but I did know, with certainty, he was thinking.

Danger, danger, my brain said. Don’t let him think too long.

I needed a Plan. Capital P. Because I was not leaving Two Harts. Or that house. Or this café. Period.

“I’ll need the rest of the week to get some things taken care of. I can move in on Saturday,” Gilbert said.

I could show him the friendly folks of Two Harts, the Easter parade, the Founder’s Festival, the muffins I could make…

Wait.

“What?”

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