Page 8 of The Hampton Beach Café 4
“I bought it outright. I prefer not to take loans,” she said, a part of her hoping that Lauren would be intimidated by the statement. “I discovered Vincent misguidedly trying to make coffee in the gallery space he was renting himself—you'll notice that he doesn't make any coffee here.”
They both laughed and glanced over at him, every part the artist as he fussed over the pieces with Lucinda.
“Yes, I did notice that,” Lauren said. “Why are you here, though? You seem…mismatched with this town.”
“I grew up here. I don't think I could ever be mismatched with this place…”
Lauren flapped her hand as she sipped the latte. “You just seem…more LA than HB.”
Did she really give off an LA vibe? Frances paused. What did that even mean?
Alex arrived then with a spiced latte and handed it to her instead of placing it on the table. She took a sip and smiled—it was warm and sweet, but the strong coffee cut through perfectly.
The way Lauren was pushing was actually starting to annoy Frances. What exactly was this woman looking for?
“HB, as you call it, is a vibrant place with a thriving tourist market, venue options, and stunning scenery—what's not to love?”
“True,” Lauren said. “No husband, I'm assuming by how that one in the kitchen looks at you?”
That threw her train of thought entirely.
“What? No! I mean, no, I'm not married, but Alex and I are just friends,” she said quickly. “Old friends, even, we went to high school together.”
She willed her face to remain neutral and not flush as she actively tried to dismiss the memory of their moment in the attic just a few days ago.
“Interesting. Never married or divorced?”
“Divorced,” Frances said flatly. “What about you? Divorced? Kids? How old are you anyway? What school did you go to?”
Lauren laughed, throwing her head back. “Oh, very good. I apologize for the twenty questions. I'm just curious.”
She fished into her purse and withdrew a check, finalizing the signature on the bottom and handing it over. When Frances read the amount, she nearly choked—the finder’s fee was significantly more than the gallery commission she and Vince had agreed upon.
“What is this for?” she asked, trying to remain calm.
“Well, like I said last time—these pieces are criminally under-priced,” Lauren said. “My buyers expect me to bring them the absolute best and nothing but the best so they don't panic when they see an extra couple of zeros—they trust me.”
Should they trust you, though?Frances wondered, staring at the check some more.
“Vince and the Rottweiler seemed to think it was an adequate deal, but if you're unhappy with the finder’s fee, I'm sure we can come to some arrangement?”
It wasn't so much that she was unhappy with it, just flabbergasted. Unlike Lauren Daniels, though, she did actually trust Lucinda—if she had negotiated the price, then she would go with what her friend had worked out.
“And this is for the four?” she asked.
“Yes, all four, though I think there will be several more over the next few months,” Lauren said, finishing her latte. “These clients are my most influential—once they have a few people over and the pieces are seen—well, they'll be flying off the shelves.”
Frances nodded, glancing at Lucinda over Lauren's shoulder. Her friend was watching intently and held up a hand. She made a fist and extended all five fingers four times. Twenty? She looked back at the check—a twenty percent finder's fee would be about right. Lauren Daniels must truly think they were undervaluing Vincent's pieces then…
“Well, it's wonderful doing business with you,” she said, smiling.
Lauren gave her too-wide grin again. “And with you. Take my advice, if you want it, up those prices on the shelves. You don't want to rely solely on my little black book.”
The women stood and bid each other goodbye. As the door closed and the bell tinkled, Lucinda and Vincent came rushing over.
“I hope that was alright. I know you like negotiating yourself, but when she told us the offer, I did play the game a bit and got the total bumped. It just seemed like a good place to land.”
Lucinda's face was contorted with concern—unwarranted concern.
