“Like I said.”
“Good night, Wendell.”
Before she hung up, she could swear she heard him laugh.
NineteenGinny
To Ginny’s surprise, the agency pitch for Candace Lancaster had frayed her nerves. Working at her old firm, she routinely courted big-name contractors and developers in the city. Whether it was a dinner meeting at a swanky downtown wine bar with investors or a precarious mid-construction tour on the top floor of a high-rise in hard hats, Ginny got deals done. Well versed in the back-door politics that dominated the commercial market and used to juggling the competing needs of tight budgets and big dreams, she could recall very few times when she felt rattled. She was a pro. But she was unprepared for the likes of Candace Lancaster.
It wasn’t like she went in unrehearsed. By the time they met, she’d reviewed all the comps in the area and had designed a glossy mockup of a property brochure, along with a marketing plan for Web and print media. The night before her appointment, she’d even done a dry run in her parents’ living room. Her father was out of bed and sounding much more like himself, she was relieved to see. “Your mother kept this listing from me all week!” he boomed as soon as she arrived. “Why the two of you think you need to protect me, I’ll never know. I’m strong as an ox.”
Her mother had rolled her eyes. “You want to know why? Just listen to yourself. Settle down, Irv. You’ll get your ticker worked up.”
“Bah.” He waved his hand and sat down irritably, if gently, on the couch and was fairly well behaved until Ginny finished. “Perfection!” he shouted afterward. “You’re going to nail this listing down, I know it. Our agency will be back on its feet.”
Her mother seemed quite pleased, too, if more reserved. “Irving, don’t put pressure on her. She’s got enough to worry about.”
Ginny had laughed it off. Sure, the competition was stiff. Sotheby’s, in particular, put a lot of money into their marketing and had widespread clientele networks. But what Feldman Agency may have lacked in size and clout, it more than accomplished in local savvy and personal attention. As soon as they settled her father with the remote control and a bowl of cantaloupe and cottage cheese (after a protest for ice cream), she and Nina sat down in the kitchen. As her mother reviewed comps, Ginny took notes of all the big estates Saybrook had been known for and sold off over the years. Nina Feldman was like a vault: she remembered every detail of every listing, and Ginny incorporated it into her presentation. “You’ve got this,” her mother told her as she kissed her goodbye on the way out. “I promise not to call you tomorrow. Let us know how it goes.” She crossed her fingers on both hands, and Ginny felt a pang. What if it didn’t work out? This was about so much more than landing a listing.
The next day, as she drove out of White Pines after the presentation, she was sure of one thing: there was no way Candace Lancaster was going to sign them.
From the beginning, Ginny struggled to get a read on her. All the woman wanted to discuss was money and timeline. “My goal to is develop the property,” she announced the moment Ginny walked in, after giving her a firm once-over. “What I need is a broker to assist in the sales. Do you believe a developer is the way to go, or would you suggest individual building lots sold separately?”
From that moment, it was clear Ginny needed to dive in. She tried to steer the meeting, referring to the comps her mother had shared when Candace asked about listing price. Showing her the marketing plan when Candace inquired about procuring sales. But it all came down to the dollar.
“What is your marketing budget?” Candace asked.
Ginny hedged. In no way could Feldman Agency compete with the money that other firms poured into advertising. “The size of the budget is not as important as how that money is spent,” Ginny declared. She spent the next thirty minutes explaining her ideas. A subdivision would garner the highest income, assuming they could procure a developer soon. Candace remained quiet, interjecting little, showing even less emotion. By the time they exchanged a curt handshake goodbye, Ginny was sure she’d been crossed off the list.
Now, driving home, all she wanted was to kick off her red sling-back heels and have a drink on the deck. She left a message with her parents, relieved when her call went to voicemail. The last thing she wanted to do was rehash the meeting.
No sooner had she pushed open the door to the cottage than her phone rang from inside her purse. She’d left the lakeside windows wide open, and a brisk lake breeze wafted through the house as she hurried to the couch. There was a new bottle of Riesling in the turquoise fridge, and she glanced at the fridge longingly as she slung her bag on the table and searched for her phone. She loved the rattan summer tote, but she really needed to get something smaller; it was an abyss. By the time she retrieved her phone, it had gone to voicemail. But the name on the screen caused her to catch her breath: “WC.”
Ginny poured herself a glass of wine and stepped out onto the deck before she listened to the message. The water was a deep green-blue in the afternoon light, and she was tempted to walkdown the hillside to the rocky beach below and dip her toes in. But there was that message. All these years, and she’d kept Wendell on her contact list. And he’d apparently kept her number.
The sound of Wendell’s voice took her back. She’d always loved its gentle tone. “Hey, Ginny, it’s me. Wendell.” He paused. “It was good to see you the other day.” Another pause. “Look, I’m not sure if you’d be interested in getting together, but I wanted to ask you over. There’s something I’d like to show you.”
Ginny replayed the message three times and refilled her glass once. What was Wendell asking? Ithadbeen good to see him. Better than she wanted to admit, in fact. But was he asking her out? Or was this the call of an old friend? Most curious was what he’d ended the call with: “There’s something I’d like to show you.”
One thing was sure. She’d had a rotten afternoon at White Pines, and she was pretty sure she’d lost the one gig her parents’ agency really could’ve used. She needed a distraction. Fifteen minutes later, she’d changed into shorts and a T-shirt and texted him back. “How’s now?”
When she pulled into his driveway, Wendell was waiting on the front porch of the farmhouse. He stood and came down the steps to meet her. “Thanks for coming by.”
“I was happy to.” Ginny smiled, unsure whether she should hug him; before she knew it, he’d wrapped an arm around her and drew her hesitantly against him. For a moment, her nose was pressed to his neck, and she inhaled: the scent of soap and pine, and something else, was a jolt of recognition. She pulled back quickly. “So what’s the big mystery?”
He glanced over his shoulder at the red barn behind the house. “Would you like something to eat? A beer?”
She could tell it had something to do with that barn, and heseemed pulled to it. “Why don’t you show me whatever it is first, and then I’ll take you up on the beer.”
He grinned. “Sounds good to me. Come on.” It felt strange being back at the Combs’ farmhouse all these years later. And yet nothing had changed. They passed the front porch they’d spent so much time sitting on back then. And his mother’s perennial garden behind the house, by the patio. All of it was surreal, like stepping back in time.
“So the place is all yours now.”
Wendell was walking just slightly ahead of her, and she had to hurry to keep up. He looked back at her. “It is. Dad left it to me, and I wasn’t sure what to do with it at first. It’s a big house for one.”
She glanced back at the house. It was the stuff of a New England bed-and-breakfast brochure. “You’ve kept it up beautifully,” she said. “I think it’s nice you stayed.”
They’d climbed the slope of backyard to the small red barn in the rear. Wendell stopped at the sliding door and turned to face her. “You’re the first person I’m sharing this with,” he said. Then added, “The only person, actually.”
