by Bridget Snow
“What money?” she asked, her voice finally rising, steadying out. “That was the last of my savings. I can’t sell this house without Harvey’s blessing, and he demands more Christmas. Every nook, every corner. I didn’t know what else to do.”
A car pulled up behind Mason’s, but Mel ignored it. Mason, however, stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Mel. She started shaking and her pent-up tears finally flowed. She was so angry at him for making her wait, but so relieved he came back. She buried her face against his chest.
“All because the floors were worn, and the wallpaper is dried out, and there aren’t enough window air conditioners in the world to fill these high-ceiling rooms with livable air. My only hope is a Christmas disguise for a house that shouldn’t need one!”
He leaned down and whispered, “Lower your voice.”
Mel’s body tensed and she looked up at Mason. Her mouth opened in confusion or protest, she wasn’t sure which, but he held her tighter and kept speaking.
“You are not alone, and I will not run off on you. Ever again. I was wrong to let my insecurities cause us both to hurt, but I need you to lower your voice about how tough this house has been or Bill and Tina might have second thoughts.”
“Who?” she asked
“The homebuyers I brought with me from Billings.”
Mel separated from Mason’s grip and peered over his shoulder. A young couple walked up the dirt path toward the porch. Quickly, she smoothed her hands over her skirt and slapped a smile on her face, letting Kellie Pickler’s rendition of Santa Baby play on through her phone’s speakers while she wiped the tears off her cheeks.
“Cute tree,” Tina said, walking into the foyer without bothering to introduce herself. She regarded Mel and Mason like they were part of the scenery, practically looking through them as she gawked at the ceiling, the floors, the door frames leading to adjacent rooms. “And… plastic garland. Neat.”
“In retrospect,” Mel said, sniffling just once, “I shouldn’t have hidden the crown molding. I understand what a selling point that is.”
Tina held a small notepad in one hand and scribbled something down as her companion walked in.
“The porch is a hoot,” Bill said. “All that wood. It’s in good shape too. Plus the columns look sturdy. Any balconies up top?”
“No,” Mel said. Her tone apologetic, as if she had made that design choice herself.
She recovered quickly though, happy she had something substantive to share about the house and its history in lieu of a balcony or two. “But let me tell you what makes Hansen House special.
“This house was completed in 1912.” She led Bill and Tina through the foyer. “And while it wasn’t the first house completed here, it was the first that broke ground. The owner was a woman named Ruth M. Hansen, and she basically built this town single-handedly.”
“Write that down,” Bill said, turning to Tina.
“Plus one hundo years,” Tina said. “Got it. What can you tell me about the chandelier?”
“The chandelier is empire style brass, just like the wall sconces. They’re all original to the house within about the first ten years. At first everything was candle-lit, because the town had no utility service to speak of, but that changed fairly quick.”
“Gas fixtures,” Tina said, inspecting one of the wall sconces. “Yikes.”
“They can be retrofit for electric pretty easily once you yank them from the wall,” Bill said.
“No need to yank,” Mel said. “They were already converted. This house is fully electric, except for cooking and heating.”
“Sweet,” Bill said. He wandered into the living room and crouched by the fireplace. “Tina, we have brick! Does it run throughout the house, or just the chimney?”
“All of the outer walls,” Mel said. “And it’s sturdy. The original owner ran a number of programs out of the house for the benefit of the community, but as she aged, she slowed down her business ventures, opening her home instead to the wives of Pine Corner as a social club. The women made small contributions to a growing trust fund, aimed at preserving the home’s history for all time.
“During election season, it was customary for a male politician to send his wife to Hansen House alone to woo female voters, and those campaigns always made a nice donation in exchange for an audience.
“It was thanks to this group of women that the house’s upkeep was funded. After the owner’s death, that fund ensured the house was professionally preserved and cared for. Hansen House is a time capsule of Montana history, in better condition than you’ll find anywhere else in the state.”
“That much is clear,” Bill said. “The windows are a very old style but the woodwork isn’t caked over with a hundred layers of paint, and there’s a solid mantle over the fireplace without a scratch on it. I love the banisters and the stairs. All very valuable stuff. What’s the basement like?”
“Solid foundation,” Mason said. “No cracks or leaks.”
“Yeah, I don’t care much about that, I mean the guts. Furnace, boiler. HVAC?”
“No HVAC,” Mason said. “But the furnace and boiler have a lot of life in them. You can feel how warm it is in here, and go test the hot water if you have any doubts.”
“Thanks, but I’m cool,” Bill said.
Mel reached for Mason’s hand and their fingers intertwined. She couldn’t imagine doing this without him by her side.
“The basement has some neat stuff in storage,” she continued. “When Pine Corner was just a tiny outpost, the owner’s involvement grew with the town. The local wives seemed increasingly burdened by their husbands’ filthy work uniforms, so she learned to launder and mend clothes for a small fee. I found boxes of old washboards in the basement, and I’m happy to throw them in with the house. They have decorative value. If you’d like to see them, or the furnace—”
“Nah, I won’t need to see the basement,” Bill said.
He started up the steps as Tina exclaimed from the kitchen, “This is real marble!”
“You better write that down in all caps, T!”
“The five bedrooms on the second floor grew into Pine Corner’s first school,” Mel said, raising her volume to catch up with Bill as he ascended the staircase. She was forced to compete with a live version of Taylor Swift’s “Last Christmas” cover. Mel understood Harvey’s point about the selling power of Christmas, but maybe the music was too much. She reached for her phone and put a stop to it.
“The owner received a small sum from the city government to provide a basic education, but she also demanded that the girls learn all the same material as the boys.”
“Tina?” Bill asked.
“Not sure that helps us,” the girl yelled from the kitchen, “but I guess I’ll write it down.”
“But,” Mel said, “since the classrooms were first built as bedrooms, they all have cedar-lined closets and private baths with cast-iron claw-foot tubs.”
“That’s right up our alley,” Bill said. “Tina—”
“I got it, okay?” she screamed. “That part was gold right there, I’m not gonna miss those details. Stop harassing me!”
Bill vanished into the second floor bedrooms after that.
With Bill and Tina out of sight. Mason leaned toward Mel until his lips grazed against her ear so he could speak low. “All that historical stuff is really selling it. Did you get that from Harvey?”
“No,” Mel said. “I’ve been reading up on this house over the last few days. Ruth M. Hansen left quite a legacy. Take a look.”
Mel hunted down her borrowed book and flipped open to the images. A full page portrait of the home’s first owner stared back at them.
“Remind you of anyone?” she asked.
“She’s the spitting image of you,” Mason said.
“Ruth Melody Hansen. No lie. And I’m beginning to see why Grandpa George left me the house. I feel it in my bones now, a house like this deserves respect, and care, and awe. For ten years after my grand
father left for WWII, this saint of a woman took in children orphaned by the war. She raised dozens of kids here single-handedly while her husband ran the town as mayor.
“Then she taught herself medicine and ran Pine Corner’s first licensed clinic,” she continued. “Eventually a doctor made his office here, but she handled nursing, scheduling, payments. You name it.
“At one point, she even rented the house for silent films. They would shoot those train-track scenes in Billings, and then use this property as the damsel’s home or the villain’s lair. And all the film crew had no choice but to spend their lunch money in town.”
“She was a smart businesswoman,” Mason said.
“That’s the thing,” Mel said. “I don’t think she ever set out to be. She wanted a piece of land and a home to live in, a piece of independence. She just happened to make good money doing positive things for the community that sprang up around her. Every dollar she earned went back into Pine Corner, until eventually the women in town came together in her old age to protect the house on her behalf.”
Bill hollered down from the top of the stairs. “Is the third floor like this one?”
“Three bedrooms,” Mel said, “just like those five.”
“Sweet,” Bill said racing down the steps. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Are you sure?” Mel asked. “I’m in no hurry.”
“It’s a long drive back to Billings, but I like what I see so far. The French doors, the crown molding, the marble counters. Everything’s in good shape. The floors have some issues, but we can work around that. What about the furniture?”
“It would be a sin to divorce this furniture from the property at this point,” she said. “Please, keep it. Preserve it. Enjoy it.”
“Amazing. A little refinishing and those will be pretty tight. What’s your timeframe?”
“Oh,” Mel said. “The house is ready to sell right away. I guess the sooner the better?”
“Cool, same here. I think we can make you a cash offer today and swing by with the money tomorrow. Let me go talk to my business partner.”
Bill headed into the kitchen to chat with Tina.
“Business partner?” Mason asked. “I just figured they were a couple.”
“Either way,” Mel said, “they really seem to love the house.”
“When they buy it,” Mason said, “I’ll take those trees off your hands and make your investment back as best I can. You can’t take them all to New York.”
“Right,” she said. “New York. For a second there I forgot. Without Hansen House, I have nowhere to go.”
“I tell you one thing,” he said. “If you could have kept this house, you would have. I can hear that in your voice.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “And I feel a personal connection to it now. Like everyone else in Pine Corner, I suppose. But wait, why bring Bill and Tina if it might mean I have nothing to keep me here?”
“A peace offering,” Mason said, pinching Mel’s chin lightly between his thumb and forefinger. “I want you by my side, but not because a house landed on you.”
“That’s the second time you’ve called me a witch.” She said, standing tall on her toes to give him a quick kiss.
“A sexy witch,” he said. “The good kind, who makes a man a better man instead of a slimy green frog.”
Mel startled when Bill popped his head into the door frame. “When are the property taxes due?” he asked.
“February,” Mel said.
“That’s pretty soon,” Bill said, his face pinching into a frown. “We can’t be out of here by then.”
“Out of here?” Mason asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t worry about it, that’s our problem. Taxes are all a part of the game. Let me make sure Tina’s cool with that.” He vanished into the kitchen again.
“I’ve never sold property,” Mel said. “But I’m getting an odd feeling about those two. They skipped past important parts of the house, and their questions seem a little off. Am I supposed to call Harvey? Can I even sell a house without a realtor?”
“Do you think they’re scamming us?” Mason asked.
“I don’t know what to think.”
After a five-minute-long murmured conversation in the kitchen, Bill and Tina re-emerged.
“So, this house has a lot going for it,” Tina said, “and we normally wouldn’t make an offer this high, but we might be willing to take a risk on this one.”
Mel found herself squeezing Mason’s hand pretty hard now, and to his credit, he held firm. No wincing, no squirming, just unflinching support.
“We could do twenty thousand, but we have to pull some strings,” Bill said.
And just like that, Mel suddenly felt weak. She leaned into Mason heavily for support.
“I know,” Bill said “twenty thousand dollars is a lot of scratch.”
“It’s a mansion,” Mel said, “with enough history to fill an entire book.”
“That’s cool,” Tina said, “but we can’t sell history. I mean, unless Frederick H. Billings himself sat at this dining room table—”
“He did!” Mel said. “Twice!”
“Okay, so we can get a little more for the table,” Bill said. “Doesn’t help us move the fireplace mantle, the French doors, the floorboards—”
“How do you plan to ‘move’ the floorboards?” Mason asked.
“Maybe this wasn’t clear,” Tina said, flipping her notebook closed. “We’re de-constructors. We look for old heaps like this, strip them of the wood, the brick, the brass. We sell the pieces to developers who want to add a little something old to all the cheapo new-construction homes they put in a place like Billings.”
“You’re going to mulch the house,” Mel said. “Like it’s a dried-up old Christmas tree.”
“It’s good for the environment,” Bill said. “This way the house doesn’t end up in a landfill. Salvage the good parts first.”
“They’re all good parts,” Mason said.
Tina whispered something into Bill’s ear. “Look,” Bill said. “We can go up to twenty-two, but you have to work with us here. I mean, those taxes are a lot. We looked ‘em up. You got eight thousand dollars to spare?”
Mel was breathing heavily now, and squeezing Mason’s hand so hard her own fingers were going numb. He leaned toward her and said in a low, deep voice, “This is your decision. Do what you have to do, Mel. I’ll support you.”
She took a long, deep breath.
“I do not have eight thousand dollars lying around.” She glanced up at the ceilings and scanned the walls, down to the floors, and then the furniture. “I guess it didn’t matter to you whether I cleaned this place from top to bottom, or how tall and green our tree was.”
“The floors and stuff will find a good home,” Tina said.
“I know they will,” Mel said. “Because they already have one. Here.”
“Look,” Bill said. “We came all the way from Billings.”
“No, you look,” Mel said. “This house means something. It has stood for a hundred years as a monument to the power of hope, and determination, and community. It has been something to everyone, and everything to someone. It will be that again. This house will be loved.”
“Twenty-four thousand,” Bill said. “Final offer.”
“I think you should go,” Mel said.
“Twenty-five?” Tina asked. “Bill, can we do twenty-five?”
“I mean it,” Mel said. “I don’t want your money, I want you to leave.”
“Come on.” Bill took a step toward Mel, his hands outstretched like he wanted to box her in, separate her from the house and everyone else in it. “What if we just took the furniture, and maybe a few fixtures?”
Mason pried Mel’s hand off his own, speaking in a slow, deep rumble that suggested his patience was a dwindling resource. “The lady said scram, so you scram.” He stepped toward Bill and the younger man did not back down.
“This isn’t your
house,” Bill said, tilting his head back so he could look Mason in the eye. “And I’m not done negotiating.”
“You’ll be done breathing if you don’t get your skinny ass out that door,” Mason said, squaring his shoulders, becoming — somehow — even larger than before.
Tina skulked toward the front entry and reached for the door handle.
“Tina,” Bill said. “Stay.”
“They said to leave, so let’s just go,” she said.
“This idiot thinks I’m afraid of him,” Bill said. “I came here to make a deal, and I’m going to make a deal.”
“You thought you came here to push someone around, and I’m not letting that happen.”
“It’s going to take more than a grand pronouncement to scare me away from a salvage site like this,” Bill said. Then he feinted an attack, jerking his body forward like that burst of frenzied movement would frighten Mason.
All the man did was shake his head.
“You want to mess with a real man, city boy?” Mason said. “Because real men don’t make empty threats.” He pushed Bill in the chest and the boy fell backward, then scrambled to his feet. When Bill took a swing at Mason, he ducked, caught Bill’s arm, and threw. The boy spun around so quickly he lost his balance.
Mason wrapped his arms around Bill, catching him in a bear hug from behind. Bill’s elbows were pinned to his sides and his legs kicked wildly. Mason had the kid off the ground now, and walked him toward the front door. Tina, pale as a ghost, opened the door and rushed onto the porch as Mason carried Bill into the night.
Mel followed after them, her eyes wide. She never dreamed trying to sell this house could turn confrontational.
As Mason crossed the wrap-around porch, a glint of metal caught Mel’s eye.
“Mason!” she yelled. “Your knife!”
Mason let go of Bill and went on defense. The boy clutched Mason’s knife in his fist, swiped from the small holster that hung from Mason’s belt loop.
“This,” Bill said, “is what self-defense looks like.”
He lunged forward with the blade in hand and Mel gasped at the quick motion, but Bill’s form was sloppy. He swung downward, like a fantasy actor wielding a broadsword instead of a young man in a serious knife fight.