“Bingo,” I said to myself as I eyed the Craftsman bungalow from my car. This two-story dwelling—its wide front porch supported by stately columns of river rock and wood—would be ideal for Wayne and Sherry Henrick.
It was Broker’s Open, the morning realtors previewed new listings each week, and I’d been driving from house to house—along with the rest of Seattle’s hungry real-estate agents—pretending I had hot buyers ready to scoop up each one.
Trotting in on the heels of three other agents, I climbed the L-shaped staircase. I could smell the scent of cedar and mothballs, and I wondered if older people lived here.
I mentally ran through the Henricks’ list of requirements. Sherry longed for a larger master bedroom and private bath. She found sharing a sink and toilet with their five- and seven-year-old children a nuisance. This place had a glorious master bedroom with a spacious bathroom, plus a small deck off the suite as a bonus. The two other bedrooms featured built-in bookcases and window seats.
I said hello to the listing agent as I surveyed the updated kitchen. Not perfection, I thought, but livable. I descended a flight of carpeted stairs to the daylight basement with its extra room that could be used as an office or sewing room. Standing in a quiet corner, I fished out my cell phone and called Sherry.
“I’m busy,” she said, her voice sounding rigid. “I’m on my way to an important meeting.”
Dad might have been proud of me because I refused to take no for an answer and was waiting out front when she finally arrived, dressed in tennis whites and looking aggravated.
“This is a fabulous house. I know you’ll like it.” I ignored her cool, almost hostile, demeanor. “I don’t know why we didn’t check out this neighborhood before.”
Her mouth angled down as she glanced at her watch. “I have to leave in five minutes.”
Doubt began worming its way into my mind, but I admonished myself to stand firm. “This whole area is being fixed up,” I said. “See how cute the other houses and yards are?”
Her head rotated a few inches, and she sized up what she would view as she came out the front door.
I asked myself what else a top saleswoman would say. “Picture this house with a coat of new paint,” I said. “Maybe taupe or cream.” Sherry was now following me up the driveway, catching my every word.
I slowed my pace to admire the home’s shingled facade. “Don’t you love this old-fashioned front porch? You could put a planter on either side of the entryway and maybe paint the door a contrasting color.”
Over the years of vanishing buyers and fizzled deals, I’d lost so much of my confidence that closing a sale made my heart race like I was running a marathon. When I was a girl, I remembered, a neighbor’s German shepherd would sometimes charge out, snapping at my heels with menacing growls. While the other kids ran away, I would stomp my feet and yell at the dog to go home, and the animal would eventually slink back to its yard. I still wasn’t afraid of mean dogs, nor of spiders, nor snakes. Why people?
You can do this, I told myself. What had my boss said? People are looking for the experience they think they will have living in a house.
I led Sherry to the living room. The owners’ antique furniture—a Victorian sofa and two high-back armchairs sitting before the fireplace on an Oriental carpet—warmed the room.
“Imagine Wayne, you, and the kids hanging your Christmas stockings on that mantel, then waiting for Santa to come down the chimney.”
She stood with her hands on her hips, her head tilted.
“Nice high ceilings too. The Christmas tree could go in that corner.” Her eyes moved to the place I had indicated. “You want to be in your new home before Christmas, don’t you?”
I moved closer, speaking into her ear. “This place has it all, and the prices in this neighborhood haven’t quite caught up with the rest of the city. I must caution you though—” I paused and looked around to see who else was listening, then lowered my voice. “Other realtors have their eyes open for these jewels for their own buyers. This one won’t be on the market for long. If you’re interested, we’ve got to move quickly.”
“May I use your phone?” Sherry held out her hand, and I passed her my cell phone. She punched in a number and scanned the room again as she waited for an answer. “Wayne, honey, I think I’ve found the house we want. Can you get right over here?” Her lips parted for a few seconds. Then, “Yes, I’m sure. Let Marguerite tell you how to get here.”
Within the hour I was writing up an almost full-priced offer for the home.
“This should go through without a hitch,” I said, sounding one hundred times calmer than I really was. “We’re lucky to be the first ones. I’ll call when the offer’s been accepted.”
“Most of us have allowed ourselves to become cemented into a job, a routine, a mode of life that is both unsatisfactory and boring,” the author of Unearthing Your Childhood Dreams stated.
I was reading as I lounged on the couch with a tartan blanket draped over my lap and my morning cup of coffee nearby.
“Often, we blame our willingness to remain in limbo on our bosses, our spouses, our kids, or on not having the money or time to make a transformation.” The author thought people stayed stuck in a monotonous, unfulfilling lifestyle because they were too busy being grownups.
“Oh, really?” If I hadn’t been the adult around here, who would have? Laurie could flirt with whatever frivolous pastime she wanted, but I’d always been burdened with too many obligations.
A cool draft wafted across the room. I wrapped the blanket around the backs
