“But you have to be registered,” she said anxiously, “and I’d have to go with you and sign things and—”
“Nope.” He shook his head, still chewing as he handed her purse to her. “When Taylor’s mom took Tessa to the grade school, Taylor went to the middle school by herself. She said it’s really easy. You just go to the office and give ’em your social security number and the name of your previous school and some other stuff. Then bring home papers for your mom to sign. No big deal.”
“But I don’t—”
“Hurry, Mom.” He pulled out her wallet for her. “Taylor said lunch is around three bucks, but we can probably get on the free program—if we’re poor enough.” He reached into her wallet to extract three dollars. “Thanks!” He pointed to the window. “There’s the bus. I gotta go. Taylor said she’d tell them to stop for me.” Just like that, he shot out the door and raced down the driveway where a big yellow bus hissed to a stop, swallowed him, and chugged off toward town.
Wendy sank into a kitchen chair. This wasn’t happening! It couldn’t be happening. What was she going to do? She felt sick inside. She’d allowed this to go too far. Way too far. It was like she was getting buried alive in this town. Somehow, she had to dig them out. She refilled her coffee cup and tried to think.
As she stared out the window toward the foggy beach, it slowly came to her. Why not let Jackson go to school for a few days? She could use that time to get the house ready, have the Realtor over ... and then when it was time to put the FORSALEsign in the yard, she would tell him. Okay, it wasn’t a fabulous plan, but it was all she had at the moment. And after procrastinating this long, what difference would a few more days make?
So, instead of sitting around in a pool of pity, Wendy rolled up her sleeves and opened a paint can. It was time to finish up the painting—with no distractions. Well, except for a dog.
But she came to realize, after a couple of days of quietly working, that Oliver was actually fairly low-maintenance. Other than his food and water and an occasional walk, he was pretty easygoing. And to her surprise, he was good company.
“It’s not that I don’t like you,” she told Oliver as she drove to town on Tuesday afternoon. “I really do. It’s just that I don’t know what we’re going to do with you when it’s time to go to Ohio. I’d really like for you to find a good home.” With the cottage in pretty good shape, she had four tasks to accomplish—go to the hardware store for some final tweaking items, get some groceries, find a reliable Realtor, and stop by the vet clinic.
She decided to tackle the hardest chore first, going directly to the veterinarian where she’d earlier posted a “found dog” notice—that had gotten no response. Today she would post a “free dog” poster on the bulletin board. Without access to a printer, she’d relied on her own artistic talents to draw a sketch of Oliver, complete with red bandana. But as she returned to the car, where Oliver was happily waiting for her, she felt like a traitor. In a perfect world, she would gladly keep the dog. But unfortunately, her world was less than perfect.
Her next hardest task was to find a good Realtor. She started with a well-located office, the sort of a place where a visitor might make an inquiry. She went in and spoke to a receptionist, giving her some general information about the cottage. “Sandi Atkins is who you need,” the receptionist said as she wrote down Wendy’s phone number. “She’ll call you as soon as she gets back from the dentist. I happen to know she’s got a cash buyer looking for a property just like that.”
“Really?”
“Yes. If it’s as nice as it sounds, your house could be sold in no time.” The woman smiled. “Sandi should be back here in about an hour.”
“If she can’t call before three, I’d prefer she call tomorrow morning.”
The receptionist made note of that, and then Wendy left for the hardware store. Not only did she find all the items on her list, she also got a couple strands of white Christmas tree lights. So far they’d been simply enjoying the tree in its natural form, but she knew Jackson wanted it lit. Perhaps it would help cheer him up—after she broke the news. Finally she went to the grocery store, where she had to shop carefully since her cash was running low. Still, the hope that there could be a cash buyer out there—that the house could be sold within days—well, it almost made her want to celebrate. Or cry.
Back at the cottage, Wendy opened the front door and, letting Oliver go inside, pretended to be a buyer here to see the house. The living room, with all its walls painted and windows scrubbed, looked fresh and clean. The wood floors, though worn, were gleaming, and the thinned-down furnishings helped the room appear larger. She still didn’t have any window coverings in here, but with the open view of the ocean, she thought perhaps it was better.
She frowned at the bare tree. It would be more appealing if it was decorated, although she had no ornaments or cash to spend on some. She carried her groceries into the kitchen, wondering if there was something she could bake and hang on the tree. But seeing her nearly finished shell-framed mirror project still on the table, it hit her—she had shells! Not only did she have about a hundred beautiful white sand dollars, she had all sorts of other shells too. She would make shell ornaments for the tree.
She put her groceries away, then got out a box of sand dollars and began to play until she came up with a simple design. Before long, she was hot-gluing two clam shells onto a sand dollar, like wings, and using a piece of sea glass for a head—to make what resembled an angel—a little white sea angel. By the time her phone jangled she had made a dozen.
“Hello?” Wendy answered cheerfully.
“Good afternoon. I’m Sandi Atkins,” a pleasant voice said. “I hear you might be interested in listing a beach cottage.”
“Yes—yes, I am.” Wendy described her cottage, painting a pretty picture that she hoped wasn’t an exaggeration.
“It sounds wonderful. And I think I know exactly which cottage you’re referring to. When can I come see it?”
Wendy looked at the kitchen clock that she’d decorated with seashells. “I’m not ready to do this today.” She quickly explained that her son didn’t know how soon she wanted to sell the cottage. “I want to break it to him gently.”
“I understand.”
“And the house isn’t completely ready to be seen, I mean by a buyer. I want to finish staging it and—”
“Oh, these buyers won’t care about staging or even if it’s painted.”
Wendy felt disappointed. “Well, I care, and I’d like to finish what I started. I’ve always heard you get a higher price if the house looks better.”
“That’s generally true. But because there are no other beach cottages like yours on the market, you should get a very fair price.”
“Oh?” Wendy considered this. “So you’re saying this is a sellers’ market?”
“For you it is.”
