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It was Sunday morning. Myra and I were at the Bluebird Street house preparing for the showing. She could tell I was cautious after our last open and gave me a pep talk.
“Everyone is a potential buyer, and we all have to live somewhere. Someone may as well buy your house. You would be doing them a favor.” Her words cheered me.
Shortly after we opened the home, a young couple entered with two young girls. One girl appeared to be about two or three. The other was a baby, wearing a pink bonnet, gripping a binkie, and carried by her father. The three-year old held her mother’s hand as the couple examined the renovated house. The woman took a spec sheet and showed it to the man.
“I think we can even afford this house.” He grinned at the young woman.
He went to the basement while she toured the main level with the toddler. “Honey, there’s new carpeting in the basement,” the man yelled. The woman followed his voice to the lower level and said, “Oh, that will be great for the girls!”
Myra and I looked at one another as we waited in the kitchen. I whispered, “These people seem normal.”
“I told you so,” she replied, smiling, her voice low and hushed.
“At last!” I grinned at Myra while the couple with their young children went through the house, oohing and loving everything from the layout to the color palette. I heard the happy sounds of money going into my bank account, instead of out. In a burst of optimism, I took sales forms from my messenger bag.
“Would you like to put an offer on the home?” I asked the couple when they finished their inspection.
They glanced at each other. The man said, “It’s a strong contender. There are a couple of other houses in the neighborhood we wanted to see. Can we take your card?”
“Sure.” I masked my disappointment. They had been so excited. “I could call later to see how your home shopping went and answer any other questions you might have?”
“No. No, that’s okay,” he said, adding, “We’ll call you.”
“Sure.” I handed him my business card.
“I’ll call you,” the man promised, as he accepted my card.
“We love the house,” the woman said, with a huge smile, lifting her little girl into her arms.
“I’m happy you do. Thank you for stopping by.” I escorted the couple to the door.
“They’ll be back. You’ll see,” Myra said, assuring me.
“I hope so. I’d sure like to give up that market research gig.” Meg and Roxy from the liquor distributor hadn’t called.
I collected the brochures and stuffed them into my bag at the close of the open house. The house locked, Myra and I started for our vehicles. It was then a van caught my attention, driven by a familiar face. We both paused, watching the vehicle pass, mesmerized by the name emblazoned across the side, “Prize Patrol.”
“Myra,” I gasped. “It’s Dave Sayer—and the prize patrol van!”
“The what?” Myra was perplexed. The van slowed.
I had never divulged my obsession for winning a Publisher’s Clearing House Prize. One of the prizes promised $5,000 a week for life. It was my little daydream. To win PCH sweepstakes and never do consumer research again.
“Hey, Dave! Over here!” I gestured at the van, hopping as I waved.
Dave grinned, waved back, and kept driving to some other lucky winner’s house. We watched until the van disappeared from sight. After I calmed down, I told Myra about the sweepstakes and the promise of riches to the recipient of the lucky winning number. You only had to return the entry form with the matching numbers to be set for life.
Myra sniffed and said, “Sounds like a waste of time and a stamp to me.”
“You gotta have dreams, Myra,” I maintained.
“Whatever.” She gave me a sidewise gaze that said I had lost my mind. Myra can be too practical sometimes.
We picked up the open house signs, and dropped them at my car. I followed Myra to her spotless SUV, plucked a few flyers from my bag and handed them to her. She might know a buyer or two. We knew advertising the house in her neighborhood was a long shot. But the house could be an investment property for one of her wealthy neighbors—or a starter home for the offspring of the well-to-do. You never knew.
Back home, I heard the telephone ring as I unlocked the door. I rushed in, leaving the door ajar and dashed to the phone.
“Hello!?”
“I’m calling for Katelyn Baxter,” a youthful sounding man said.
“This is she.”
“Hi, we were at the showing for the house on Bluebird Street. My wife and I would like to make an offer.”
“Excellent.” I managed to keep my voice even, but couldn’t hide a giddy tone as I responded. “I could meet you at the house to do the paperwork.”
“About four thirty or five?” he offered.
“Perfect.”
I had about an hour to get myself together, grab a quick bite, and present myself as a professional agent, and owner. It was a stretch. I’d need to be a quick study going through the forms the couple had to sign.
“You can do this,” I repeated a mantra in front of the mirror, as I freshened my make-up and tamed my hair with spray. I grabbed my bag with the forms, adding a manila envelope and new file folder, all the while doing a happy dance.
Later, while I drove, I said a few prayers in homage to my ad hoc religious upbringing. Another disaster whose scars I bear. You don’t want to know.
I tried Myra on my cell. It went to voicemail, “Hi, Myra. The couple from the open house this morning wants to make a bid. I’m on my way to Bluebird. We’re going to meet between four thirty and five. If you can make it, great. Otherwise, I’ll be talking to you.”
The young couple was already there when I pulled up and parked in front of the house. They had apparently arranged childcare and were viewing the outside.
“We can get a puppy for the girls,” the young woman said, enthused as she gazed into the chain-link, fenced backyard.”
“There’s a storage shed for the lawn mower,” the young man added.
“We can have a garden,” the woman said, a glow lighting up her face.
I was buoyed by the enthusiasm of the pair. They followed me to the door. Smiling, I opened the entry, and glanced over my shoulder at the two. “If your financing goes through, it sounds like you folks have a house.”
The couple exchanged glances.
“Sure,” the woman said. A tiny ping of doubt sounded in my consciousness. I squelched it, and let the couple in.
Inside, the man faced me, clearing his throat, “We aren’t exactly prequalified.”
“Okay. You need to find a lender. Usually, it’s the bank you do business with,” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “We can do that.”
“I gather this is your first home purchase?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“And you have a job?”
“Oh, yeah. For sure.”
I scrutinized the earnest young man and his wife. The gangly man had blemishes around his chin. The woman appeared more mature, but still very young.
“Do you mind if I ask how old you two are?” I asked, wincing.
“I am twenty-one years old.” He drew himself to his full height, which I calculated just over a skinny six feet.
“I’m twenty-two. Mark married an older woman,” his wife giggled.
“Cougar,” he said, laughing.
“We met in high school. We worked at the local deli sandwich shop.”
“Where do you work now?”
“Big Mart!” they said together.
“Okay.” In the back of my mind with a sinking heart, I calculated what a couple with children and working at a discount store—even a major retailer, would have for an income. I struggled to keep an open mind. Being young, didn’t make one irresponsible.
“Where do you live now?”
“We live with Mark’s parents,” the young woman responded.
“Oh,” I brightened, thinking mom and dad could help them out.
“Yeah, they want us out because they’re splitting up, and want to sell the house, so his dad can get his own digs.”
What ever happened to happily ever after, and in sickness in health, I thought, sorting the forms, and marking the spaces for the pair to sign. Yikes, this is getting messy.
“But his mom is going to live with us. She wants to take care of the kids while we both work. Daycare is so expensive,” she said, flipping back a stray lock of brown hair.
“It’s always better to have family raise your children,” I murmured, then mentally crossed my fingers, thinking about my chaotic childhood.
“I’m sure everything will work out for the best,” I added, with a smile. I didn’t believe it for a minute. “I think that will do, for now. You’ll need to talk to a lender to find out if your income will qualify for a loan. Until then, I’ll need earnest money to hold the house until you have a lender.”
“How much?” the young man asked, uneasy.
“A thousand should do it,” I said crisply. “When the loan goes through, the deposit is applied to the down payment and closing costs.”
“I didn’t bring my checkbook,” he said, his thin face paling. “I didn’t think you’d need money today.”
“Earnest money means you are serious about the house.” Sighing, I said, “Let’s do this. I’ll give you a copy of the paperwork today. Talk it over with your parents and any lender to see if your budget works with the home purchase. If it does, I’ll need funds to keep the house off the market until closing. You can call and let me know. We can sign the documents and get your check at that time.” It’s always best to end on a high note.
“Uh, okay,” he said, grinning.
“Until there’s money down, the house stays on the market.”
“Oh, the house is perfect!” the young wife said, grabbing the young man’s hand.
“I’ll wait for your call,” I said, and shut the file folder.
“Can we see the house again?” the woman asked, her eyes on the man’s face.
“Sure.”
While the couple, holding hands, did one last walk-through of the home, I surveyed the kitchen. Well, this is good practice. And, you never know, I shrugged, maybe the kids will come through. And, they hadn’t mentioned karma. I listened as the pair strolled through the rooms, their young voices high-pitched, excited about buying their first home.
My cell phone rang. It was Myra. “You got an offer—great!”
“Sort of—they’re touring the house again. I gave them the paperwork, but they didn’t put money down,” I explained, my voice low, the couple approaching the kitchen where I waited.
“Uh, I don’t like that,” Myra said.
“Yeah.” I sighed. “Me, neither. Oops got to go, I think they’re ready to leave. Talk to you later.”
The couple returned to the kitchen, their faces glowing with anticipation. The young man’s arm circled the woman’s shoulders. Her arm was wrapped around his waist as she rested her head against his shoulder. They gave each other a hug and a soulful glance before releasing their grasp on each other. The young man straightened and extended his hand. “We’ll be in touch.”
“I look forward to hearing from you,” I replied, and shook his hand. I viewed the pair as they strolled out the front door, each deep in thought.
“Kids, they’re just kids,” I mused.
Summer was fading. Eddy was still in my spare bedroom. It was crunch time, and I needed a qualified buyer.