Page 13 of The Hampton Beach Café
“Little jumpy, isn’t she?” a second male voice said.
“Excuse me?”
She cringed internally––how many times would she say that today?
“Just that amateurs don’t usually do too well at their first big business decision…” the first guy said, “…especially women.”
Anger flared in her stomach, and she opened her mouth to respond when the first man butted in.
“Now, now, that’s not fair,” he said. “I think I could name a woman or two that have made a good business choice!”
She had dealt with this her entire career, though it was usually so boldfaced. She wanted to tell them about her accomplishments, her billionaire clients, her––
Well, she didn’t have a board publicly traded company anymore…due to her not taking contracts as seriously as she should have when she got married.
Her words were gone. Plus, she knew from men like this that the best way to irritate them was to not reply at all. So instead, she rolled her eyes and flicked open her brochure to read page four.
Apparently, the owner had gone into administration and was selling their assets to service their loans, though, after the sale, the property wouldn’t retain any of those debts. Was that a thing that happened? She shook her head, hating that she was as lost as those guys next to her thought she was. About this stuff, anyway.
The auctioneer stepped up to the podium, and people started to quiet down.
At the front of the crowd, the woman with incredible hair and suit started talking, introducing the property and the valuation placed on it. Frances listened as she listed the structural work and the title details. It was all very complicated, but she thought she had it mostly figured out.
The bidding started laughably low. Why weren’t people bidding?
She looked around, confused but trying to hide it from the lackeys beside her.
A low voice beside her whispered, “No one wants to start this low because it might make people think they’re keen.”
Turning, she saw a well-dressed man with a flashy suit tailored to within an inch of his life.
“Oh, that makes sense,” she said. “No one wants to be the first to bid?”
“No. A lot of us think it’s bad luck,” he said with a smile.
He broke off eye contact and glanced at someone who had just raised their paddle. Frances looked as well. The number in hers was different. She realized that this was their answer to paddles. Her bidder number was 1007.What were the chances of that,she wondered. The seventh of October was her mom’s birthday. She smiled and moved to tell the polite guy next to her the coincidence, but his hand snapped into the air. Apparently, being second-bidder wasn’t bad luck.
The men next to her were bidding now and whispering between themselves.
She twisted to try and hear them.
“Yeah, it’s the first in a series, grab this junk heap and flatten it…” he said, “…work on some of the surrounding owners and see how many we can get to give. I know he’s looking to acquire most of this street if possible.”
Cold dread settled around her shoulders, and the familiar feeling of putting a scheme together crept up on her. She usually loved this feeling, but knocking Lockwood’s store down?
“Even though there’s nothing else for sale?” the second asked the one who had made the quip about only knowing one or two women.
Frances looked away to let them think she hadn’t heard anything, anger building in her stomach as she listened to them talk.
“Not now, but when there’s construction day and night? When they get offered a good little chunk of cash for their tiny one-bedroom? They’ll come around. They always do.”
No. She couldn’t let that happen.
The auctioneer was talking at a million miles a minute, but Frances raised her paddle, and the woman changed her sentence.
“New bidder 1007, do we have a counter? Yes, we do! 1005––countered on the phone 1016––“
“Don’t play games, young lady,” the bigger guy said with a sneer. “You might run up your husband's credit card.”
