Page 8 of The Hampton Beach Café 6
“Yeah, we don’t have a beach view.”
Lucinda shrugged and took a seat on the bench, leaning back and closing her eyes as she turned her face toward the sun. Ordering their respective favorites, Frances reflected on what Lucinda had just said—we own a coffee shop.
She had been instrumental in every part of getting Café Bruno up and running. And every time Frances had tried to bring up payment for the long hours Lucinda had put in behind the counter and renovating—somehow working it around her already pretty busy coaching schedule—she had shut it down. Lucinda was very proud, but not usually too proud to be a shrewd businesswoman and it made her repeated claims of ‘I have plenty of cash flow,’ ‘I don’t need an hourly wage for helping a friend,’ and ‘shut up and let me help you,’ more frustrating.
Frances joined Lucinda on the bench. Handing over the coffee and letting the silence continue, she had something new to ponder as they watched the families playing by the shore, the waves rolling in and out, and the sea birds swooping for their dinner.
FIVE
Taking advantage of the mid-morning lull to tap away at Café Bruno admin was fast becoming the tactic Frances favored to keep on top of the seemingly never ending paperwork and tracking that needed to be done to keep the business afloat. She allowed herself to sigh a little melodramatically as she checked off the baked goods and their associated ingredients.
Alex had obviously been by in the early hours to set up some of the things he had been providing that he knew Frances couldn't make herself. It was the strangest game of cat and mouse she had participated in. He didn't want to see her, talk to her, or even leave her a note. But he also didn't want to leave her out in the cold when it came to the croissants that people had been obsessing over lately.
“Hey, Frances, check this out,” Lucinda said, holding out her phone for Frances to see as she strode towards her table.
The table of tourists next to her were finishing up, and Frances waited until they had exited the door and left the café empty before looking. The expression on Lucinda's face had told her that it was not a good surprise waiting for her.
Frances leaned forward, grasped the phone, and peered at the screen—what she saw there set her teeth on edge. Several search engine results displayed photographs and short spiels relating to the café. Lucinda tapped on one and Frances felt her heart sink as she saw old pictures of the café, dated in the last few weeks but displayed with a price far lower than even what she had paid at the auction six months ago.
“What is this?” Frances asked, her voice trembling with anger and frustration.
“It looks like Clarkson is trying to get some legitimate offers in at a price you never agreed to,” Lucinda said, her expression mirroring Frances’ anger.
Frances gritted her teeth as she scrolled through the search results listings. She recognized some of the photos as ones she had taken herself—from before she had started the renovation of the café.
As she read the property description, she seethed.
Quaint but somewhat in need of attention, this fixer upperer is a handyman dream. There's nothing stopping you from renovating the place from top to bottom and making something that could even be great! Plumbing need attentions, wiring nees certification, and in the interest of full disclosjure there has been vandalism damage but not enough to ruin the charm.
No wonder the offers she had been shown were so ridiculously low! Each spelling error and odd grammatical choice in the hideously misleading spiel needled at her.
“Fixer upper-er!?” she exclaimed. “He's actually trying to chase people away with this…What's his angle? How does having terrible offers help him?”
Snatching her own phone off the table, she decided to take action and call the customer service line of the website to ask some questions.
“What are you doing?” Lucinda whispered.
“Seeing if they'll help me,” Frances said, pointing to the phone number at the side of the page as she dialed and waited impatiently for someone to answer.
“Hello, thank you for calling Commercial Real Estate National. How may I assist you?” a polite voice on the other end of the line greeted her.
“Hi, yes, I'm calling because I have some questions about a listing on your website for a café in Hampton Beach,” Frances said, trying to keep her voice calm and collected.
“Sure, I'll be happy to help you with that. What's the address of the property?”
Frances rattled off the address, along with some other information the woman asked for, hoping that it would continue to go well.
“And finally, can you please tell me the name of the owner of the property?” the customer service agent asked.
“I am the owner,” Frances replied firmly. “Frances Crawford.”
Silence on the line, she could feel the woman on the phone squirming.
“I'm sorry, ma'am, but our information says something different,” the agent replied. “We cannot provide you with any information about the property unless you are the verified owner.”
“I just told you I am the owner,” Frances said, feeling her anger beginning to rise. “I'm on the deed, the money came out of my account, and I pay all the bills around here.”
“I understand that you're frustrated, ma'am, but we need to confirm that with our records before we can proceed,” the agent said. “You can understand I'm not in a position to break policy?”
