Page 13 of Bossy Mess

Why didn’t she start with that? We were in trouble.

* * *

We scheduled a meeting with the Dyers at their house. I joined Sloane and did as I said I would, standing right beside her, nodding and supporting her every word.

“Too many salespeople can overwhelm the customers,” she explained to them in so many more words than were necessary, “and complicate and confuse them. They won’t know where to address questions and, on top of that, they’re often not as comfortable asking questions. You both have a connection to the house and that makes potential buyers uneasy about asking the tough questions.”

Marty looked over at me, as if checking to see if what she was saying was legit. I nodded and then looked back over at Sloane. He followed suit.

In looking at Sloane, I couldn’t help but notice the outfit she was wearing. She had a blazer on, which looked good, but what drew my attention was the skirt she had on. It was short. Very short. Not quite so short as to be unprofessional, but just on the edge of risking it, and it showed off her beautiful legs accented by those red heels.

I forced myself to look away, reminding myself that I was her manager and mentor, not some lecherous old man out to take advantage of her.

“They might be afraid to ask about crime in the neighborhood or run some design ideas by me out of fear of how you might react. Part of the reason for the realtor is to provide a semi-neutral source of information for the buyers.

“For those reasons, it’s best if neither of you attend the next open house.”

Now Marty looked over at Rebecca, skeptically.

“What if we do attend anyway?” Marty asked.

“I’m not your boss,” Sloane said. “You could have tried selling the house on your own, but you didn’t. Instead, you hired me to do it. Just like you might hire an auto mechanic or a plumber or…” she paused for dramatic effect “…a lawyer. If you want something done right, you get a professional to do it. Ignoring that expert’s advice is something to do at your own peril. If you insist on being at the open house against my recommendation, I’ll offer you one final suggestion: to find a different realtor.”

It was clear from the look on Marty’s face that he was considering calling her on what he might have assumed was a bluff. It was no bluff.

Sloane and I talked about this on the way over, rehearsing what she was going to say and how she was going to present our position and, ultimately, we opted to play hardball. If they weren’t going to take our advice, then we were wasting our time, even if the house was guaranteed to sell at some point by virtue of the legal requirement of their divorce.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Marty,” Rebecca said, “just listen to the woman. You always have to be smarter than everybody else, which is funny because you’re a dumbass.”

“What about the mold?” he asked.

This was where I stepped in. I didn’t want Sloane to be held accountable if things didn’t work out. “Dynasty will handle the mold,” I said. “We’ll hire a private contractor to remove it all and repaint the walls.”

“How much will it cost?” Rebecca asked.

“A few thousand dollars,” I said. “We’ll take it off the top of the price of the house once it sells. That’s the case regardless of who the realtor is — even if you switch to another real estate company, you’ll owe us the money for the mold removal.”

While Marty was thinking it over, Rebecca responded. “That’s fine,” she said.

“I’ll email you the updated contract this evening,” I told them. “Go over it — there are a few other stipulations in place in the event that the house doesn’t sell, or other damage is discovered, but the basic idea is you let us handle everything from here on out. We’ll sell the house for you and deal with any issues that might arise during that process.”

Marty stepped forward, presumably to argue with me, but Rebecca pushed him back. “Thank you, Mr. Hartford.”

“Don’t thank me,” I said. “It was Ms. Saunders’ idea. I’m just the one who had to approve it.”

“Thank you, Sloane,” Rebecca said. She looked at her ex-husband. When he didn’t follow suit, she cleared her throat and gave him a subtle — albeit strong — kick in the shins.

In response, he let out a meek, “Thank you, Sloane.”

The two of them left and Sloane turned towards me, mouthing “Thank you.” As she did so, she gently placed her hand on top of mine in a gentle way, to reinforce the appreciation. And it sent another jolt of happiness through my chest.

Before I could stop myself, I sent the smallest of smiles her way.

CHAPTER5

***SLOANE***

Was that a smile I thought I saw on his face? It was so quick and subtle that I thought I might have imagined it. Perhaps it was an illusion, but it was an illusion that made me feel good and what could be the harm in that? Sometimes you need to give yourself the little victories, even if you’re not sure they’re real.

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