Coming Home to Greenleigh

The real Chapter 25 (thank you for waiting!)

 "We've got several interested buyers," Betty McClintock was saying to Elisabeth as she shuffled through the papers on her desk. She peered at her over her steel-rimmed glasses. "In fact, a couple of them sound as if they're willing to offer more than your asking price."

"Really?" Elisabeth shook her head, confused. "That is so strange. I can't imagine why."

"You've got yourself a wonderful old home," the realtor said. "It's beautiful, and it's a historic fixture on Church Street. As soon as it was listed I had a long line of people waiting to see it. And I'm really glad I convinced you to raise your price. You're going to do really well with this sale."

"It's in terrible shape," Elisabeth said honestly. "I don't know how to maintain it, and all of the systems need an upgrade. I didn't even clean it or hold an open house. I didn't even put vases of flowers out the way you suggested—I ran out of time—" Her voice faltered as she recalled the one vase of yellow roses in the front room. That had been just a lucky coincidence.

Mrs. McClintock waved away her concerns. She had perfectly coiffed, snow-white hair tinged with blue, set off perfectly by her pearls and black brocade pants suit. "That's of no consequence. No one cares about decorations in a fine old home like yours. People are interested in original period details and you've got all of those because you've never done one of those terrible rehabs where they knock down all the walls and make it 'modern.' Your house is basically strong and well-designed. It's withstood the test of time. It's not going to fall down, and as for upgrading systems—" She shrugged and made a face. "That's no problem. It'll just get folded into the mortgage."

Elisabeth nodded. "Well, that makes sense. And that's why I can't go replacing them all. I wouldn't be able to afford it, but someone else can."

"You know, Beth," Mrs. McClintock began. She hesitated, then continued. "You could always mortgage the house and upgrade your systems yourself. Have you thought of that?"

"Oh, I could never," Elisabeth said. She chuckled. "I wonder if that house has ever had a mortgage on it. Like, it was probably built with cash. Back in the 1700s. Mortgaging it would be really—"

"But why not?"

Elisabeth struggled to find the words. She shook her head.

"I've known you for a long time, Beth," Mrs. McClintock said. She took off her glasses and steepled her hands. "You've pulled through for my business any number of times, and you were there when Bert passed away. I don't even remember that phase of my life, my God—it's a blur. You were so helpful, I had no idea so many things have to be resolved when someone dies. I've tried to keep my opinions to myself, but I'm wondering why you need to take care of all of this so quickly. Thanksgiving is next week. It's a quiet time for real estate, but you've gotten so much interest in the house, it's surely going to sell. You don't need to be in such a rush. And there is nothing disgraceful about a mortgage! That house was left to you in a state of disrepair and neglect. No one would fault you for financing a new heating system and some carpentry work properly, through a bank. You can even sell it after you've done some repairs."

Elisabeth nodded, not daring to raise her eyes. Mrs. McClintock was an old friend of the family. There wasn't much she did not know about the Burnhams. When she had called her to put up the house for sale, Mrs. McClintock had been suitably surprised, but in classic Yankee fashion, had not pried, and had been brisk and professional about arranging the necessaries.

She decided to tell her the truth.

"I'm leaving, Mrs. McClintock. That's why I'm selling. I'm leaving next week."

"Next week?" Mrs. McClintock sat back in her chair. She looked genuinely shocked. "You know that a house sale requires a lot of paperwork. And waiting. Your purchaser needs to get financing in order, and things do fall through. We almost certainly won't be finished with all of this next week."