For Richer for Poorer

by Cassandra Black

  After not being able to raise the cash to carry his development firm, under his own steam, until the market recovered, he was stuck. He had to sell off shares at a loss and ditch non-performing assets. After three of his largest lenders called in their notes, he couldn't recover without ditching projects in mid-stride at rock-bottom prices. The banks simply weren't lending, and most of his colleagues were in the same boat.

  He had his country estate, the family home, on Antioch Reservoir, but over half the home had been closed up and most of his staff had been laid off until things turned around. But things would get better; he knew things would get better. Hamilton went back to his roots -- fixing things. He'd learned how to fix anything associated with a house from his father, starting from the time he was barely knee-high.

  He'd get it all back … it was just a matter of time, his mind was already in full gear and his networking skills were getting plenty of practice. In the meantime, Steele Development had been downsized to pretty much his tools and his small business grit.

  He'd barely been in the driveway two minutes when he saw Ms. Elliott waving out the front screen door. Two long, gray plats traveled down the front of her floral house dress almost to her pockets. Her brown face lit up when she saw him getting out of the truck. She'd known Hamilton since he was a boy, peddling newspapers up and down the streets in the neighborhood. His daddy would drop him off and come sit with her on the porch longer than he should have, long time ago.

  Ms. Elliott dismissed the thought.

  The boy had turned into a fine gentleman. She knew Warren Steele would be proud, God bless his soul.

  Hamilton smiled and greeted the old lady with a hug as he entered the house.

  Chapter 7

  "Good bones," the home inspector had said. Good bones my ass, Miranda mumbled to herself as she dragged the last U-haul box down the hall into her office. She came back in the living room and plopped down on the couch for a break. She looked around the place. The little cottage was falling apart right under her feet, and she was two steps from skid-row and didn't know where she'd get all the money to, at minimum, get a heating unit installed before winter. She could see the ground through the slits of the wooden floor boards in the kitchen, and with each summer afternoon downpour, moisture was building up in her crawlspace faster than the months were passing until she reached her 35th birthday.

  At least she was taking steps to get a summary of the repairs; that was a start, she told herself. But she knew it was a long way from having them complete.

  Thirty five. Something about that age made this a really big deal.

  "You can't get the time back, Miranda," she mumbled to herself. "Just keep moving."

  Miranda thought she'd be further along in life before she reached 35. She expected more of herself. But here she was, "going on forty," college educated, with nothing to show for it but a failing business, an almost empty bank account, and a house that was sure to be a money pit. At that moment, for a few seconds, she regretted not selling the property through the bird dog that had sniffed around years ago. Some investor wanted to buy it less than a year after she'd purchased it and she scoffed at the offer.

  After graduating college and living in the Los Angeles area for a few years, Miranda had made the trek from the West Coast back to her Georgia roots to look after her ailing parents. That was over a decade ago. She'd worked as a property manager in Culver City, California, so she dove right into real estate when she reached Atlanta. The property management job she landed in Atlanta did not pay near what she'd made in Cali, but she loved real estate and supplemented her income with night work -- anything she could find. Her mission was saving to buy property. It's all she'd ever dreamed of; owning real estate -- and lots of it.

  After only two years of living back at her parents' home, working two jobs, and saving every penny, she'd cobbled up enough to pay cash for the little Harper's Grove cottage, well below market. How dare some developer offer her little more than she'd paid for it. In fact, she was offended by the offer, because the home had already appreciated. This same investor had been gobbling up a lot of the older homes and renovating them in nearby bedroom communities.

  The location of the property was prime -- and she knew it. The town was small, but it was growing, and her neighborhood sat right in the middle of town, which was a few blocks from the courthouse, the police and fire station, and the Main Street shopping district which was mid-stride getting an overhaul.

  Over the last few years, a new Starbucks had popped up and a couple of new restaurants had opened. The county had staying power because of the schools and in spite of the market, the area would turn around again, and a might quicker than many other Atlanta areas.

  Harper's Grove had certainly evolved over the years. The once small dwellings up and down her block, occupied by mostly senior citizens, were now renovated houses with second and third floor additions, cascading windows, gleaming front porches, and finely manicured yards. Young professionals driving BMWs and Mercedes, with children in private schools, were now her neighbors. She missed seeing Miss Lonnie sitting out on the porch, and Mr. Carey tending his roses right next door. She missed the little white pill box homes with tin roofs and rocking chairs that actually got sat in on the cute little porches lining Magnolia Lane.

  Miranda reasoned she should have never left Harper's Valley. But less than a year after buying the cottage, she picked up another property in another area through traditional lending. In retrospect, she knew she should have doubled back and renovated the cottage. But money flowed like water in a real estate market that seemingly could do no wrong bank then. She'd planned to eventually renovate the home and rent it out after she moved into her new home, but it needed so much work, she just boarded it up, kept the grass cut and put the project on the back burner as she concentrated on growing Colbert and Company.

  She picked up more houses, too fast, by doing what a lot of investors did: she refinanced and bought more homes. Things were moving along fine -- her company was growing, rental payments were coming in on time, and appreciation was in full swing for some good years. Who knew a fiasco was right around the bend, except market skeptics who always seemed to be skeptical about everything anyway. Turns out they were right this time, and Magnolia Lane was home again.

  At least the cottage was paid off, she reasoned, but she knew her mother must be turning over in her grave at her plight.

  No husband, no children, no love interest in sight. After the last relationship, that she was sure would lead to matrimony and the two children she'd always dreamed off, she'd been too busy trying to grow her company. Now Colbert and Company was practically bankrupt and the thought of going back out and getting a job to make ends meet made her cringe.

  She couldn't believe things had come to this.

  After a little while, she unboxed the final set of office files and put them in the file cabinet next to her roll-top desk. She was setting the sunroom up to be her office. She looked around, pleased with her progress. After taking a quick shower, she grabbed her keys, locked up and headed to her 1975 restored Jeep Wrangler parked in the driveway.

  It was almost 4:00 p.m. Friday evening. She needed to get some groceries in the house and she was looking forward to a nice glass of wine. And she couldn't help it; she was looking forward to the possibility of seeing Hamilton again at 5:30, if he stopped back by after the way she'd treated him. He'd probably disappear and never come back. She couldn't blame him if he did.

  She glanced down at her watch. "Good," she said out loud. She was just in time to beat the Wal-mart after-work crowd. She would even have a quick few minutes to pop by the shiny new gym she saw in the new shopping complex on the way back to check out the facilities. Maybe she could eek out a membership fee in a few months, after finding work. In the meantime, she'd have to pull out the dumbbells and hit the park.

  Miranda had been going strong since early morning and she. She decided after the gym and shopping, shed' come back hom
e, make up her sleigh bed, and simply relax. She was almost certain Hamilton would not show. Comcast wouldn't be there until Saturday afternoon to get her WI-FI and cable package hooked up, so she'd dive into her comfortable bed with a glass of vino and blissfully watch Rob Roy or Legend of the Falls, both of which she'd seen a dozen times.

  The thought of Hamilton lying in bed next to her watching movies made her hot. She couldn't forget the feel of his broad chest, his scent, his strong arms around her waist.

  "Miranda Colbert, you just met the guy," she said to herself. "And he has nooooo confidence in women as equals, remember?" she scolded herself driving down the road. The lady next to her at the stop light looked over like she was bonkers talking to herself in the middle of traffic. Miranda waved at her, smiled and pulled off. She tried hard to put Hamilton out of her mind, once and for all.

  As Miranda pulled back into her driveway, she saw her neighbors pulling in, too. It was after 5:15. The little girl had what looked like a McDonald's Happy Meal and the mother had a bag of groceries. The father was likely working late at the office and would be home before eight. She missed not having a family, a husband, children. She let her mind drift to her parents ...

  She missed them so much. They had passed within months of each other. Complications with tuberculosis the doctor had said. Maybe it had something to do with the timber. It was not an uncommon death in the mountains.

  Her parents' relationship mirrored the kind of partnership she wanted with a husband. Her father was a strong, broad man, of not too many words, with character and depth. What he said, was what he meant; period. If he gave you his word, you could take it to the bank. He was a no-nonsense kind of man who cherished God and his family above all else.

  Her mother was kind and warm and never had a harsh word for anyone -- unless you crossed her. Miranda remembered seeing her mother's quiet temper, only once. They were in a grocery store in the deep woods of Pine Creek, the little mountain town of her birth.

  One of a few African American families in those parts, the townsmen had much respect for her father, because his small pulpwood company provided much of the timber for log homes built in the area. But the new owner of the General Store were ignorant and not so kind. The owner waited on three sets of tourists that were behind Miranda and her mother in line before he waited on them. Miranda remembered being around 8 or 9 years old. When her mother reached the counter, she politely greeted the gentleman who waved his hand at her as if he were dismissing a fly, all the while preparing to take her money for goods. Her mother told the man, "After you deduct the groceries from the tally, you owe me $297 for the timber stacked up against your wall out back, sir."

  The man looked at her like she was crazy and threatened to call the local police. But Miranda's mother pulled out her receipt book and pointed out she was Mrs. Tangy Colbert of Colbert Pulp Wood, and credit was extended on a discretionary basis, by her. Mirada's father handled the field work and her mother handled the books. She told the man she was calling in her debt, and if he didn't pay up, immediately, per the terms of the agreement, she'd have him locked up.

  The man apologized and said he didn't know. That was no matter to Tangy Colbert; the damage, her pride, had been damaged as she stood there with her daughter peering up at her wondering why everyone was cutting them in line. The man emptied his cash register and paid the bill.

  "Pleasure doing business with you, sir," her mother had said through clenched teeth. Tangy Colbert then looked down at her daughter and remembered her lessons to her. She then smiled at the man and thanked him for complying. She walked out the store with an envelope full of cash in her apron, groceries in one hand, and Miranda's proud, firm grip in the other.

  Her mother always taught her to remain a lady.

  "Catch more flies with honey," she'd say.

  Miranda hadn't quite gotten that lesson. Her temper had little control, but she vowed to work on it as she remembered slamming the door in Hamilton's face earlier that day. No matter what, the man didn't deserve that. So he was a male chauvinist. That was no stumbling block to being a good handyman. Her upbringing told her she needed to apologize. And after all, she did need help with the cottage, and she had a feeling he'd work with her on the payments.

  The phone rang. It was him.

  "Hi," he said. "This is Hamilton."

  "Hi," she said back. "I know. I have your number in my phone.

  "How you are feeling?" he asked.

  "I'm fine," she said, touching her forehead. "Thank you for asking."

  "No problem."

  "Listen, I'm sorry," she said. "About my behavior earlier. I was out of line."

  "I know," he said. "You were dead wrong and I've already forgiven you."

  "Look Mr. Steele --" she started, her temperature going from zero to ninety.

  "Calm down, Miranda. And you can call me Hamilton," he teased. "I'm just rousing you. I'm sorry, too. I meant no harm and I certainly didn't mean to imply you weren't capable of understanding repair lingo. My motive was purely selfish in asking you that question. Forgive me?" he asked.

  There was silence.

  "Miranda?" he said.

  "Forgiven," she said into the phone.

  "Thank you," he said. "Another thing. I won't be done here until about 8 o'clock, I'm afraid. This thing is taking longer than I thought. Will that work for you?" He hoped she'd say yes.

  Miranda thought about it for a second. There was nothing she'd like more than to have him come by. But it was best he didn't come in the evening; it would be approaching dark. And no matter he was clearly not her type, with his way of thinking he would be too tempting. She couldn't help remembering the attic, and she craved the company of a man.

  "No, it's fine," she said. "I'm exhausted, and I'll likely be falling asleep on a movie by then."

  Hamilton wanted to be in bed with her, but it wasn't the time to say that. "I understand," he said.

  "What about tomorrow morning, she said, 10:00 am?"

  "Sure, that'll work fine" he said. "I'll see you at 10:00, and I'll bring the coffee this time."

  "Perfect," she said.

  Chapter 8

  As Miranda lay in bed that evening, she tried to dismiss the loneliness growing inside of her as a woman. Now that the responsibility of the houses were gone, the pang of loneliness was more evident than ever. Over the past few months, as she worked to sell her dream home and short sold her rentals, the little hole that had been slowly widening in her soul was becoming a crater.

  Maybe if she'd put as much time into researching a mate, as she did looking at houses, she wouldn't be going through any of this, at least not alone. She missed, needed, a man in her life. No matter what that independent voice was saying in her head.

  She thought of the last man she'd been with, James Whitfield. He was an ideal match really. She'd met him at a real estate investment meeting. She and James hit it off from the first moment they laid eyes on each other. They had everything in common, or so she'd thought: real estate, both single, no children, never been married. They both loved exploring new restaurants, fine wine, catching impromptu shows at the Fox, good to movies, touring museums, and art exhibits.

  She'd fallen in love with James in the short five months they'd dated. They spent more time at her home in South Fulton than they did at his bachelor's condo downtown. Though he hardly ever stayed overnight, Miranda accepted his "early work, early meetings, pre-breakfast networking" excuses.

  But the wide gold wedding band found buried deep in the glove compartment of his sports car made her run from anything resembling love. When she first saw the little black box she found when digging for a pen, her heart pounded. She knew James would propose to her soon, but she didn't know when. They had gotten close and everything was moving along perfectly. But when she opened it, the wedding band -- and the inscription: James and Tammy Forever -- made her want to throw up.

  "Married, James?" she asked, hurt in her eyes, as he got back in the car. He said
he had to run into his office building to make a client call before they went back to her house. It was late one evening and he'd decided he was going to stay over with her, all night, finally.

  "How'd you find that?" he asked, angered she'd been in his glove compartment.

  "I was looking for a pen!" she said.

  There was silence.

  "James say something, anything, please?" she looked at him with tears in her eyes.

  "I'm sorry, I was going to tell you," he said unable to look at her.

  His cell phone rang. He wouldn't answer it.

  Without planning on it, Miranda snatched the phone from his hands and answered.

  "Hello," she said into the phone.

  "Hello," the voice on the other end said. "Who is this?"

  "This is James' girlfriend," Miranda heard herself say.