The real estate business in Middletown, as in most of the country, had been miserable for months. Rebecca Schwartz’s thoughts were glum as she sat in her office and stared out at the street. The windows were filled with taped pictures of houses for sale. A number of the pictures had the word sold slashed across the front, but some of them were of houses that had been sold five years ago.
Rebecca was a master at describing available housing. The smallest, dingiest Cape Cod was depicted in the flyers she tacked up around town, as “cozy, intimate, and utterly charming.”
Once she got prospective buyers to take a look at that kind of house, she painted a verbal picture of how special it would be when a talented homemaker brought out its latent beauty.
But even with her spectacular ability to bring out the hidden virtues of a house that needed a lot of work, Rebecca was experiencing tough sledding. Now, as she anticipated another fruitless day, she reminded herself that she was a lot better off than most of the people in this country. Unlike other fifty-nine-year-olds who were having a lean time, she could afford to keep going until the economy improved. An only child, her parents deceased, she had inherited from them the split level that had been her home all her life and the income from the two rental properties they owned on Main Street.
It isn’t just about the money, she thought. I like to sell houses. I like to see people’s excitement the day they move in. Even if the house needs a lot of work, it’s a new chapter in their lives. I always bring over a present for the new owners on moving day. A bottle of wine, and cheese and crackers, unless I know they’re teetotalers. In that case I bring a box of Lipton tea bags and a crumb cake.
Her part-time secretary, Janie, wasn’t due in until twelve. The other agent, Millie Wright, who worked with her on a commission-only basis, had had to give up and take a job in the A&P. As soon as the market picked up, she had promised Rebecca that she’d be back.
So lost was Rebecca in her thoughts that she jumped when the phone rang. “Schwartz Real Estate, Rebecca speaking,” she said, keeping her fingers crossed that this was a potential buyer, not just someone else wanting to sell their house.
“Rebecca, this is Bill Reese.”
Bill Reese, Rebecca thought, and then felt a surge of hope. Bill Reese had come back twice last year to look at the Owens farm, then decided against buying it.
“Bill, it’s good to hear from you,” she said.
“Did that Owens place ever sell?” Reese asked.
“No, not yet.” Rebecca switched immediately into real estate jargon. “We have several people very interested in it, and one of them seems to be ready to make an offer.”
Reese laughed. “Come on, Rebecca. You don’t have to try to snow me. On your honor as a girl scout, how many potential buyers are ready to be reined in at this minute?”
Rebecca pictured Bill Reese as she laughed with him. He was a smart, pleasant, heavyset guy in his late thirties with a couple of young kids. An accountant, he lived and worked in Manhattan, but he had been raised on a farm and last year had told her that he missed that kind of life. “I like to grow things,” he’d said. “And I’d like my kids on weekends to be able to have the fun of being around horses, the way I did.”
“There aren’t any offers on Sy’s farm,” she admitted, “but I’m telling you this right now, and this isn’t the usual sales pitch: that is a beautiful piece of property, and when you get rid of all those heavy shades and tired furniture and do some painting and update the kitchen, you’ll have a lovely, roomy house that you’ll be proud to own. This bad market isn’t going to last forever, and somebody is going to come along sooner or later and realize that twenty acres of prime property with a basically sound house is a good investment.”
“Rebecca, I tend to agree with you. And Theresa and the kids fell in love with it. Do you think Sy will budge on the price?”
“Do you think an alligator will start singing love songs?”
“All right. I get you,” Bill Reese laughed. “Look, we’ll take a ride up on Sunday and if it’s what we all think we remember, we’ll go into contract.”
“We have a tenant there now,” Rebecca said, “it’s a year’s lease and she paid it all in advance, but that doesn’t matter. In the contract, it clearly says that with one day’s notice, we can show the place to a potential buyer, and if the place is sold, the tenant has to be out within thirty days. Of course, her money will be refunded on a per diem basis. But it won’t be a problem. Even though this woman has a year’s lease, she told me she only planned to stay for three months.”
“That’s fine,” Reese said. “If we decide to buy it, I want to take over by the first of May so I can do some planting. How’s this Sunday around one o’clock in your office?”
“It’s a date,” Rebecca said happily. But when she hung up, some of the exhilaration faded. She did not relish the thought of phoning Gloria Evans to tell her she may have to move. On the other hand, Rebecca reassured herself, the contract was clear and Gloria Evans would have thirty days’ notice to get out. I can show her some other places, Rebecca thought, and I’m sure I can find one that will rent on a month-to-month basis. She said she only needed three months to finish her book. This way I can point out that she’ll be refunded for the whole time she doesn’t use Sy’s place.
Gloria Evans answered on the first ring. Her voice sounded annoyed when she said, “Hello.”
I’ve got good news and bad news, Rebecca thought, as she drew in her breath and began to explain the new development.
“This Sunday? You want people marching through here this Sunday?” Gloria Evans demanded.
Rebecca caught the unmistakable anxiety in her voice. “Ms. Evans, I can show you at least half a dozen very nice houses that are more up-to-date, and you can save a lot of money by going on a month-to-month basis.”
“What time are those people coming on Sunday?” Gloria Evans asked.
“Sometime after one o’clock.”
“I see. When I was willing to pay a year’s lease for only the three months I plan to use this house, you could have pointed out that you might have people trooping in and out of here.”
“Ms. Evans, it was clearly there in the lease you signed.”
“I asked about that. You told me that I didn’t have to worry about anyone coming near it for the three months I planned to be here. You said the market would be dead until at least early June.”
“I honestly thought that. But Sy Owens would not have allowed you to rent the house without that provision in the lease.” Rebecca realized she was talking to herself. Gloria Evans had clicked off. Too bad about her, she thought as she picked up the phone to give Sy the good news that she might have a sale on the house.
His reaction was exactly what she had expected. “You made it clear that I’m not budging five cents off the price, didn’t you, Rebecca?” he asked.
“Of course that’s what I told him,” she replied, silently adding, you old skinflint.