Chapter 43: The Renovation Push
Ronnie walked the motel perimeter like a general surveying terrain before battle.
Her clipboard had three pages of notes already, and she hadn't even started on the interior assessments. Every few steps she'd pause, tap her pen against the board, and mutter something that sounded distinctly unimpressed.
Johnny stood beside me, watching her progress with the particular anxiety of someone who'd just asked for an honest opinion and was beginning to regret it.
"She's very thorough," he said.
"She's very good at her job."
Ronnie finished her circuit and approached us with the measured stride of someone about to deliver news nobody wanted to hear.
"The facade needs repainting. That's cosmetic but necessary. The roofline has drainage issues—water's been pooling near the east corner, probably for years. Foundation shows no major cracks, but you've got settlement in the northeast section that should be monitored." She flipped a page. "Parking lot needs resurfacing. Current signage is a liability—the electrical's outdated and probably not to code. Front entrance could use new doors, new lighting, and ideally an overhang to protect guests during weather."
"And the cost?" Johnny asked.
Ronnie consulted her notes. "Comprehensive renovation? Properly done? More than this motel makes in a year."
The number landed like a physical blow. Johnny's optimism—carefully cultivated over months of small victories—visibly wavered.
"That can't be right."
"It's a conservative estimate. I'm not padding it." Ronnie tucked the clipboard under her arm. "You're not in a crisis, but you're not in good shape either. The building's been neglected for decades. Catching up costs money."
I'd known this was coming. The motel's condition had always been a problem waiting for attention—the kind of deferred maintenance that accumulated like compound interest until the debt became impossible to ignore.
"What if we don't do comprehensive?" I asked. "What if we prioritize?"
Ronnie's expression shifted slightly—the same analytical attention she'd applied to the council vote, now directed at a different problem.
"Depends what you're trying to accomplish."
"First impressions," Johnny said, recovering from the initial shock. "Make the entry experience compelling. Give people a reason to believe the rest of the property is worth their time."
"That's actually not stupid." Ronnie pulled out her pen and flipped to a fresh page. "Signage first—it's the first thing anyone sees. New sign, properly lit, electrical up to code. That's around three thousand, maybe less if you go simple."
She kept calculating. Front entrance: new doors, better lighting, a modest overhang for weather protection. One showcase room per building section—fully renovated, available for tours or premium pricing—while the others improved gradually. Exterior paint limited to the facade visible from the road.
"Total for a focused Phase 2? Maybe eight to ten thousand, spread over six months."
"That's more reasonable," Johnny said.
"It's less than the vision," I added. "But it's achievable."
Ronnie studied us both—the businessman who'd lost everything and was trying to rebuild, the mayor's son who'd somehow become essential to a motel he didn't own.
"I'll work at cost," she said. "Labor only, no markup."
"That's very generous—"
"It's conditional." Her voice hardened. "Stop treating this place like a charity case. Run it like a real business, not a Rose family guilt project. Make decisions based on what makes money, not what makes you feel better about losing your fortune."
The directness was pure Ronnie. No softening, no diplomacy, just the practical truth that needed saying.
"We've been doing that," Johnny said, a slight edge in his voice.
"You've been doing better. But I've watched enough good intentions turn into wasted money in this town. If I'm going to invest my time, I need to know you're serious." She looked at me. "Both of you."
"We're serious."
"Then prove it. Get me a proper business plan—not the outline you showed Roland, a real plan with realistic projections and contingency funding. Show me you understand that this renovation is an investment, not a makeover."
She handed Johnny the clipboard with her notes and walked toward her truck without waiting for a response.
"She's testing us," I said after she drove away.
"She's always testing people." Johnny looked at the notes—detailed, precise, the work of someone who'd evaluated hundreds of properties and knew exactly what she was looking at. "But she wouldn't have done this assessment if she thought we'd fail."
He was right. Ronnie's gruff respect was visible in the thoroughness of her work. She wouldn't waste time on something she believed was hopeless.
The motel stood in late afternoon light, its flaws more visible now that someone had catalogued them. The peeling paint, the outdated signage, the entrance that had been adequate in 1975 and hadn't improved since.
But underneath the decay was structure. Bones that could support something better, if we got the renovation right.
"I'll work on the business plan tonight," Johnny said. "The realistic version. Ronnie's right—we need to treat this seriously."
"I'll pull together the phased timeline. Match her priorities to our cash flow."
We stood there for another moment, looking at what was and imagining what could be. Then Johnny went inside to start his plan, and I stayed in the parking lot, processing the work ahead.
Every renovation created visibility. Every improvement attracted attention. Somewhere, eventually, someone would notice that Schitt's Creek was changing.
The question was whether we'd be ready when they did.
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