Strike One

Two-thirds of the way through the inspection, Shelley and I started eating the meringues. I’d cadged them from one of her co-workers to give to my co-workers, but the growing list of major problems with what we'd been calling "our house" made the sweetness call louder and louder. I’d given them a thought or two starting with the electrical panel, but then I’d adjust to each new wrong thing and the thought would pass.

Looking back, I shoulda known it was all over the moment Shelley said “Are those meringues handy?”

I liked our home inspector right off; he reminded me of my brother. Not in looks – Mark is dark-haired and -eyed while Dave shares the genes that give me sandy hair and hazel eyes. Mark is barrel chested and stocky where Dave is thin and wiry. But in spirit? Yes. Both in the trades, intelligent, hard workers. Warm people, nice smiles. Guy guys, very masculine, but with a generous softness. The occasional flamboyant flick of a wrist.

He explained the bit of the house and what he was doing in simple terms but not like he was talking to simpletons. He muttered under his breath a bit. When he started railing at the nincompoops who’d built the third floor in a shoddy manner, he stopped himself. “Well, they’re not here to defend themselves. It’s too bad.”

I think he meant about the shifting third floor, not that he wanted to get into a debate about the relative merits of reinforcing rafters before creating rooms out of dormers.

So we’re not communal home owners, not yet, not that house. It was disappointing, and it took more out of me than I was expecting it would. I wanted the search to be over. I was ready to stop trolling the net and settle down, not with the perfect house, but with the good enough house.

But that house? No, not with the house we started calling “that money pit on [redacted].”

And on with the showings.