Page 72 of This Is How It Started
“You showed us three wonderful homes,” Charles says. “They may not be right for us, but they were lovely. You’re a doll, Rachel.”
What a sweet thing to say. If only all my clients were Charles and Richard.
Over the next three days, I show them a few more houses in their price range. With the exception of one, which will probably sell for well over the asking price, they were hovels. Small, dark and definitely not handsome.
“We’ve decided to rent,” Richard says while we’re enjoying our coffee-drinking tradition in the garden. It’s only been a week, but I’ve become attached to these two charming men. “We desperately hope you’re not disappointed and feel like you’ve wasted your time with us.”
“Of course not,” I assure them, though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed. It’s already the beginning of April, and I’ve only had one sale this year. “I want you guys to be happy.” Which is the absolute truth.
“Maybe when the market cools down, we’ll start our search anew.” Charles rubs my shoulder reassuringly.
This is where, if I was a decent agent, I would tell them the market is never going to cool down. It hasn’t in all the years I’ve been selling real estate. It just keeps getting more absurdly expensive. This is where, if I was a decent agent, I would push the Victorian flat in the Richmond because it is the best thing we saw, and with a new kitchen and a little fluffing, it could be a great little place. And at least they would be building equity instead of throwing their money at rent, which by the way isn’t cheap here either.
But I don’t say any of those things, even if every bit of it is the God’s honest truth, because I find it uncomfortable. Pushy. And that’s why I’ll never be Niki Sorento, who would’ve said all those things—and closed the damn deal.
So like the wuss that I am, I say, “Let me make a few calls and see if anyone knows of a rental in the Castro.”
* * * *
Yesterday, I cried as I waved goodbye to Charles and Richard. They flew back to Ashland to pack up their stuff and retrieve Pup Tart before moving everything to their new apartment. I’m going to miss our coffee dates in the backyard. But they’ll be back next month for good and have promised me breakfast in their new place.
Chip came through on helping me find them an apartment in a cozy duplex up in the hills within walking distance to Castro Street if they don’t mind the climb on the way home. It was love at first sight, and they quickly made friends with the neighbor, who also has a dog.
This morning, Brooke and I cleaned out the cottage for the next guests, a mother-daughter pair from Arizona, taking a girls’ weekend to see the sights.
“At some point, we’ll have to hire housekeepers for this,” Brooke says as we’re pressing sheets in the laundry room. I don’t miss the “we” in her statement, so it’s not just me. Clearly, we’re a quasi-team now, which reminds me of Josie’s client.
“I may have a bride who wants to book the house for a small wedding. What do you think?”
Brooke stops what she’s doing and turns to me. “Is the bride a friend of yours or someone you know?”
“She’s a client of Josie’s and is having trouble finding a venue that she likes. She’d like to see the property if you’re into it. I mean, no pressure. I just thought if you were considering a bachelor party, this might be a better bet. And possibly more money. But a wedding might be more—”
“Hell yeah,” Brooke cuts me off. “Have her come see the place.”
I nod, worried that I may be getting her hopes up over nothing. This is a home, not a wedding venue, and there’s no guarantee that Josie’s client won’t decide to go with something with all the proper amenities. You know, the little things, like a staff and a commercial kitchen.
“We should probably work out pricing and what exactly we’ll provide,” I say because those are the first things a bride-to-be asks about.
“Agree,” Brooke says. “Can you do that? I’ve got shifts all this week at the hospital.”
“Umm, okay, I guess. But I have no idea what I’m doing. At least you used to be a caterer.”
“You’re a smart girl. Figure it out. I’ve got to run. Can you make the beds in the cottage? These are ready to go.” She pushes the freshly pressed sheets into my hands.
Making a bed? That I can do. “Sure.”
As she starts to walk out, I call, “Would you be willing to do the food?”
She’s momentarily flummoxed, then says, “For the wedding? For the right price, you bet ya.”
I guess I’m a wedding planner now.
After Brooke leaves, I make the beds in the cottage. I can’t compete with Brooke’s hospital corners, but everything looks crisp and fresh. It wouldn’t hurt to bring in a few floral arrangements for an added touch, which could help get us good reviews on Vrbo and Airbnb. I’ll talk to Brooke about it.
On my way back, I make a detour to the pool house. While Charles and Richard were here, Campbell stuck to the quiet stuff. Drywall, mudding, taping, and painting. Today, he’s finishing the floors. I find him in front of a chop saw.
He stops what he’s doing, flips up his goggles, and smiles at me. “What can I do you for, lassie?” He affects his father’s thick Scottish accent, and it sounds like he’s saying something in Gaelic when it’s just plain old English. It’s what he used to do when we were teenagers, when we were in love.
