“Oh.” I blink.
He smiles at my reaction. “I’ve been hoping for a crack at one of the other places on this street, but sales in Sunset Harbor are few and far between. I could hardly believe my luck when I got the listing email for your place. John got right on it to schedule a showing. He’s my agent and business partner—helps me flip homes and turn them into well-oiled rentals.”
I shake hands with John, the buyer’s agent, who looks like he can’t be much older than I am.
Mr. Wallace looks around, his eyes running over the doors, walls, and floors. “Perfect,” he mutters.
I smile, gratified to know the house is showing well.
“If we knock down this wall,” Mr. Wallace remarks to John, “it would be ideal for what we discussed, don’t you think?”
“Oh, definitely.”
I take in a slow breath through my nose. It’s totally normal for a buyer to talk about what changes they’d make to a house. This isn’t “Grams’s house” to him. It’s a business opportunity, so it’s to be expected that he thinks of it that way. This is why they don’t have sellers at showings. It’s a battle between nostalgia and visions of the future. And guess who loses?
Not the future.
By the time we’ve reached the living room, Mr. Wallace has mentally knocked down what seems like every wall in the place, put up a few more, and completely gutted the kitchen.
“I wanted to mention,” I say when there’s a lull in the conversation, “that we’re also open to including the furnishings you see as part of the contract.”
Mr. Wallace smiles slightly at his agent. “That’s a very kind offer, Miss Sawyer. Thank you for letting us know.”
I nod, but there’s no way they’re interested in keeping any of it. I saw enough of the house next door to get an idea of what they want this place to look like.
We make our way onto the deck. I’m so proud of the way it looks after the work that’s been put into it. Before I can mention that this is my favorite part of the property, John starts talking.
“We’d build a new dock, of course,” he says as Mr. Wallace nods like that’s a given.
I glance at Eugene, clenching my teeth. He grimaces in response, then clears his throat.
“In fact,” he says, “the current dock is owned jointly with the neighboring home. I only point that out so you’re aware you’d need to communicate any changes to them for approval.”
“Well,” I say, wishing he would let me do the talking before he scares them off, “we’re notsureit’s owned jointly. My grandma—the owner of this house—is certain it falls on ourside of the property line. She’s lived here for over fifty years, and she’s got a great memory.”
“Ah.” Mr. Wallace’s eyes run along the fence and to the dock, and he frowns. “Wheredoesthe property line run?”
I laugh nervously. “Great question! I can work on finding that out for sure and send you the answer, but the fence gives a good idea of it.”
“That would be great,” he replies. “Our hope is to really lean into the benefits the canal brings these two properties. We plan to equip them with a couple of boats and jet skis and such, which obviously requires sufficient dock space.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “I’ll get on that and let you know as soon as I’ve got a firm answer.”
“Excellent.”
My phone vibrates, and I glance at it while Eugene and the others discuss property taxes. It’s a work email. Not from my boss, though. It’s from one of my smaller clients.
Just wanted to reach out and let you know what a pleasure it’s been working with you.
I reread it. I mean, it’s sweet. But it’s random. And slightly foreboding? Maybe they’re feeling extra grateful for me after having to work with Donna while she’s covered for me during my vacation? It sounds almost like a goodbye, though. I’ll kill Donna if she ruined things.
“Gemma?”
I bring my head up quickly and find Eugene and Mr. Wallace looking at me, obviously waiting for a response.
I turn off my phone screen. “Sorry. Work email. What was the question?”
We go over utility costs, then head upstairs to see the bedrooms and the attic. There are a few things Mr. Wallace and his agent aren’t wild about, but they seem to have a solution for everything. Usually it entails ripping apart pieces of my childhood.
