While I drove back to my garage-turned-studio apartment after my shift, I thought about it. I could be a real estate agent. Couldn’t I? If Amy could do it and (supposedly) be good at it, how hard could it be? I summed up what I knew: it was a sales job. I had recently discovered I liked sales. What I didn’t know was much more vast. How to do it? How to find people to buy houses? Weren’t there contracts involved?
The more I deliberated, the more intrigued I was. I figured I could keep my free samples job until the real estate thing kicked in. It couldn’t be difficult to sell a house. After all, Amy said interest rates were good. Whatever that meant. But, more importantly, it was money. I could pay my bills. I could pay off Carl’s league of knee breakers.
As I pulled my car into the driveway of Laura’s 1960s ranch house, my phone rang. It was Mother.
“Christina! Please! Tell me you haven’t lost your mind.” For a quick instant, my heart skipped a beat thinking Carl ratted me out. When I didn’t promptly answer, she gasped, “Real estate? Really?” She said it with the same horror she normally reserved for someone wearing jeans and bowling shoes to Sunday brunch at the country club.
I rolled my eyes, unlocking the private door to my apartment. Leave it to Amy to check my alibi. I proceeded tentatively, “Hi Mom. I am just considering it.” I instantly cringed.
“Christina, you know I don’t like ‘Mom’.” She scolded. “Honestly, what where you thinking? First, you run off to Texas ,” (she paused, and I swear she shuddered) “and now you decide to stay in Arizona
I sighed. “It is time for a change, Mother.” Actually, it was time to grow up and be on my own, but I was purposely hoping to bypass the After everything we have done for you, how can you be so ungrateful and leave home? lecture she liked to throw my way.
As I switched off the portable alarm Laura had on my apartment, I wrangled my way out of the rest of her call. I promised to consider this “real estate thing” carefully and adamantly refused to call Amy for lunch some time.
I love my apartment. It is a glorious no-frills 400 square feet belonging, for the moment, to me. Laura had turned her two-car garage into a cozy studio, complete with kitchenette, a small bathroom and closet. She used the same brown cocoa carpet in her home and the walls were painted no-nonsense white. No doubt, she had furnished the space with leftovers from the hotel. It didn’t matter, the bed was comfortable, the dresser did its job and the bistro table and chair set were great for holding my purse and giving me a place to enjoy my morning coffee.
Bracing myself, as I opened the interior of Laura’s home, I was instantly pleased to see Bruce and Buddy ready to greet me with their standard leg hugs. Sure enough, they were waiting for me.
“Hey Big Guy,” I said to one, ruffling his hair. “How’s it going Dude,” to the other. I was having a miserable time telling them apart. I was head over heels about these guys, but for the life of me, I couldn’t tell them apart. I had resorted to interchangeable nick-names, of “Little Man,” “Buckaroo” or “Monkey.”
Laura’s house was significantly different to the sprawling 3,000 square foot Tudor I grew up in. I was fascinated at how small and cozy it was. It was as if somehow she had managed to fit the same amount of furniture into her house that Mother and Dad dy had into theirs—and yet, it didn’t feel cramped. I made my way through Laura’s family room with her boys jumping up and down, excitedly telling me about their day. As usual, Laura’s house was unnaturally clean for someone with two children.
The family room-dining area-galley kitchen was the hub of her home, with the family room doubling as a play area. There were a variety of bins brimming with brightly colored toys, neatly stacked and a worn couch along the far wall from the kitchen facing a small television and DVD player. The walls proudly displayed the twin’s crayon masterpieces.
The dining space united the family room and small kitchen. As usual there was someone sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar. Today’s guest was our neighbor Matt Hayden. Laura was in the kitchen side and they both had what I was looking for. I sat next to Matt.
“Beer?” Laura asked. Not waiting for an answer she passed me a bottle.
“Thanks!” I said, taking a drink.
“Thank Matt.” Laura said. “He brought it over.”
I flashed Matt my best smile, curbing the massive crush I had developed on him in the past week. “You are a peach.”
I briefly met Matt last week. While babysitting, Bruce had happily barreled outside, free from clothes and free from adults. I chased after him. Merrily enjoying the freedom, he ran as far as the sidewalk, wisely realizing his feet would blister if went any farther.
“Brucie what on earth do you think you are doing?” I had said when I finally caught up to him, scooping him into my arms.
Matt, who had been at the mailbox, walked across the street to say hello and told Bruce he had to wait until college before he ran around naked. The boys apparently knew him and (after Bruce was dressed) I let them show Matt the robots they had made out of Legos. Matt acted duly impressed.
Laura had filled me in about Matt. He was an ex-marine, computer consultant who worked from home when he wasn’t traveling the globe doing his consulting thing. When he had gotten the job, his hiring manager told him the company didn’t care where he lived as long as he has Internet access. So, he lived here. He was 30ish, divorced, no kids and he hung around Laura’s.
Matt was tall, athletic, with his chiseled shoulders and a great looking tush. He certainly didn’t fit my computer nerd profile. He looked more like a rouge militant, radiating masculine. I realized the first time I met him, his pale blue eyes missed nothing. His hair was red—not a flaming red, or golden red like Laura’s—but a low-key dusty red, worn short and neat. It worked for him. Not many men could pull off alpha-male-computer geek.
Laura had been quick to tell me there was no chemistry between them. With Laura I believed it. It seems she has sworn off men. “Really. He’s nice and everything. But, more of a best-girlfriend kind of friend.” I couldn’t understand it. I had heard plenty about Charlie, her convicted druggie ex husband, but surely Laura’s standards had improved. Laura was clueless or a lesbian. How could she miss Matt’s great-looking ass?
I was amused looking at them. Two tall redheads. Laura’s a golden red with her sensible green cat-eyes. It struck me as funny that between the three of them, I was the Irish one. Yet I inherited my short stature and long dark hair and brown eyes from Mother’s side of the family.
“How’d you do today?” Laura asked.
I gave them the Reader’s Digest version of my day, telling a bit about Amy without (hopefully) sounding catty and delving too much into my slutty past.
“Actually, she got me thinking.” I started tentatively. “You know, how hard could real estate be? Maybe I should get my license.”
I noticed Matt’s gaze hadn’t changed. He sipped his beer noncommittally. “How do you get clients?”
“I don’t have the foggiest idea.”
“What do you learn in real estate school?” he asked.
I shrugged and he chuckled. Not in a mocking way, more of the way Desi would shake his head at Lucy’s antics. “To Tina’s new career.” He said lifting his beer. We all clinked and it was decided.
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