Page 15 of The Hampton Beach Café
He laughed attractively, a deep belly laugh with a wide smile that squeezed his eyes closed despite the touches of Botox around the crow’s feet and forehead. Frances noted that it was done well, and there was nothing wrong with a little touch-up here and there––it was certainly better done than some of the work she had seen in LA.
“It’s Clarkson!” he said finally. “I spent senior year trying to get you to be prom queen.”
It all came flooding back, but she did not feel bad about not recognizing him. He had changed…considerably. He was the all-American boy in high school––football captain, basketball defense star, and occasional track winner. The prom queen stuff still made her squirm. He knew he’d be voted prom king and decided early on that he wanted to take her to the prom, but she had not been interested. Frances couldn’t remember who he ended up taking. Instead, she hadn’t gone in the end.
“Oh, my word Prom King Clarkson!” she exclaimed. “What are you still doing in Hampton Beach? I thought you were destined for Washington, to be sure.”
He drew her into a hug which she had to admit she didn’t mind. It was clear he hadn’t stopped working out even if he didn’t play football anymore. The hard muscles she could feel as she hugged him back explained why that suit needed to be tailored to the extent it was––no way off the rack could account for shoulders that wide.
“I thought about it, but honestly, it all seemed like a lot of work just to be hated by at least half the country. I’m in property now.”
Frances felt herself wince. “Ah…so you’re probably holding back a lot of opinions about my little decision there…”
Clarkson smiled and shook his head. “Speaking of that decision, you have some forms to fill out.”
The auctioneer and a huddle of suited assistants were approaching, and Frances was thrown back into the reality of the fact that she had won. She’d bought a property. Without an inspection, a building report, or speaking to her broker…without caring about her risk profile or investment plan.
If she had a client that made a similar purchase, she’d be having some kind of well-controlled professional meltdown…but at this moment, she was just happy.
The paperwork was distressingly quick for such a major decision, and Frances was able to fill most of it out from memory. The money would clear from her brokerage account in two days and immediately be transferred to the agent holding account for the final exchange.
It should not be this easy,she thought.
Later as they walked down the street, she verbalized this to Clarkson.
“Well, normally it isn’t, but this was a liquidation auction,” he explained. “That changes things. They really just want to get it gone. It’s why it was so cheap.”
Cheap?Frances thought in disbelief, though objectively, it was. A business, living quarters, and land big enough for a garden, tool shed, and garage wouldn’t have gone for less than a million. Land like that in LA? Probably more like six million, even if the inside needed gutting.
“I guess those guys were looking to pay land value only?” she said, noticing that Clarkson was steering them towards the waterfront.
“Probably…most likely didn’t want the building for the long term,” he said. “And value was around eighty less than what you settled at. They drove it up. Spite, I think. I can’t imagine their developer would have been happy if he knew they’d kept bidding after land value.”
“Or she,” Frances said, smiling.
“True, very true!” Clarkson said. “And to apologize for my old-fashioned chauvinism, I insist that you let me buy you a drink.”
Frances laughed properly at that. She had always gotten on alright with Clarkson, but his particular way of always pushing the envelope had been one of the reasons she was never interested in him in high school.
“I think if you really wanted to apologize for your chauvinism, you'd let me buy you a drink,” she retorted.
“Hmm...I wonder if I could ever show my face in the bar again,” he said, placing his thumb and forefinger on the designer stubble he wore on his chin.
With a wink, he nodded towards the seafront, and they set off in the direction he indicated. Frances pulled her phone out of her pocket to text Lucinda where she was going. Frances didn't want her to worry.
As they walked in comfortable silence past the almost completely empty beach, Frances mulled over the decision she had just made. Well...less of a decision really, and more of a spur-of-the-moment, spite-driven, foolish idea that she––
She couldn't breathe.
She was having an anxiety attack. She realized as her stomach twisted and her heart beat so hard it almost hurt. She was almost certain Clarkson was saying something, but she couldn't really understand him. Her eyes were watering, so she couldn’t see him properly either.
All that money...the money that would have saved her if she hadn't been so stupid, so impulsive, so risky. Oh lord, no, maybe she could get her money back––
Breathe. She needed to breathe. Instead of squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to open them and look around. Opening and closing her fists helped, too. The little half-moons imprinted on her palms from her neatly trimmed nails showed her exactly how hard she had been holding them closed. A deep and slow breath was the next step, and she felt her body shake as she reached the fourth count.
A firm hand held her shoulder as she grounded herself. Oh no, Clarkson. She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again. What was she supposed to do?
“What was that? Are you having a heart attack?”
