Page 6 of Your Every Wish

I have no idea what her game is. There are no other heirs, according to Mr. Townsend.

Harry pulls up in a dirt-streaked golf cart and motions for us to hop in the back while the lady who volunteered to give us the tour takes the passenger seat. She introduces herself as Misty.

Harry steps on the gas and away we go down a semi-paved road. I say “semi-paved” because much of the asphalt is missing. It’s bumpy but the big pine trees that line the street are lovely. And there’s so much green space that for a fraction of a second I forget it’s a trailer park.

Misty points to a spot with a designated trailhead marker. “The trail travels through the entire eighty-six acres of park.”

“Does the creek run year-round?” I ask because all that water rushing over tumbled rocks is quite spectacular.

“Sure does. It’s called Puta Creek.”

“Doesn’t puta mean ‘whore’ in Spanish?” Kennedy says and I kick her under the seat.

“I think so.” Misty turns so she can see us. “About halfway down is a small waterfall. Would you like to get out to see it?”

“Nah.”

I give Kennedy the stink eye. “I would.”

I follow Misty down the trail while Kennedy hangs back with Harry.

“Don’t mind your sister,” Misty says as we meander down the dirt path. “She’s got a lot on her plate right now.”

I cock my head to the side. How does she know anything about Kennedy? I just spent nearly three hours in a car with her and couldn’t tell you one thing about her.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask what makes her think Kennedy has more on her plate than anyone else, when she says, “I can just tell, take my word for it. She’s dealing with stuff, bad stuff. Eventually she’ll open up about it, just give her time.”

Oookay .

I’m starting to think that everyone here is a little odd. But I kind of like it. Conventionality is overrated.

We reach the waterfall, which is stunning and so peaceful that I think it would be a great spot for a romantic picnic.

Or a nap. A gentle breeze is blowing through the trees and despite the mild temperature, I can smell fall in the air.

The leaves on some of the trees are already bright orange and gold.

“This is really nice.”

“Shall we move on to the bocce ball courts and clubhouse?”

Bocce ball? Clubhouse? Wow. So much for first impressions.

We scramble back into Harry’s golf cart and we’re off again, cruising around the property, which is marked with mobile homes of every stripe and color.

Most of them appear a little worse for wear but are sort of charming in a shabby chic kind of way.

I can’t help but notice, though, that there are a lot of weedy empty lots. The place is half empty.

A tall stake with a collection of handmade wooden arrows with faded lettering directs us to the bocce ball courts. On our way, we pass a pond where the water resembles green Jell-O, and the stench of rotten eggs and dead fish is overwhelming.

Kennedy holds her nose. “Oh my God.”

“It just needs to be cleaned,” I say, trying to make up for Kennedy’s rudeness.

“The aerators have been broken going on two years now.” It’s the first time Harry’s talked during the drive, leaving the guide work to Misty. “Maybe when you take ‘ownership’ ”—he makes finger quotes in the air—“you can get that fixed.”

Kennedy starts to say something, but I interrupt with, “Some benches and tables would be nice, too.” This time, she shoots me a withering glare.

It turns out that Misty’s use of the term “bocce ball courts” is purely aspirational. At one time the three courts were probably usable, even attractive. But the wooden frames are rotted, and a thick layer of leaves and dirt covers the playing surface.

“Does anyone use them?” I ask for the sake of something to say, even though it’s obvious that they’re out of commission.

“We used to have a couple of leagues.” Harry shakes his head. “Not anymore.”

Something piques Kennedy’s interest because she hops out of the golf cart and walks to the edge of the courts where there’s a rock wall, and in the distance a home. A large contemporary with solar panels on the roof.

“Does that come with the place?” Kennedy points at the house.

“That belongs to Bent McCourtney,” Misty says.

Harry snorts. “He hates us, and we hate him.”

Next up, we tour the clubhouse. The large stone fireplace is a showstopper, but it goes downhill from there—ratty carpet, broken toilet, dated kitchen, and brown ceiling stains, a telltale sign of a leaky roof.

A small group of women are playing canasta around a folding table. One of them spots Harry and her face turns bright red.

“These are the new owners,” he tells the ladies.

Kennedy tries to argue but I run interference by acknowledging the women with a bright smile and remark on what a terrific place it is.

“Needs work,” says one of the players, who reminds me of my mother’s neighbor’s shar pei. “The old owner never showed his face around here. Never put two nickels into the place. But God forbid if our lot rent was late.” The others nod in agreement.

“All right, ladies. We’re off to the pool.” Misty waves goodbye and we follow her back to Harry’s golf cart.

The ride is less than three minutes away, which makes me wonder why we simply didn’t walk.

The pool is about as bad as the pond, though not nearly as smelly.

The concrete decking is breaking apart and the coping around the spa is missing most of its tiles.

The public restrooms don’t appear to be functional.

At least two of the toilets are stuffed up in the ladies’ room.

And the locker rooms could use a good paint job.

“There used to be a snack bar, but the vendor pulled out a couple of years ago. Not a lot of profit in it for them,” Misty says and points across the walkway to three raggedy tennis courts where four men are playing a game of doubles. “Our tennis courts.”

“It’s a wonderful park.” I actually love it. With a little spit and polish it could be so good.

“It’s affordable,” Misty says. “And just barely.”

We head back to the golf cart through the pool gate.

There’s a man leaning against a tree, pretending he’s not watching us.

If it wasn’t for the fact that he’s a good twenty years younger than all the residents we’ve seen so far, I would think he lived here.

Maybe he’s the maintenance man. For his sake, I hope not because he’s doing a piss-poor job.

“How much do people pay for their spaces?” Kennedy asks.

“It’s about twelve hundred a month, including the homeowner association fees.”

I start to say, “For what?” only to be kicked in the shin by Kennedy. These poor people are paying for broken amenities they can’t even use. It’s a crime. An absolute scam. My guess is that Willy had no idea what disrepair the park was in. He was too busy suffering from cancer.

Kennedy has another take entirely.

“I did the math,” she says as we drive to town.

“There are at least a hundred residences at Cedar Pines, which comes out to a hundred and twenty thousand dollars a year. That doesn’t even cover the repairs that need to be made, let alone any kind of dividends for you and me.

Between tax, insurance, and licensing, there’s nothing left.

It would be better to sell. A place like this, even in its current state, has to be worth a good chunk of change.

We can talk to a real estate agent in Ghost. But it might be better if we hire someone from San Francisco, someone who has expertise in commercial property. ”

“Wait a minute. This is something I’d like to talk about before we start solicitating real estate agents.”

“What’s there to talk about? You saw the place.

Do you want to take on the responsibility of owning a dump like that, of having every resident and her brother hounding you to make repairs, fix the pool, unstuff the toilets?

And that pond? Ugh, it’s absolutely vile.

The property needs half a mill just to make it presentable.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t have that kind of money. ”

“I don’t either but if we filled the vacant spaces, we could bring in a lot more money.”

“Not in its current condition. Who’s going to sign a lease in a decrepit trailer park? There’s a reason the place is half empty. ”

“But if someone else buys it and puts that kind of cash into it, they’ll raise the fees.

Or worse, they’ll turn it into a business park or a Sam’s Club.

” I think about my own situation and how I’m about to be tossed out onto the street because of greedy developers.

“You heard those people, they can barely afford the rent and HOA fees as it is.”

She slides me a long look. “Please tell me you’re not one of those. ”

“One of what?”

“One of those do-gooders who thinks she needs to save the world.”

“Not save the world. But take this gift we were given and pay it forward.”

“A gift?” she huffs. “Maybe for you. I consider it a poor substitute for all the years my mother and I fended for ourselves because Willy the loser was too cheap to pay child support.”

The woman really does have a chip on her shoulder.

As we pull into Ghost, I divert her attention by pointing out highlights of the town while I try to find somewhere to park.

The main commercial strip has been turned into a pedestrian-only street since the last time I was here.

I follow the sign to a public lot and slide into one of the empty spaces.

“Last time I was here there was a pretty good Mexican place. How do you feel about Mexican?”

Kennedy is scrolling through her phone, probably looking at real estate prices in the area, which is too bad because she’s missing the sights.

The town is as old as the Gold Rush with more than a dozen or so charming old brick and stone buildings spread across Main Street.

Café tables and market umbrellas spill out onto the street and there’s a communal firepit that makes the promenade feel cozy.

The stores that line Main Street appear a little more upscale than I remember.

Lots of pretty window displays, all sporting fall themes.

My favorite is the kitchenware shop’s showcase of orange carnival-glass cake plates of every size.

A women’s clothing boutique has Kennedy’s attention.

I follow her in as she peruses one of the racks, mostly looking at price tags and labels, clearly encouraged by what she sees because a wide smile spreads across her face.

“It’s not Rodeo Drive but clearly people with money shop here.” She holds up a pair of two-hundred-dollar jeans.

I roll my eyes, knowing that she’s sizing up the town in an effort to appraise the worth of Cedar Pines.

In the short time I’ve known her, I can see that she’s calculating like that.

Not necessarily a bad thing. Dex is always chastising me for being too passive about money.

He says I should be more financially savvy, which I’m clearly not.

“You want to try them on?”

She shakes her head. “Let’s eat. I’m starved.”

We leave the store and I lead the way to Flacos, a hole-in-the-wall that has delicious burritos.

Or at least that’s how I remember them. Then again, the last time I ate here was a few Halloweens ago.

My friends and I had come for the parade, which is sort of legendary in Northern California.

Probably because . . . well, Ghost and the lore that the town is haunted.

In any event, the burritos may not be as good as I recall.

The place is the same, though. Same oddball folk dolls on the wall. Same Saltillo tile floor and papier-maché pinatas hanging from the ceiling.

“Is this okay?” I ask.

Kennedy shrugs. “Fine with me.”

We both order and wait for our names to be called before grabbing a table by one of the windows. One bite of my carne asada burrito . . . and yeah, it’s as good as I remember. Perhaps even better.

“There’s a Century 21 a few blocks from here.” She shows me the location on her phone. “After this, let’s wander over and see what they have to say about Cedar Pines.”

I don’t want to do that. It’s too soon and feels crass, like our father is barely dead and we’re already dancing on his grave. But it seems easier to go along with her wishes. It’s not like we’re listing the park, we’re just gathering information, I tell myself.

“What’s the big rush?” I take another bite of my burrito, which is starting to fall apart because it’s stuffed so full.

“You saw those people back there. They’re going to put the screws to us to fix the place. It’ll be easier if we just get rid of it.”

“I don’t know, it may be a good investment, something we want to hold onto.”

“Doubtful,” she says with a dismissive wave. “Besides, who has time to run a trailer park?”

I kind of do. I’ve been writing my column for so long that I can knock one out in a few hours, leaving me the rest of the day.

I was even thinking of taking a couple of extension classes at City College to pass the time.

But I don’t volunteer that information, lest she think that my job isn’t as important as hers.

“Well, I don’t think we should rush into anything until we fully know what we have.” It’s something Dex would say and I’m pretty proud of myself for sounding so thoughtful. So firm.

“Of course. No one is saying we should rush into anything.” Kennedy pushes her half-eaten enchilada away, eyes the mess I’ve made of my plate, and grabs her purse off the floor. “Now hurry up so we can head over to that Century 21.”