Circling the block to head over to my next meeting proved that my choice to abandon the parking spot was unwise.
As I passed the long, faded brick building that was my destination, I realized that all the parking spots on the street were taken. Street spots were snatched up quickly, but the parking lot tucked behind the building usually had some spots open in all my previous visits.
Much to my irritation, a large moving van was blocking at least a dozen spots. Maybe one of the commercial tenants was leaving the small complex? Regardless of the reason for its presence, it rendered my parking plan a failure.
I ended up two blocks away and my high heel trek was double what it would have been had I left my car in front of RTK & Associates. Had it not been for the shoes, I actually would have loved the walk up the old town street. The area had a vibe that tickled my creativity, I found inspiration in every mural, statue, and window display that lined the road.
The decorative brick cornices on the buildings were such a testament to their time. Modern buildings were sleek, but heartless. These buildings reflected craftsmen that had practical skill, an artistic heart, and an aesthetic eye.
This was also the area where small businesses really seemed
to thrive. Old buildings for old souls that wanted to make their customers
happy. Mr. Jones, the dapper widower, was the only remaining original owner
still left in this section of old town.
Crossing the street, I arrived at the corner unit of Mr. Jones’s building, which was two stories high and four units long. Coming here was a mix of emotions for me. Lila Jones was my dear friend and I visited often before she passed. I loved this area, but approaching her empty boutique was heartbreaking.
Before the news of the divorce last week, I had been in talks with Mr. Jones about renting the space to start my own photography and design studio. We stayed in contact after Lila’s passing and it was his idea for me to take over the space.
Arriving at the last unit, the glass door and windows revealed an empty room. I had dreamt of making the original wooden floors, one exposed brick wall and two blank white walls a canvas of my own.
Unfortunately, it was a dream I could no longer afford. I would need every last dime from the house sale to secure a home for myself and Ethan. Nyx had his own apartment by his university, so while I hoped to get a space big enough for him too, I had to be realistic. To continue to afford wherever I lived, I would need a stable job, not a new entrepreneurial adventure.
I emailed Mr. Jones to let him know that I could no longer rent the space because of the impending divorce. His cryptic response was that I still needed to come by so he could give me a gift from Lila, his late wife. In the email he said not to commit to any living arrangements until the divorce was finalized. The advice was odd because the waiting period in this state was so long.
I pulled on the door to go inside but discovered that it was locked. Confused, I looked around and then noticed a bright post-it note on the ground. I recognized the shaky scrawl facing up at me immediately.
“Meet upstairs instead. -K”
Backtracking to the space between the units, I opened the door that led upstairs. While the building had two brick levels, the first unit had a rooftop apartment on it. Each step had my feet crying, but I would stand by my stubborn choice of moving my car. I’d choose physical pain over emotional discomfort every time.
Reaching the top, I knocked on the ornate wooden door. The immediate sound of it opening caught me off guard because it seemed too quick. Mr. Jones was not fast and liked to mosey. My confusion resolved into understanding as the door opened and I was greeted by a handsome man that was the spitting image of his father, but with much lighter skin. His wide smile greeted me.
“Good afternoon, Miss Tiffany,” he said, then he turned to yell, “Pops, she’s here!”
I was surprised because I had only met Damon once, and it had been at his mother’s funeral. He and his wife lived across the country with their children. Lila talked about her kids often, so I knew of them, but didn’t expect them to know me.
“Tiff, come on in!”
The old man came shuffling out of a room, carrying a small box. Mr. Jones had stooped shoulders and wrinkled brown skin that was offset by his short, pure white fro. I thought he was adorably dapper in his blue paisley button-up shirt, suspenders, and slacks. The feeling was just so different from Robert’s corporate style.
“Stop carrying things you stubborn old mule!” Damon berated.
The younger man immediately moved to take the box out of his father’s hands. Suddenly, I realized that the moving van in the parking lot was for them.
“Are you moving, Mr. Jones?”
“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Kendrick?” he said, furrowing his bushy brows at me. “Come on, let’s chat.”
I followed him into a large office, but all the contents of it were boxed up. The desk was against the wall and a large picture of Lila hung above it. I recognized the image immediately, because I was the one who made it. Seeing it was bittersweet. This was one of six mixed art pieces I made before she passed as part of a series called, “Lila’s Smiles.” We created them together as part of a cancer awareness auction.
A pale white woman, with long silver hair, and a pink dress was smiling back at me. She was happiness incarnate and had been until the very end. The dress she was wearing in the image wasn’t real. It was a paper mache creation that I sculpted and painted an ombre pink. The papers I used were her real hospital bills. The photographed image of the dress slowly became a real 3D application that we added after printing. The paper’s thickness a was financial topography of how many bills pile up for the care to fight the disease.
Kendrick saw me staring at the picture and put a hand on my shoulder, “I miss her, Tiff, so very much. This picture eases that pain, and it is one of my most prized possessions.”
My eyes were watering, but it was from vastly different emotions than the ones that had consumed me earlier today. We both sniffled a bit and sat down on stacked boxes in the room.
“You never answered my question, Kendrick,” I began, “Are you moving?”
His first name was hard for me to use, because I didn’t think I had earned it. Lila had joked that he made friends call him Mr. Jones for about five years before he ever let them call him Kendrick. My short two years of friendship didn’t seem sufficient to earn it.
“Yes, I am. I have come to a very important decision, and I need your help with it.”
“Of course. How can I help, Mr. Jones?”
The formal name came out of my mouth due to habit, and he visibly bristled, “I need you to take care of Lila’s home for me.”
Did he mean her old boutique or their actual apartment? My brain could not fathom the way he needed me to take care of it, and my unsure silence gave him space to continue.
“I’m old, Tiff. All the other old town founders have long retired, but Lila and I loved this place. Even after our children went and made their homes elsewhere, Lila loved it too much to leave. Her death has made me, and the kids, realize how much distance there is in our family and has filled us with regret. Damon has a guest house that I’m moving into. I’ll live there and watch my grandkids grow up. I want to be a part of their everyday lives.”
“I understand why you would want to go,” empathetic to the desire to be with your children, “but I am confused about what you are wanting me to do?”
“I’m sorry about your divorce, but truly, I think it’s for the best. You and Robert didn’t love each other the way you needed.”
“Not everyone in the world is blessed with a love like you and Lila had,” I chuckled, surprised to hear him commenting on my marriage.
“Maybe, maybe not,” he said slyly. “If you are splitting and you need a new path, I would like to hire you to be my property manager. You take over the complex since I’m leaving, live in this apartment, get your feet underneath you, and eventually get your studio started downstairs.”
A knot formed in my throat, and I couldn’t swallow. He meant for me to live here, in their home, and take care of it after he left. It was such a significant gesture that neither my brain nor my heart had even considered it. This was perfect, well, almost perfect. Part of me still felt like someone was stepping in to take care of me and I wanted to do this on my own. I was not so foolish as to tell him no, though.
“What if,” I began and then nervously took a breath, “instead of hiring me as a property manager, you sold me the building.”
His white eyebrows drew together and his lips puckered as they pulled to the side, deeply considering the idea.
“Can you qualify for a loan that large?”
“I—" my words stopped, and uncertainty threatened to make me retreat from the idea. “After the house sells, I can put $250,000 down on a business loan to buy it, but I do not know how much I could qualify for alone.”
His face split into a wide, warm smile. “This building has been paid off for decades, so I have a great deal of flexibility. If you sign a contract to keep my tenants rent the same, I’ll sell you the building for whatever we can qualify you for. I know people, we can get it worked out.”
I cried five times today, shedding tears for my marriage, my sons, my bad parking job, and for Lila. These new tears in my eyes were born from hope, and I was desperate for a life that filled me with optimism. Mr. Jo— no, Kendrick stood up and held open his arms. Like a child, I stood and hugged him, sobbing into his chest. There was no way I could call him Mr. Jones anymore.
“Lila thought the world of you, Tiff. I know she would support this.”
My worries began to drain out of my body as satisfaction filled my heart. The money I would use to buy this commercial real estate was earned from my own creative work. This person helping me was a relationship I had fostered entirely on my own, and from a place of authentic care.
Even though my tears were flowing, I was genuinely excited about my future.
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