I threw down the tacky red apron from the local diner I had worked at since college, and walked out on my sexist pig of a boss, middle fingers held high. That night, I’d called a real estate agent, a woman with bottle-blonde hair and a smile fragile enough to crack with the right amount of pressure.

This was how, the next morning, I found myself standing in front of what was little more than a pile of rubble. But the bones…they were the most beautiful bones I had seen in my life. As my realtor stood off to one side, tapping away on her phone and probably expecting a quick “no,” I tiptoed up the worn steps.

“Is it a Victorian?” I asked, not bothering to look back. She was probably still pecking at her phone. I made a mental note of the rotting wooden siding.

“Technically it’s post-Victorian. 1907. But nobody knows what that is, so we just call it Victorian.”

Works for me.

A tall steeple rose over the large bay window showcasing the two-story foyer that overlooked the porch. Ornate detailing framed the roof’s gables. In the front garden, a tree was split in two, looking like it had been struck by lightning. It was beautiful. It needed a lot of love, but hard work had never scared me before. Behind me, the realtor called out other details, but I barely listened, too focused on my exploration. “Now, we are far away from town, so phone signals may be difficult to come by.”

She wasn’t wrong. We had driven ten minutes on an abandoned, single-lane road before we even made it to the house’s expansive gravel driveway. But nothing she said could’ve swayed me. I was in love. Besides, it wasn’t anything money couldn’t fix, and for the first time in my life I had money to blow. Bad plumbing? I’d find a repairman. Rural internet? Coming right up. I cupped my forehead to the window and peered inside. “Not a huge issue. I’m sure I can figure that out. Can we go in?”

From what I could see, the interior was in better shape than the peeling exterior. Antique rugs lay on original hardwood floors, and some furniture remained as well. I could envision my shelves lined with all my treasures, and maybe even a tea table set where people could stop and have a rest before they trekked back into town. Based on the furniture I could see, who knew what other goodies awaited me inside.

“Unfortunately not,” she called back, punctuating her sentence with quick taps on her phone. “The bank foreclosed on this property years ago. They’re still selling it ‘As Is,’ which means you can’t see inside, but you can’t beat the price.”