Free Ten Beach Road by Wendy Wax Page A

enjoyment.
    “Now this ,” Nicole said, “is worth serious money. But the house . . .” She didn’t even turn to look at it. “Maybe we should just knock it down.” Her hands fisted at her sides. Given all she’d been through, all she’d lost, she could probably pull the place down with her bare hands and call it therapy.
    The little blonde tensed beside her and Madeline gave a small gasp of surprise as Nicole turned from the view to meet John Franklin’s eye. “There can’t be many pieces of property available with a better view or situation.”
    “Well, no, there aren’t,” he conceded. “But you can’t just raze a home of this significance. It’s on the National Register as a designated property.”
    “So we’re not allowed by law to demolish it?” Avery asked with what Nicole thought sounded like relief.
    The Realtor looked distinctly uncomfortable. His ears turned a bright red. “I don’t see how, in good conscience, you could do that.”
    “Conscience aside,” Madeline asked, her tone tentative, “could we?”
    There was a protracted silence while Franklin apparently tried to come up with a stronger argument. Finally, he sighed and shifted his weight on the cane. “Unfortunately, we don’t actually have the power to prohibit that.” He brightened. “But there are some powerful tax and financial incentives to restore rather than tear down. And you gain an exemption from the FEMA fifty percent rule, which would allow you to put as much money as you wanted into the restoration.”
    Nicole thought about just how much she could afford to put into this house. That amount was zero. “But we could tear it down and just list the lot?” Nicole asked, thinking at the moment she was, in fact, desperate enough to rip the structure apart with her bare hands.
    “Well, you’d have to come before the preservation board and we, um, I mean they would most likely impose a ninety-day waiting period in which you would be asked to hear reasons for choosing to restore or renovate. I think the community would do everything it could to stop the loss of such a significant property.”
    “Such as?” Nicole pressed.
    Franklin removed a white handkerchief and mopped his brow while Avery and Madeline looked on. In the end he didn’t answer her question, but said, “Even in this economy there is a market for well-restored, or even renovated, historic homes. I have a Realtor in my office who specializes in that and has a list of potential clients across the country. I believe that’s how we originally found Mr. Dyer.”
    “Gee, and look how well that turned out,” Nicole said.
    John Franklin cleared his throat; the wattle of extra skin that surrounded it shook. “Shall we?” Despite the cane and his age, he motioned them down the circular stair that led to the back courtyard, then followed carefully behind. He must have realized walking back through the house might send them running for the wrecking ball.
    The exterior damage was worse back where the house met the elements head-on. Chunks of pale pink stucco and pieces of red roof tiles lay dashed against the concrete pool deck and surrounding bricked courtyard.
    A drainpipe hung down the corner of the east wing and tapped rhythmically against the dented and chipped stucco, the tune dictated by the breeze. But it was harder to focus on the signs of neglect when you were surrounded by water that sparkled so brilliantly under such a cloudless blue sky.
    “We’ve had sales of several renovated Mediterranean Revivals in the last year, none of them anywhere close to your property in size or relevance. And every one of them sold for several million dollars.”
    Clearly, John Franklin was not yet ready to roll over and play dead. Nor had he forgotten how to sell. “You’ve got one hundred fifty feet of prime waterfront, far more than any of the others.”
    “So how much do you think we could get just for the land?” Nicole asked. She felt like a dog with a bone