Page 12 of Your Every Wish
A tall stake with a collection of handmade wooden arrows with faded lettering directs us to the bocce ball courts. On our way, we pass a pond where the water resembles green Jell-O, and the stench of rotten eggs and dead fish is overwhelming.
Kennedy holds her nose. “Oh my God.”
“It just needs to be cleaned,” I say, trying to make up for Kennedy’s rudeness.
“The aerators have been broken going on two years now.” It’s the first time Harry’s talked during the drive, leaving the guide work to Misty. “Maybe when you take ‘ownership’ ”—he makes finger quotes in the air—“you can get that fixed.”
Kennedy starts to say something, but I interrupt with, “Some benches and tables would be nice, too.” This time, she shoots me a withering glare.
It turns out that Misty’s use of the term “bocce ball courts” is purely aspirational. At one time the three courts were probably usable, even attractive. But the wooden frames are rotted, and a thick layer of leaves and dirt covers the playing surface.
“Does anyone use them?” I ask for the sake of something to say, even though it’s obvious that they’re out of commission.
“We used to have a couple of leagues.” Harry shakes his head. “Not anymore.”
Something piques Kennedy’s interest because she hops out of the golf cart and walks to the edge of the courts where there’s a rock wall, and in the distance a home. A large contemporary with solar panels on the roof.
“Does that come with the place?” Kennedy points at the house.
“That belongs to Bent McCourtney,” Misty says.
Harry snorts. “He hates us, and we hate him.”
Next up, we tour the clubhouse. The large stone fireplace is a showstopper, but it goes downhill from there—ratty carpet, broken toilet, dated kitchen, and brown ceiling stains, a telltale sign of a leaky roof.
A small group of women are playing canasta around a folding table. One of them spots Harry and her face turns bright red.
“These are the new owners,” he tells the ladies.
Kennedy tries to argue but I run interference by acknowledging the women with a bright smile and remark on what a terrific place it is.
“Needs work,” says one of the players, who reminds me of my mother’s neighbor’s shar pei. “The old owner never showed his face around here. Never put two nickels into the place. But God forbid if our lot rent was late.” The others nod in agreement.
“All right, ladies. We’re off to the pool.” Misty waves goodbye and we follow her back to Harry’s golf cart.
The ride is less than three minutes away, which makes me wonder why we simply didn’t walk. The pool is about as bad as the pond, though not nearly as smelly. The concrete decking is breaking apart and the coping around the spa is missing most of its tiles. The public restrooms don’t appear to be functional. At least two of the toilets are stuffed up in the ladies’ room. And the locker rooms could use a good paint job.
“There used to be a snack bar, but the vendor pulled out a couple of years ago. Not a lot of profit in it for them,” Misty says and points across the walkway to three raggedy tennis courts where four men are playing a game of doubles. “Our tennis courts.”
“It’s a wonderful park.” I actually love it. With a little spit and polish it could be so good.
“It’s affordable,” Misty says. “And just barely.”
We head back to the golf cart through the pool gate. There’s a man leaning against a tree, pretending he’s not watching us. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’s a good twenty years younger than all the residents we’ve seen so far, I would think he lived here. Maybe he’s the maintenance man. For his sake, I hope not because he’s doing a piss-poor job.
“How much do people pay for their spaces?” Kennedy asks.
“It’s about twelve hundred a month, including the homeowner association fees.”
I start to say, “For what?” only to be kicked in the shin by Kennedy. These poor people are paying for broken amenities they can’t even use. It’s a crime. An absolute scam. My guess is that Willy had no idea what disrepair the park was in. He was too busy suffering from cancer.
Kennedy has another take entirely.
“I did the math,” she says as we drive to town. “There are at least a hundred residences at Cedar Pines, which comes out to a hundred and twenty thousand dollars a year. That doesn’t even cover the repairs that need to be made, let alone any kind of dividends for you and me. Between tax, insurance, and licensing, there’s nothing left. It would be better to sell. A place like this, even in its current state, has to be worth a good chunk of change. We can talk to a real estate agent in Ghost. But it might be better if we hire someone from San Francisco, someone who has expertise in commercial property.”
“Wait a minute. This is something I’d like to talk about before we start solicitating real estate agents.”
“What’s there to talk about? You saw the place. Do you want to take on the responsibility of owning a dump like that, of having every resident and her brother hounding you to make repairs, fix the pool, unstuff the toilets? And that pond? Ugh, it’s absolutely vile. The property needs half a mill just to make it presentable. I don’t know about you, but I don’t have that kind of money.”
