Free The Flip by Michael Phillip Cash

reached for the ruler between them and slapped him on his fleshy cheek, drawing blood.
    Mr. Wilson gasped, his pudgy hand going to his cheek. His face crumpled.
    “Oh!” She dropped the ruler. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but she wouldn’t let him take advantage of her. “Oh!”
    “I thought you wanted it.” Her boss backed away. “You always wear such short skirts. You bend in front of me.”
    “You keep dropping things,” Julie defendedherself. “Mr. Wilson, I don’t think I can be here anymore.”
    “Neither do I. Are you going to lodge a complaint? Because if you do, I will say that you asked for it.”
    “Asked for it! I don’t know what you are talking about. You’re despicable, Mr. Wilson. I thought of you as a father figure.”
    “Me?” he asked with a laugh. “A father figure? I could have any girl I want.” He stalked to the door. “You make trouble, and I will make sure you never see another construction loan from the bank again.”
    Julie put the supplies on a shelf, walked to her desk, and emptied the drawers.
    “Where you going?” Dulcie looked up from her screen.
    “I got a better offer. See you, Dulcie. I’m leaving, and I won’t be back.”

Chapter 9
    Brad climbed the steep stairs into the overheated attic. He felt the bruise over his ear. It was tender to the touch, but nothing worse. He had blacked out for a minute. Well, Julie had warned him not to go into the attic alone. The last time, he had fallen ten feet and broken his leg in two places. It was a bitch of an injury. Four years in the heat and danger of Afghanistan without a scratch, but in one of his first flips, he almost incapacitated himself. No Purple Heart in flipping houses. He rubbed the permanent bump in his shin, wincing at its tenderness. Maybe he should listen to her, maybe not. It was stifling up there, with the acrid smell of dry wood and insects. Using his phone asa flashlight, he lit a path, his mouth open with wonder. It was a treasure trove of furniture, bronzes, boxes of dishes, Majolica ware, Wedgwood china, and rows and rows of belongings from different eras. Brad smiled; this could be life changing.
    He wove between the aisles, opening a box here, moving a painting there, knowing it was going to take weeks to go through and catalog all the material. Pulling up an old cracked leather campaign chair that probably dated from the War of 1812, he randomly picked a box and started to go through it. He pulled out a yellow satin gown, wrapped in crisp paper, the folds releasing a faint scent of roses. Something dropped; Brad bent over to pick it up. It was a delicate fan made frombamboo and chicken skin, with a painted scene of graceful Asian ladies covering its surface.
    “Oh, Gerald,” Tessa sighed. “It’s my fan. I thought I’d never see it again. I almost threw it away, and then, when…you know.” She paused, her big eyes watching him. She waltzed elegantly around the room, humming, her face dreamy. She stopped to look at her companion and told him, “When you disappeared, I decided to keep it. I packed it away and then couldn’t find it. I thought it was lost. He’s found it.”
    “It was never lost,” Gerald replied softly.

Chapter 10
    1862
    “La, Gerry, get me some more punch. I swear I am parched.” Tessa directed a tall blond man in the crowd surrounding her to fetch the refreshment.
    Gerald rolled his eyes, hating to leave her with four other admirers, but he still went to get her a drink.
    The room was filled with soldiers, their blue uniforms with shiny brass buttons reflecting the warm glow from the gas chandeliers. He nodded to his cousin, a Union captain, who wascaught up in a conversation with Tessa’s father. He was a railroad man, Frank Hemmings. Rich as Croesus, smart as a fox, at the turn of the century he had started a ferry business from Long Island to Connecticut, making a fortune that had led to an even bigger one when his trains opened up the West. Gerald knew all the