Sparing the Heart (Pastime Pursuits #3) (2 page)

I chose real estate for the freedom; not the long hours and annoying buyers. I got into the business during a time the housing market hit an all-time low, but it’s improving, even if at a snail’s pace. My lackluster sales are on the incline, and I’m out to prove I can sell the shit out of a house. Lately, though, either my houses are a challenge, or finding the right buyer is impossible.

I sit down at my desk and open my calendar — always the first thing I do. My boss, Linda, is requesting a meeting. Great. I wonder what this is about. I hope not another sit down regarding my lack of listings. I’m working on it, but I can’t force someone to sell their home.

She wants to meet in ten minutes, which isn’t even enough time for me to drink my tea. Whether she minds or not, I’m bringing it in the office with me because my body demands caffeine this morning.

My favorite is peppermint. Mint’s always been my preferred choice, even as a kid. Now the blend of spearmint and peppermint not only satisfy my taste buds but soothe my stomach on bad days. I’m having less of those now, but I’m not confident they will ever truly disappear.

Peppermint will come later since I’m in need of a pick me up. I opt for the black tea. Once the microwave beeps, I grab the mug, along with a notebook and pen, and head into Linda’s office.

She’s sitting at her desk typing on her laptop so fast I’m afraid her fingers will burn through the keyboard. She finishes her thought and motions for me to come in. “I’m telling you, Kate, my children will regret the day Apple let me respond to text messages via my computer. I don’t go for this abbreviation crap kids use these days. You want to borrow my car to take a day trip around the state? Your license has barely been in your wallet for two weeks! Yeah. I don’t think so.” She shakes her head and sighs. “Children. Be forewarned, Kate, they’re work.”

Linda is a mom of three girls, all teenagers, one most recently getting behind the wheel. I don’t doubt it’s nerve-racking, but if you ask me, she keeps a pretty tight leash on them. I remember being a teenager. My parents believed in letting me make my own mistakes. I explored many things during my teen years and I turned out fine. I realize we live in a different world today, but let kids be kids.
 

“You requested a meeting?” I halt any chance at an evening recap. Sometimes if I don’t stop her, I end up hearing about her entire night.

“Yes, please, sit down.”

I set my mug down on her desk and scoot the chair in slightly. “I hope you don’t mind. This is my first cup of tea this morning.” On a normal day my tally is up to two or three by now.

“No problem. I’m on my second pot of coffee already.”

I’m sure two pots is an exaggeration. If I had that much caffeine in my body by nine-thirty in the morning, I’d be doing jumping jacks in my office.
 

“Last night a few inquiries came off the website. I thought maybe you’d like to give the people a call back?”

I take the printed sheets from her and estimate the amount of trees she killed in the meantime. Despite explaining to her multiple times I can access this information on my phone or tablet, she balks at me and starts to lecture me about how unreliable computers are. I give up.

“Why are you giving these to me?” My boss can sell anything. She can talk you into buying something you own. I witnessed her do it. She convinced a co-worker to pay her ten dollars for a sub sandwich he already paid for! I can’t believe she would hand over a client.

“Honestly, Kate, my list of cold calls keeps piling up and my youngest is starting high school this year and is having a difficult time.”

I’m sure she’s waiting for me to inquire more about her daughter, but experience warns me that will lead into a half hour conversation.

“My workload is full right now and I know you could use more.”

Is my failure
that
obvious? I scan through the emails in haste. One is a listing for sale. I’ll make that my priority. “Sounds good. I’ll finish up my tea and get started.”

I thank her and race back to my desk before I leave the opportunity open for more discussion about her teenagers. I can’t handle that this early in the morning.

I take another sip as I read through the form sent from the website last night. A woman by the name of Janice Foley wants to sell her 1985 home and needs someone to contact her right away. I check the address and houses in the area have been selling for close to $300,000. This may be a great sale for me. I pick up the phone and wait impatiently through three rings before someone finally answers.

“Can I help you?”

I’m taken aback by the abrupt greeting. “Yes, Ms. Foley? My name is Kate Hayes from Double West Realty. You sent a request regarding your property.”

“Took you long enough to answer my inquiry.” She sucks in and blows out air, undoubtedly from a cigarette. “How quick can you be at the place?”

“Oh. I want to ask you a couple questions first.” I reach for my pen and notepad and splash tea all over my laptop. Damnit!

“Don’t bother. Meet me at the house now. I want this place on the market as soon as possible. Do you need directions?”

“I-“

“Of course you don’t. Just put the address in your GPS and you’ll be here in no time. See you in twenty.”

The phone is still on my ear when she disconnects. What just happened? She didn’t give me a chance to ask any of my pre-listing questions.
 
I keep a list I like to ask before I even go visit a property. My mouth hangs open as I place my cell down. “Okay, then.” I shrug and rub my neck. She is going to be an interesting client.
 

••••••••••

The neighborhood reminds me of
The Wonder Years.
The street is wide and lined with trees. A few kids ride their bikes on the pavement and an elderly man walks his dog. This is the type of location people want, especially those with growing families. Close to the park and only about ten minutes walking distance from the retail district. This may be an awesome opportunity and a potentially easy sale.
 

“Your destination is on your left in 500 feet,” the GPS voice says to me.
 

“Thank you.” Yes, I do talk to my GPS. She’s been the only other passenger in this car since I’ve moved here.

My car jumps over the small cracks throughout the concrete as I park. The raised ranch’s exterior leaves little to be desired with its dirty vinyl siding and garage door sunken in. The screen door is hanging off the hinges and the bay window is cracked. “Spectacular. A fixer-upper.”

This can go either way. I can find an eager buyer to come in at a low price and renovate it for resale or a first home, or it will sit on the market for ages.
Ages.
 

I curse the steps as my heel catches in an uneven space. I grasp the railing, but it’s so wobbly I’m afraid the structure will give way. I already expect any offer to demand the owner fixes that and puts in some credit for the driveway and garage. This is going to be such a difficult sell.
 

I ring the doorbell, but there isn’t an echo on the inside. I press the button again in case the first time wasn’t hard enough, but still nothing. I knock on the door and a woman calls out, “The door’s open!”

The door handle is sticky, and my mind immediately goes
NCIS
. I picture realtors coming to this house and never leaving. I’m the next victim. I signed up for this job, though, so I slowly pull the crooked screen door open being careful it doesn’t fall right off the hinges. The wooden door is much more secure. I open the door and plug my nose upon entry.
 

This smell is like nothing I’ve ever encountered before. I can only guess cat urine and cigarette smoke. Shaggy, brown carpeting graces the living room, covered with dark stains, matching ones on the walls. “Hello?”

A woman with short permed hair and glasses races into the room. “What took you so long?” Her hands meet her hips and her lips are pursed with disappointment.
 

I check my phone. Twenty minutes. Right on time. “Sorry.” Why am I apologizing? The client is always right, though. Well, except when they’re completely wrong!

“Go ahead. Take a look around.”

“Okay.” I know we spoke on the phone, but I expected her to reintroduce herself to me. Maybe she could give me the tour. We met ten seconds ago and she’s already an odd one in my book.
 

She eyes me as I step past her into the kitchen. The cabinet doors are either torn off or hanging by a screw. The dirty linoleum floor is in need of a sweeping. Or sandblasting. Countertops are cluttered with junk. I walk through and glance in all three bedrooms, each boasting a vivid color carpeting. The bathrooms are disgusting and in need of a complete overhaul.

“What do you think?”

I jump and clutch at my chest. This woman scared the hell out of me. My honest impression is this house is run down and needs a gutting. I can’t tell her that, though. “It’s definitely dripping with … character.”
And God only knows what else.
 

“Come on, lady. Kate, right?”

I nod, fearful of what she’s about to say.
 

“It looks like a natural disaster occurred here. My parents lived here and my father continued to after my mother died. He never took care of it. A boy a couple doors down cut the grass and shoveled the driveway for him, but nothing else. He quarantined himself in this house and drunk himself to death. Her death killed him. And now I have this house to deal with.” She twirls a few times pointing at each corner of the room. “I don’t want this. I’ve got a nice place about an hour from here and the last thing I want is
this
as my responsibility.”

“Well, if we keep the price low we should sell pretty fast. Homes around this neighborhood typically boast sales around the three hundred thousand mark. We may be able to draw in offers around one-seventy-five and close in a few short weeks.”

The look on her face is like I just told her I ran over her dog. How can my sales pitch be this horrifying? The place needs work. A major overhaul. No one in their right mind is going to come in here and pay full asking price.

“Absolutely not. The mortgage is paid off. I can afford to wait for an offer. I won’t start any less than $220,000.”

I disguise my laugh as a cough. “Excuse me.” I’m never going to sell this house at that price. “Anything over two is quite risky and will take an extremely long time to move.”

“I don’t care.”

“But —“

“My dad left me nothing but this piece of crap house. I’m getting every penny I can. Not to mention, the higher the offer, the more
you
make.”

This is true, but I need money now, not a year from now. I’m at a loss of how to market this house at the price she’s requesting. “There isn’t a lot of furniture here. Would you be willing to hire a painter and home stager so we can really make this place pop?”

Now her eyes are locked on mine as though a third one is placed in the center of my face. Sellers don’t want to hear these things, but you have to spend money to make money. I can make every effort to bring in a sale for her, but unless she meets me halfway and agrees to spice the place up — or at the very least hire professional cleaners — there’s not much I can do for her.

“I want my dad’s house gone. I’m not putting in any extra cash.
None
.”

This part of my job is so difficult. I want to avoid insulting her, but she must understand my point of view. She’s hiring me to sell a run-down home. In order to make this a success, the house has to appeal to buyers. At least
somewhat.
“Ms. Foley, I realize you want to make as much money as you can, but I don’t think I’ll be able to get the price you want.” Buyers or sellers — they all think they know everything. They’re blinded by dollar signs. I can envision this home a real gem with new cabinets, countertops, and flooring. And paint. Paint fixes almost everything.

She crosses her arms. “Then maybe you’re not the one for this job. Thank you for your time.”

I drop my head as I sigh. Great. Now I have to go back to my boss and tell her I screwed this up. I brush past Janice and think about what she said. ‘My dad left me nothing but this piece of crap house.’ She should be lucky her dad left her anything. How ungrateful. Yet, this sale is crucial. In my time at Double West Realty, I can count my sales on one hand. I need to do this.

I turn and face Janice, who is standing with her hands still on her hips. They must be permanently attached there. “I’m sorry. If you want me to represent you, I will try my damnedest to sell this house for you.”

She eyes me up and down from my red heels to my black skirt to white blouse. “You can’t be much older than me. What are you, maybe thirty-five or thirty-six?”

She waits for a reply, but I’m not telling her my age.

“There comes a time in your life when you have to take what’s rightfully yours. The money this house can make, well that’s
mine
.” She sticks her finger in her chest. “You’re hired, and I’ll give you no more than ninety days. Got it?”

Ninety days to sell a fixer-upper at a premium price? Sure. Why not? “Got it.”

I’m happy to be joining Gretchen for lunch today. After meeting with Janice, I need a friendly face, even if another new one. She texted me last night and suggested we have lunch at a small cafe. Our conversation at the bowling alley was hardly enough time to familiarize ourselves with each other. I’m grateful because I don’t want to show up at the first practice only knowing her name.
 

Tula’s Cafe is quaint and reminds me a little bit of home. While set deep in the heart of Madison, the inside is cozy with touches of country everywhere. The tables are small and round with wooden chairs. They’re weathered, giving them an antique appearance. I love the defined rings and their offbeat patterns in the table tops.
 

I scan the room for Gretchen. The cafe isn’t too busy, but her face isn’t etched into my brain yet. A baby cries, echoing through the room, and Gretchen waves when I look over.