Page 17 of The Hampton Beach Café
“You don't need to pay me,” he said, holding up a hand when she started to protest. “I'm happy to help with the planning, the work, the approvals. All of it. Just take me on as your agent when it comes time to sell. I'll even cut my commission in half.”
A realtor voluntarily sacrificing commission? Frances had certainly never heard of that before.
“No, that's not fair,” she said. “I have to pay you something for your time. Especially if you'll be helping me through the whole process. What's your rate?”
He leaned forward and smiled at her. Her stomach dropped at the flirtation she saw there. What worried her more was that she really didn't mind. No, not happening.
“Fine, I'll do a valuation on what I think we could get at the point of sale. As I won't be doing any of the heavy lifting like painting, sewing, or menu planning––I think twenty percent of the sale price should be rewarding enough. I'd still like to be the agent, but I'd waive my commission entirely.”
Frances knew little about pricing or agreements like this, but it sounded fair.
“That could work. Let's get something drawn up,” she said. “Shall we toast?”
Clarkson leaned forward again and grinned. “Champagne all around?”
His voice was low and flirtatious, but if he thought this was going to become a date, then he had another thing coming.
Specifically, it seemed he had Lucinda coming. Frances had just looked up and noticed walking towards them with an unhappy look on her face.
TEN
“Frances Mary-Ann Louise Crawford…” Lucinda exclaimed as she approached their table, “…you are in so much trouble.”
The blank look on Clarkson’s face was amusing, but the raised eyebrows and accusing stare on Lucinda's was not.
“You know that none of those are my middle names,” Frances said, taking a sip of the ever-increasingly disgusting strawberry gin and tonic.
“And you know that I don't care,” Lucinda said, perching on one of the stools. “It irks me that you don't have enough names to sound adequately severe. What did your mom even yell when you were in trouble as a kid? How did you know if it was real trouble if she didn't full name you?”
Clarkson laughed. “Oh, Frances was never in trouble. She was the golden girl all our lives.”
Frances turned and stared agape, “Hardly! How can Mister Football Captain Prom King proclaim anyone else a golden child?”
“That's a long name,” Lucinda said pointedly. “I'm just Lucinda Paulette Freeman. Is your last name King or is it hyphenated with Prom?”
Frances rolled her eyes. “His name is Clarkson Jones. I don't know his middle name.”
“It's Jonathon, actually,” Clarkson said, offering his hand to Lucinda for a handshake and wincing a little.
“Clarkson Jonathon Jones?” Lucinda said, taking the offered handshake. “Really? Jonathon Jones?”
“Yeah. My granddad on my mom's side was Jonathon,” he explained, signaling for a waiter. “She wanted it to be my first name, but thankfully my dad and my grandma were able to convince the pregnant lady otherwise, or I'd have been JJ my whole life. That's a secret, though, don't tell anyone.”
Flicking the drinks selection open, Lucinda settled back into her charade of telling Frances off.
“Don't you want to know why you're in trouble?”
With a sigh, Frances turned to her friend. “Is it because I told you I was going for a drink with an old friend and didn't invite you to said drinks?”
“Nope, that was rude of you, though. Guess again.”
Frances kind of hated this game, but it was easier to get it over with and just play along.
“Is it...” she struggled to think, “…because I said I’d be gone for a few hours, and it's now nearly six?”
“It's not even that, though that was also rude,” Lucinda said as the waiter arrived. “I'll have a double espresso martini with the caramel sauce.”
Shuddering slightly at the prospect of that drink or having to drink another of the hideous strawberry grin and tonics, she ordered more simply.
