Page 63 of The Sea-Mist Cottage Inn
“Yes ...” Cheryl said, sounding distracted as she read the screen. “Online, it’s an automated process. That’s why the turnaround is so fast. If an application is within certain parameters, it’s approved, if not, it’s declined.”
Roman nudged me. “See? Online apps are impersonal.”
I gave him a look but didn’t reply. This was not the time for ‘I told you so.’
“Your accounts here look solid,” Cheryl said, still distracted. “Your credit burden is small.”
“I don’t use credit if I can help it.”
“That’s actually one of the issues: credit history. It’s good credit, in terms of payment history, but there’s not much history overall, especially for someone of your age.”
And here’s another place where my marriage to Micah had swallowed me whole in ways I’d never realized. He was in charge of the money. Every major purchase we made hit his credit, not mine—though my salary went into the joint accounts. Oursavings and checking accounts were joint (the ones I’d known about, at least), but not our credit cards.
I’d liked that—my credit card never had a big balance, it was always sitting there, mostly empty, ready for an emergency. It had never occurred to me thatnotusing it would hurt my credit. I have no idea if it had ever occurred to Micah—or, if it had, if he’d beentryingto keep me dependent on him.
No. I couldn’t think that. Our marriage had been good. We’d loved each other, and we’d felt that. He’d fucked up a lot of financial shit, but I could not believe he’d done any of it with the intention to hurt or compromise me. I had to believe that he would be horrified by the mess he’d left behind.
Besides, one good thing about my name never being attached to the house was that the foreclosure hadn’t hit my credit.
Cheryl was still talking, so I wrenched my attention back to the present. “Another problem is collateral. You’re listing the property as collateral for the loan to fix it up—that’s appropriate, of course. But a Zestimate is not a good source for value. We need an actual appraisal. Wait—” She moved to another screen and frowned. “You own the property outright?”
“Yes—and I don’t have time to get an appraisal. I need the money fast.”
She turned to me with surprise. “Right—because of the property-tax issue, right?” I nodded, and she continued, “But you’re still doing renovations, yes?”
Again, I nodded.
“May I ask why you applied for a personal loan rather than home equity?”
I was beginning to think my financial IQ was not on the downhill side of the bell curve. “I don’t need nearly as much money as the property is worth. And I don’t want a mortgage—I don’t want to risk the property. Isn’t that what a home equity loan is? A second mortgage?”
I could feel Roman looking at me, but I didn’t meet his gaze. I didn’t want to see anything like judgment in his expression.
Cheryl was looking judgey enough for everyone. “But you’ve listed the property as collateral in your applic—you know what? It doesn’t matter. Let’s start from scratch, shall we? A home-equity loan won’t put the property at any more risk than the loan you applied for.”
“Do I still need a cosigner?” I asked, hoping I could avoid putting Roman on the hook.
“You might get a better rate with Roman cosigning, and we might not need to wait for an appraisal, but let’s run it without first and see where we are. We can work with the tax assessment to get a ballpark appraisal and get the process rolling.”
WHERE WE WERE: AN APPROVEDhome equity ‘line of credit’ that would cover the negotiated property tax amount of about half the original bill (I’d accomplished that task earlier in the week) and possibly get Cottage 12 repaired. Roman had to cosign to get it done, and I hated that, but the relief for having a way to save the property overwhelmed my misgivings about getting him tangled up in my messy finances.
The approval was effective immediately; when we left the credit union, I had a new credit card in my wallet as well as a cashier’s check for the property tax payment. A lifeline of credit. We went directly to the Del Norte County Treasurer, and I got right with the tax gods of California.
That PAID IN FULL receipt in my bag was like a talisman.
Right outside the office entrance, Roman swept me into his arms, lifted me off my feet, and kissed me breathless. I laughed and flung my arms around his neck, and we hugged there, blocking the door until our need for that connection was sated.
As soon as I settled in the passenger seat of his truck, I texted Wyatt:GOT THE LOAN!! PAID THE TAXES!! WE’RE OKAY!!
He wrote back in seconds:LETS GOOOOOOO! LOVE YOU MOM!
LOVE YOU BACK, I returned, then added,Have fun tonight—but not too much haha.
Haha. Not too much. Just the right amount. Pinky swear.
“We should celebrate,” Roman said as he put his electric truck in gear and I put my phone in my bag.
“We were already celebrating, I thought,” I reminded him with a smirk. It was the first Friday of the new school year: Bonfire Night. Wyatt would be with his new friends on the beach, and then they’d all crash at Catherine’s and get a big breakfast in the morning.
