Page 2 of Safer Alone
Most people don’t realize it, but I am actually a New Yorker myself. Yes indeed, I was born and raised in Manhattan. I’ve been able to pick up the subtle twang most Nashville locals have, so it didn’t surprise me that it wasn’t picked up today. Not that she seemed interested in anything I had to say, anyway.
It didn’t seem to be an overly promising showing. I heard my attendee chatting away to herself several times throughout the viewing. I just presumed that she was talking to herself. Let me just point out that this isn’t the first time someone has walked through one of my open houses talking out loud to themselves. However, Miss New Jersey here was different. When she finally came back over to me after walking the entire property, she began to rattle off her long list of items that would need to be changed.
The ones that stood out to me were:
1. A walk-in closet would need to be installed
2. The color scheme throughout the house needed rectifying; fair point, since there were a total of six different colors used to paint this house
3. Each wallpaper was different
4. The kitchen wasn’t modern enough. I mean, heaven forbid, the home didn’t come with a dishwasher. Honestly, though, this statement made complete sense to me the moment she asked about it. A lady like this one has probably never washed dishes by hand in her life
I wanted to ask her just what, exactly, she expected from an older home? This home is more than likely the same vintage as her great-great-grandparents, for god’s sake. The Belle Meade Homestead was constructed in 1834, not just a couple of years ago, which, clearly, she preferred. She appeared to be one of those women who liked the finer things in life: designer clothes, fancy cars and new homes with no need of any restoration work.
This home needs someone who can appreciate it. It has character in spades. Yes, it will require some work, both restorative and renovative, but let me put it to you this way. It’s one of a kind and they certainly don’t make them like this anymore.
Instead of saying any of those things, I kept my professional manner and answered all of her questions, advising her that homes that were crafted by hand during this time period didn’t have built-in closets, let alone walk-in closets; that, if you were so inclined, you could easily sand the timber cabinets back in both the kitchen and the bathroom, then choose to lacquer them in a new timber stain. Or, if you wanted to modernize, you could even paint them in a different color, therefore changing the look of the cabinets completely.
That is, if you wanted to save money by not paying to have completely new cabinets installed, which could also be done quite easily. Another option could be to consider changing the countertop to another material. I suggested the possibility of butcher’s block or even a stone component, like quartz, granite, or marble. Those options vary in price, and by choosing to use what is already there, just refinishing with the purchase of a couple of key items like a new countertop, new hardware, new appliances, the kitchen will look completely different, with the added bonus of not being as expensive as a complete renovation.
She thanked me for my suggestions and seemed to agree, even if it was half-hearted at best. Then she wandered away, the clicking of her high heels on the timber floors echoing through the house. I noted that as she was walking away, her fingers were madly tapping away on the iPad she had in hand, occasionally lifting it to take a photograph. No doubt one of the many items on her list.
It wasn’t too hard to tell that she wasn’t sold on the house; I mean anyone could tell that she was picking it to pieces, I have seen this tactic used before, finding all of the items that need money spent on them in order to drive down the price of the home. Or else she enjoyed making a real estate agent’s life hell.
To be completely honest, I was too tired to be pushing the sale of this house as hard as I normally would, having tossed and turned most of the night. And then, after that nightmare, I just felt drained. When would they stop? The nightmares were always similar in nature, and they tended to occur every couple of nights lately. This one ended the same as the others; but it had happened in a new location.
Thinking about Dylan nowadays made my skin crawl all over. It’s amazing how different it is for me now, especially when I know that there was a time that it used to have the opposite effect on me; it used to make me smile. I could feel my body give an involuntary shudder confirming that those feelings were well and truly gone and they weren’t coming back. I promised myself that I would never allow them to appear again when thinking about him, not even the good times we shared.
It’s not the first time that I have awakened feeling this way after one of these dreams; then again, it wasn’t as though it was just a nightmare either. It’s more of a memory, a memory of the last time I was with my ex-boyfriend. His name is Dylan Roberts, and yes, you heard correctly, he was my boyfriend for a couple of years and my fiancé for three months; someone who I loved with all of my heart who decided that it was okay to get physically abusive with me.
These dreams come back to remind me of the life I had once endured, back when I was living in New York City—my life before I ran away and relocated to start over, to try and give myself a fresh start. And in search of that new life, I ended up right here in the country music capital of America, Nashville, Tennessee.
“I have another question for you. I was wondering about the gardens. Will they be attended to before a new owner takes possession of the property?”
I am thankful for this interruption, it snaps me out of my memories and right back into the here and now. It’s go time, Angela. Here is your way in.
“Of course. The sellers moved away a short time ago and I have complete authority to have both the gardens and lawns tidied up prior to closing.”
She nods at me before picking up her cell phone that must have been vibrating on silent since I didn’t hear it ring aloud. Holding up a finger to me, she answers the phone.
“Yes, I’m here at the moment.” A pause. “Yes, I’m here with the agent.” Another pause. “I’ll ask her now for you, shall I?”
She pulls the phone away from her ear, placing her other hand over the speaker. “Are you available to show the property again tomorrow afternoon? At, say, 2:30 pm? I am representing an interested party here today, and they will be in town tomorrow. It is the only time they have available to view the property.”
I blink twice and then twice again, I’m totally confused right now. I thought she was looking at the property for herself, the way she was talking. It was as though it didn’t suit her needs. It’s good news though. It apparently doesn’t need to suit her. Maybe all isn’t lost. Maybe this mysterious other party has vision, and can see past all the work required. Maybe, just maybe. I might get this property sold.
I don’t usually work Sundays. It is the one day per week that I can stay home and relax. Looks like that won’t be happening tomorrow. I need to sell this house, badly, and I’m not about to turn down the possibility of selling this property. I produce the warmest smile I can and fish out one of my business cards from the black leather folder I am holding close to my chest.
“Of course. 2:30 pm tomorrow will be fine. Here is my card. Please have your client email me their contact information. It is a requirement for all after-hour meetings. Safety reasons.”
She takes my business card between her thumb and forefinger, which I notice are perfectly manicured and blood red in color. I also see a large engagement ring sitting pretty on her finger, lucky woman. I then look down at my own hands and decided that I really should apply some nail polish to my own fingernails occasionally.
Raising my head, I notice out of the corner of my eye that she has once again put the phone back to her ear and is speaking with her interested party.
I hear several snippets of the conversation. “Miss White has agreed to meet you tomorrow. I’m sending you her information now…You’re welcome.” Once she ends the phone call I watch her take a photograph of my business card with the camera on her phone. I presume she is either emailing or messaging it to her client. Once she completes her task she walks back to stand in front of me and offers her hand. I place my own in hers and she gives a quick feather-light handshake, informing me that a Mr. Sands will email me his details this afternoon sometime, in preparation for tomorrow’s property viewing.
I thank her for her attendance and wish her an enjoyable weekend. At the finalization of our meeting I accompany her as she walks out of the house, and watch her get into a white rental car that has been parked in the driveway for the duration of the viewing. Once she disappears from view, I re-enter the home.
