I felt like I’d been run over by a freight train. Though, I suspected, lying on railroad tracks after twenty tons of steel crushed me might feel better. It was daylight, though I was unsure what time it was. Early was my guess.
I was on Laura’s couch, trying to remember a bad dream I had. I considered for a moment, as rolled to my side. My cell was next to me, across the room, Laura’s was on the ground, with a sizable hole in the drywall. Nope, not a dream. I sat up, trying to figure out what time it was, when I realized what had woken me was my cell was ringing. Doesn’t anyone around here sleep?
“Hullo?” I mumbled.
“Tell anyone—and I mean, anyone—about your adventure last night, Princess, and next time you die.” The line went dead.
Through the muddied memory I replayed last night. I had come home, changed clothes, scooped some ice cream, grabbed the video and plopped myself on the couch. No. I did not set the alarm.
“Shit.” I grumbled. The time on the VCR said six thirty. Might as well get up.
I quickly scanned through the house. Nothing seemed out of place, except the open toaster oven (clever Laura, I thought with a silent groan) and the busted wall in the living room. I went into my room and saw my door wide open. It was a no-brainer how my midnight visitors had come in.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid! I had regarded Laura’s preoccupation with security as a bit eccentric. Even after the midnight visitor last week. What the hell was Laura involved in? And, more importantly, why? After living with Laura for a few months, I idly wondered if I missed something. It seemed odd. Somehow two thugs would break in and poke around levelheaded, straight-laced Laura’s home. But then again, my rib cage ached, my head was throbbing and I was just told if I blabbed to (presumably) the police, I would be killed. Surely there was some mistake? Maybe they were looking for a different Laura? A different Laura who somehow put her cell phone in the toaster oven.
For my listing presentation, I had picked out my Alexander McQueen tweed jacket and skirt with a cream silk shell and my Chloe’ black pumps. It was a gift from Midge Wallace—my almost mother-in-law. I liked the suit then and for about three minutes after she gave it to me, I thought maybe she really did like me. My delusion quickly lifted when she instantly announced I finally had something appropriate for the tea benefit she was dragging me to the following week. And, would I please wear this to look presentable when I went out with her?
Midge probably did back flips when Preston moved on. The suit instead of Preston wasn’t a bad trade off either. I even got multiple uses out of the suit—which is more than I could say for Preston .
Shaking off the memories of my dolphin-faced almost mother-in-law, I checked my look in the tiny mirror in my bathroom. I looked fabulous. I felt a fleeting twinge of regret Matt wasn’t home to go over and model. Then again, I wasn’t sure I had the guts to run across the street for such a shallow purpose. However, if I thought of a decent excuse, I might have been tempted.
I swallowed two aspirin, a piece of toast and with the rest of my Jamaica Blue. Now, I looked great and now I felt great.
During my drive down Central, my phone rang three times. Dee called to wish me luck and give me last-minute pointers. Jet called as well with a similar message.
The third was Mr. Daniels. “Hello Tina, how are you?” He asked. Without waiting for an answer he continued, “Tell me, are you sure you had the right house?”
I paused a beat, waiting for the joke. “It was the address you gave me,” I said with a note of hesitancy. “Why?”
“Well, last I saw this house, it was in better condition.”
“Was this a couple of months ago?”
“No, when I bought it in 1993.”
“Just so we are on the same page here,” I was treading delicately, afraid of offending him. “This was the address in the tax records and it was the address you gave me.”
“Yes, but when I bought the place it looked better,” he insisted.
I rolled my eyes, with a full understanding of why Amy sent Mr. Daniels my direction. I wasn’t sure this counted as what I had in mind as a client. Roy
“Perhaps the last tenant is responsible for the lack of fixtures?” I reasoned.
“Maybe,” He seemed to consider this for a moment. “I’ll call you right back.” As soon as his words reached my ears, he was gone again.
Lillian Fields was nothing like I pictured. On the way over, I conjured an image of a sweet grandmotherly type who would welcome me with a plate of cookies and offer to introduce me to every single man related to her. Nothing doing.
Lillian (“Don’t you dare call me Mrs. Fields!” She admonished right after I met her) was sharper at eighty-two than I am today. She dressed in a stylish cotton dress, sandals, nails perfectly manicured, her white hair flawless and her make-up dead on.
I was expecting an oversized denim camp shirt with a gaudy appliqué of a dalmatian or ridiculously large rust-colored poppies and way too much turquoise eye shadow. Instead, I could see her as a former Hollywood starlet, living out her golden years in the company of the whose-who of her time.
My experience touring yesterday (which impressed her to no end that I had taken the time to do my homework) downplayed my expectations about her condo. Keeping in line with the feeble grandmotherly image I imagined, I was anticipating a home with eclectic furniture consisting of mint-green vinyl kitchen chairs making a pumph sound when you arose. I envisioned a monumental dusty kitsch salt and pepper collection proudly displayed on a breakfront.
Lillian wasn’t the type. Her home was decorated in a way that would make Mother salivate and beg for the number of Lillian’s designer. Everything was tasteful and modern, with two-toned neutral paint, Berber carpeting and granite kitchen counters. The place was immaculate—so much so, that I wondered if Lillian was related to Laura.
I had given her with my listing presentation (sans the scripts), going in great detail about the competition and explaining none of the other units could hold a candle to hers. Dee had given me a quick pricing lesson. Price this condo like number three. If it was nicer, add eight thousand. If it was a dump, price it like condo number two.
When I confidently told Lillian what I thought her home was worth, she came back with the question I was dreading, “How long have you been in the business, Dear?”
I considered this on the way over. After all, it was a question I would ask if I was trusting someone with such an important decision. Mulling a decent answer in the car, I decided I would say, under a year and then deflect the after-affects by going into detail about my talents, education (three years of college) and natural sales abilities (al a Price Bargains and Wendy’s kudos last week).
But, that was an hour ago. Now, I looked her in the eye, knowing this listing was mine to lose. “Actually, just three weeks.” I said with a slight smile, the rest of my spiel completely lost.
Lillian sat back, taking this in. I sat paralyzed, waiting for her to thank me for my time. Instead she said, “Well, I guess that means you will have lots of time to devote getting my place sold.” I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
The rest of my time there consisted of drinking coffee and going over the tons of forms Nancy Dee ’s indispensable digital camera and put Metro Realty Pros’ sign in her window, Lillian hit me with the other question I was fearing.
“Tina, I’m just curious. How did you know to call me?”
This one I hadn’t really devised an answer for and I went for the truth again. “A friend,” I started, “He knew I was new to the business and I was looking for clients. He suggested, I um… well,” I looked her in the eyes, feeling my face flush, “He suggested I look in the newspaper in the ob—”
Her laughter cut me off. “What a brilliant idea!” she said, squeezing my hand. I swear I got redder. “I must meet your friend. He sounds like my kind of guy. Walter—my late husband—would have loved that story.”
I left, walking on air, high-tailing it to the library where on a Friday morning I had to wait twenty minutes to get a computer. I only played with the multiple listing service a couple of times, but it was pretty self explanatory. After I finished, I reviewed my handy-work. I had explained to Lillian, once I put her home in the MLS, her house was fair game to any agent who wanted to see it.
I only hoped it sold soon. I was tired of living off my part-time job.
Speaking of which, Price Bargains is where I spent the rest of my day. About half way through my shift, Jet came by. “Hey.” He said, snatching a saltine with tuna salad from my tray.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “You are truly the last person I expected to see here on a Friday night.”
Jet swallowed his tuna salad. “Shelly—as in sea shell, for your information—doesn’t get off work until eight, so I thought I would get some dinner.” He said, grabbing two more crackers. “By the way, how did your meeting go?”
I told him about it with pride. Still pinching myself to make sure the listing was mine. “Score.” He said, approving. I grinned at probably the greatest compliment Jet would give.
I woke up with a start. It was my cell phone. Again. The clock radio said five-sixteen. “Why?” I moaned, as I rubbed my eyes, grabbing my phone. I let out a heavy sigh into the receiver before I groaned, “Hello?”
“Hello Tina, how are you? This is Mr. Daniels.”
I muttered something hopefully cordial.
“I was wondering, do you know anyone who might be able to replace the kitchen on that house?”
Now I was more cognizant, and even more annoyed. I hadn’t slept to a reasonable hour all week and I swear, much more of this I would start going psychotic from lack of REM sleep. And, as much as I wanted a client, I didn’t want one this badly.
“Mr. Daniels,” I said, in an authoritative voice, “You are not my client. You have not faxed me back the listing documents and agency forms I sent to you Tuesday. I cannot represent you until I get these back. As soon as you do, I will be happy to answer your questions, but for now, it is—”
A noise on the other side of the line cut me off. “Hello?” I asked into the receiver.
Another noise, sounding akin to a strangled cat came across the line. I strained to make sure I was still involved in a conversation. No worries though.
“I… I am sorry Tina…” he said in barely a whisper.
I had to strain to hear him. “Mr. Daniels? Sir? Are you ok?”
“I... have had a few problems lately. My wife left me last week. And, yesterday, she had me served. All because,” and I swear he sniffed, “she says I don’t spend enough time with her. I don’t know what else to do. I took her to dinner, but she says she needs more. Tina, you just don’t know how much I love her… Why Tina, why would she do this? I just don’t understand…” As the words came out, he cracked.
I could hear him weeping on the other end. I sat for several moments, dumbfounded, racking my brain for anything, simply anything, Emily Post might touch upon when thrown into a situation where a sobbing-perfect-stranger-who-has-called-at-some-unholy-hour-has-just-dumped-ultra-personal-information-on-your-lap. Nope, she didn’t cover it. I don’t remember anything from all the etiquette classes Mother foisted upon us either. I mean, what does one say?
I went with the old stand-by—acknowledge and let them preserve his dignity. “I am so sorry, Mr. Daniels. This must be so difficult for you. If it would be easier, perhaps we could talk later?”
“No, that’s ok.” He said, with a hiccup.
Damn.
“I.. I… I am sorry, I never meant to tell you about her. It has just been a long week for me.”
“I certainly can understand,” I said.
“About those forms, I can fax them to your office later today. Thank you for being so kind. I really appreciate you listening. Look, I will call you back.” And, he hung up.
My life, I decided was too whacked. So far, my entire Phoenix
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