To my surprise, the open house is busy. Neighbors, realtors, land developers, and actual buyers. People whispering excitedly about the spacious kitchen, the garden, the bones.
One sharply dressed man walks straight up to me. “Prime lot,” he says. “I know this property is zoned for multi-family. I’ll give you the asking price, cash, and close in ten days.”
My heart races, but not with joy. I know what Charles wants, and it certainly isn’t this home bulldozed for condos. He wants a family to live here, to love it.
“Please submit your offer,” I say calmly, “But the owner prefers to sell to someone who’ll live here.”
The man smirks. “Come on, sweetheart. I’m sure your client’s … older. You can talk some sense into him.”
A neighbor behind him gasps. I straighten my spine. “My client is sharp, capable, and clear in his wishes. And I don’t sell my morals, even for the asking price.”
The man scoffs, grabs my card, and storms out.
An older gentleman approaches. “You handled that well. I’d have punched him.”
I smile. “Tempting, but I’m trying to stay licensed.”
He chuckles. “My wife and I are looking to downsize. We’ll be in touch.”
I hand him my card, holding back my glee. Potentiallytwo million-dollar listings in one month? Thank you, Bernie, for bringing me to this neighborhood!
A young couple walks in—she’s glowing with a baby bump, maybe five months along. They light up as they walk through each room, their joy contagious. When they reach the backyard, they clutch hands as if they’ve found home.
“This is perfect,” she whispers. “But … a little out of budget.” Then her eyes land on the bouquet. “Oh, look,” she gasps. “Dahlias. That’s our daughter’s name. Or will be here in a few months.”
Goosebumps prick down my arms. “Submit an offer,” I say softly. “You never know what the seller will accept. You’d regret not trying.”
They nod and leave, holding hands tightly. The last few guests trickle out. I begin cleaning, bagging up leftovers, organizing the brochures when?—
“Knock, knock.”
I look up. “Come on in!”
Rick Saunders steps through the door like he owns the place. My stomach turns.
“Well hellooo, Mrs. Hughes.”
“Rick,” I say coolly. I’ve never met the man, but there’s no reason to pretend we don’t know who each other is. “The open house is ending. If you're interested, please have your realtor reach out.”
“I’ve got clients looking to buy this kind of lot. You know the zoning here allows for?—”
“Yes. But I know the owner’s preferences. Any serious offers should go through the proper channels.”
He leans closer. “Maybe there’s a way you and I can … fast-track things. Say, a little finder’s fee for you under the table?”
“No, thank you. My realtor’s fee is more than sufficient.”
“No?” He smiles tightly. “Shame. It would be unfortunate if your husband ran into building issues on his upcoming jobs.”
My blood runs cold. “You threatening me, Rick?”
“Of course not.” He winks. “Just giving you the lay of the land.”
My fingers slide into my coat pocket, subtly tapping record on my phone, just in case. Before I can react, a voice cuts through the tension.
“Hey, baby, I brought you something.”
Sam. I turn, stunned and so, so relieved. He walks toward me, holding a bouquet of wildflowers and a bag of Lindt truffles.
