by Laura Wolfe
My heart stopped beating, and I forgot to breathe. “Okay.” Was she going to tell me about the spray paint? That she’d been the one behind it? Or, something about the rats?
“I’m going to be Top Producer.” The corners of her mouth turned up into a smile. “It’s going to happen this year.”
I exhaled, relieved she had not shared anything more sinister. “I thought you already were Greystone’s Top Producer.”
“Yes, but not just at Greystone. I’m going to be the top-producing realtor in the entire City of Chicago.” Her eyes gleamed with joy as if she had already won the award. “And I want you to help me.”
I slid my cup toward me, not having realized that Jacqueline was within reach of the title. “Of course. Whatever you need.”
“I checked the sales numbers this morning. Michelle Sentry and The Tornado of Real Estate are both way behind me. I only have one real competitor—Natalia Romanov.”
The image of Natalia’s face leering down at me from the CBR billboard flashed through my mind. I wondered how Jacqueline would appear on the billboard. Would she be smiling? Or would she go for the “I’ll kick your ass” expression I’d seen so much of lately?
“What about Natalia’s mob connections?” I asked.
Jacqueline tossed back her chin and laughed, her teeth sparkling white, despite all the coffee.
“It’s probably only a rumor.” Her eyes darted toward the wall, and she cleared her throat. “Anyway, I need you to monitor Natalia’s listings for me. Let me know whenever she takes a new listing or closes a deal. I looked up her sales numbers on the MLS. $65 million so far. I’m not far behind.”
I stopped scribbling my notes and looked up. “$65 million?” I asked. It was only the end of May.
Jacqueline ignored my question and kept talking. “I’m going to need you at my disposal to keep up with everything. Showings, searches, inspections, closings, open houses, networking events. Don’t even think about wasting your time by going on caravan or doing floor time.”
I nodded.
“You’ll be compensated. Twenty percent, as we discussed.”
A lightness floated up from the soles of my feet and spread throughout my body. Good things were happening.
21
The glowing numbers on my clock floated through the blackened room—11:32 p.m. I pulled my sheets over me and squeezed my eyes closed. It had been a twelve-hour workday, and I should have been exhausted, but I was wide awake. It wasn’t the huge commission coming my way, or that I’d tricked Grace into moving out of my place that was keeping me awake. It wasn’t even Emma’s cancer and the stacks of unpaid bills for her treatment, or the thought of my parents losing their house. It was Nate. I missed everything about him: the salty smell of his skin, his warm, solid body pressed next to me in bed, the way a crease formed down the middle of his forehead when he was worried. A hollow ache pulsed through my body. How had he moved onto someone else so quickly? Maybe that other woman was just a fling, a rebound, to make himself feel better. We’d shared so much. He had to be missing me, too.
The morning after the break-up, I’d called him and tried to convince him to change his mind. After that, we hadn’t texted or spoken. There was no grey area. He’d told me not to contact him again. “It’s better that way,” he’d said.
Still, I hadn’t put up enough fight. I realized that now. If anyone was worth fighting for, it was Nate. He wasn’t like other guys. My parents had loved him. We read the same books and laughed at the same jokes. We’d been one of those annoying couples who finished each other sentences and held hands on our way to the grocery store. Maybe he’d see things differently now that a few months had passed, and my career was taking off. I’d put him in a tough spot when I’d lost my job and pressured him to pay my mortgage. I’d asked him to place too much faith in the unknown.
I sat up in bed and raised my phone off the nightstand, scrolling down to his name and typing the message I’d stopped myself from sending so many times before.
I miss you. Real estate business is going great. Can we talk sometime?
My sweaty hands shook. My finger hovered over the send button. I let out a breath as I pressed it, then closed my eyes. There was no backing out this time. The message was delivered.
Minutes passed. The more time went by, the more the bile churned in my stomach. I began to sweat like I might throw up. What had I done? Maybe he was already asleep and didn’t get it. Maybe that other woman was with him, and they were reading my text together and laughing at me. I stumbled out of bed and paced back and forth across my bamboo floor. Twelve minutes after I’d sent the message, I’d given up all hope.
Ding!
It was my phone. My hand shook as I fumbled to pick it up, my eyes scanning over the words. I couldn’t breathe.
Glad real estate is working out for you but there’s nothing more to say. Sorry
My mouth turned dry. Blood surged through my veins. Fuck! How could I have been so stupid? I dropped my phone and doubled over. I was done with Nate. For good. I floundered into the kitchen where I pulled over a chair and climbed up on it, grabbing a bag of Reese’s Pieces from my secret stash in the cupboard above the refrigerator and not bothering to wipe away the tears that rolled down my cheeks.
◆◆◆
Two days later, my “Natalia Romanov” search returned five new results. The first four listings were too small to worry about. According to Jacqueline, anything under $2 million was “too small.” Too small for what, I wasn’t entirely sure. I stood up from my chair when I saw Natalia’s fifth and newest listing. A development site bordering the hospital district, 2.3 acres, all formerly warehouse space, now empty and zoned for development. Asking price: $24 million.
I printed the listing and placed it on Jacqueline’s desk, interrupting her price negotiations with another realtor. Her eyes bulged when she saw the asking price.
“I’ll call you when I hear back from my seller,” she told the other realtor, before clicking off her phone.
“Well, well. What do we have here?” Her voice carried the same tone as an evil queen in a Disney movie. “Natalia thinks she’s going to close a $24 million deal this year.” Jacqueline pulled a commercial contract out of her desk drawer. “Not so fast.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked, even though I could see she was filling out a purchase contract for the address on the listing sheet. She ignored my question and continued writing. “Are you going to buy that property?”
“Don is going to get this property under contract.” She pressed her lips together and smirked. “No one is going to buy this property.”
I crossed my arms and stared at the scene unfolding before me, still confused. “Doesn’t he have to buy it? I mean, if they sign the contract?”
She stopped writing and gave me a hard look. “Do you have any idea how screwed up our legal system is?”
I didn’t respond. A shiver bristled down my spine as I thought of Peter and how he walked the streets as a free man despite being a drug addict who had threatened me with a knife.
Jacqueline sighed and fluttered her eyelids, pained by my stupidity.
“Let me spell it out for you, Mara. I submit this contract from my straw buyer. Natalia’s seller accepts it. We’ll have at least sixty days for due diligence. Then we may need extra time for site reviews and zoning appeals, not to mention environmental reports. We’ll make sure it takes months to get past all the contingencies. No way will we close before the end of the year. Once we’re past the contingency period, we record the contract at City Hall. Nothing else needs to be done. We’ve clouded the title. No one else can buy it. I just decreased Natalia’s sales production by $24 million. They can sue for performance, but we can countersue for them to sell us the property. These legal battles take years. Eventually, Don can sell the contract to someone else for a profit. Or, he might have enough money to actually close on it in a few years.”
I nodded, the pieces of the puzzle moving
into place. Only the completed picture wasn’t as pretty as I’d envisioned.
“Don will go along with it as long as I cover the out-of-pocket expenses.”
“Isn’t that illegal?” A coldness seeped through me. I didn’t remember reading about this scenario in the ethics section of my real estate course.
She shot me another hard look. “This is real estate, Mara. Not Sunday school. It’s kill or be killed.” She continued filling in the blanks on the contract and then paused. “Do you have a problem with that?” Her eyes transformed into those of a wolf challenging a pack member.
“No. It’s fine.” I shrugged, ignoring the pit in my stomach. “I just didn’t know how it all worked.”
The next afternoon, I lay on my couch as a low-budget commercial droned across my TV. I’m Marco Toranado, The Tornado of Real Estate! I blow the competition away! Call my 1-800 number now for your free property analysis. I snorted at the extreme cheesiness of the guy. Who would list their house with a man dressed up like a tornado? It blew my mind that Marco Toranado would have any clients, much less be one of the top producers in the city. I flipped the channel.
My cell phone buzzed, jolting me upright. My condo had been so much quieter since Grace and Astro moved out, and I found myself dozing off in front of the TV at weird times. I didn’t recognize the number, so I sat up and cleared my throat.
“Mara Butler.”
“Yes. Hi, Mara,” said a fragile voice. “This is Betty Lewis. I don’t know if you remember me, but we spoke a few weeks ago about listing my house in Old Town, and I told you I’d decided on another realtor.”
I tipped my head back. Betty Lewis, the name sounded familiar. She was one of the leads I’d followed up on from Jacqueline’s website. I’d left her a message several weeks earlier, but she hadn’t responded.
“Yes, Betty. How are you?”
“Well, I’m fine. The realtor I was going to use didn’t work out, so I was hoping I could meet with you and get your opinion on the price. Are you available?”
“Me?”
“You are a realtor with Greystone, right?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” A chill traveled through my body. What was I doing? Technically, Betty was Jacqueline’s client. The lead was from Jacqueline’s website. But Betty said she wanted to meet with me, not Jacqueline. And Jacqueline was way too swamped to check inquiries on her website. She’d pawned off that duty to me the minute I’d arrived at Greystone. She would never know how I got the lead. This could be my first real listing.
I pulled at my ponytail. “What’s the address?”
“1907 N. Mohawk. It’s a big house.” Betty breathed heavily. “I’m moving to my condo in Florida. No more Chicago winters.”
“I’m jealous.”
Betty laughed.
I scrolled through my schedule. “Are you available on Tuesday at 1:00?”
“Well, yes. That works just fine.”
I ended the call and pulled out my laptop, typing the address into the MLS. 1907 N. Mohawk was a high-end single-family Victorian on a full city lot in a prime location. It could easily sell for over $2 million. My stomach flipped at the thought of my potential commission. I could make a dent in Emma’s medical bills. My parents wouldn’t have to move. Maybe I could finally trade in my crappy Hyundai for something more impressive—a Lexus or a Mercedes, like Jacqueline. And my name would be on the sign out in front, not Jacqueline’s. I was due for a break like this.
I envisioned Nate jogging by the property on a Saturday morning, seeing the FOR SALE sign on the lawn of a $2 million property with my name on it. He’d stop running—mid-stride—and stare. Then he’d know for sure that he’d been wrong about me. He’d made a mistake by leaving. Not that I cared.
With my shiny new lead, I headed to the office to put together a listing presentation for Betty. If Jacqueline asked how I’d gotten the listing, I’d tell her it was a referral from a family friend. Jacqueline had more business than she could handle. I needed this commission more than her. She’d said it herself—this was real estate, not Sunday school.
22
I hunched over my desk, analyzing the comparable properties for one of Jacqueline’s properties. Kevin marched passed, leaving a trail of his cheap cologne behind him. Two of the Real Housewives sauntered in the other direction, arguing too loudly about where to order the best sushi in Lincoln Park. Jacqueline appeared out of nowhere and slapped down a contract in front of me, causing me to jump.
“I have an offer on Mohawk.”
“Wow. Already?” Betty’s house had only been on the market for two days. Not surprisingly, Jacqueline had been the first agent to bring a buyer through my exclusive new listing.
“It showed well. My buyer has been looking for a house like that for months.”
I flipped to the second page, scanning through the major points. My eyes paused on the amount of the offer—$1,950,000—only $50,000 below asking.
“Thanks. I’ll call the seller and let her know.”
Jacqueline rested her hand on her hip. “It’s a solid offer. Don’t try to haggle too much on the price.”
I ignored her and kept reading the contract, searching for the catch, but the offer was clean.
She pulled her chair over and sat down next to me. “How did you get that listing, anyway?”
My jaw tightened, but I kept my eyes glued to the contract. Something besides blind curiosity tinged at the edge of Jacqueline’s voice. Drops of sweat formed in my armpits. “I already told you. A family friend referred it to me.”
She laughed and stretched her shoulders back. “Nice family friend.”
My stomach folded. Jacqueline couldn’t know I’d stolen the lead, could she? I’d deleted the inquiry from her inbox immediately after Betty’s unexpected phone call. I looked up from the contract, my fingers pinching the edges of the paper. “I think she’ll accept this,” I said, not only because I was desperate to change the subject, but also because it was true.
Jacqueline rolled her eyes at me. “You’re not supposed to tell me that.”
“I know, I just…” My toes tapped against the floor under the desk. “This is exciting.”
“Yes. Call your client and get back to me.” She strode off toward the marketing room.
I immediately called Betty, who accepted the terms. No haggling required. Jacqueline’s client’s offer was more than fair. It would close in thirty days. Jacqueline and I would split the nearly $100,000 commission, minus Greystone’s cut. Like Jacqueline always said, everybody won.
◆◆◆
The morning light speared through Greystone’s front windows. I perched at my desk, scrolling through my calendar. Outside of the limited time I’d spent working on the sale of the Mohawk property, Jacqueline filled my days and nights with her real estate busywork. I now covered the showings at over half of her properties and hosted the weekend open houses she couldn’t attend. She praised me for my instincts and for being a quick learner, but also reminded me to keep my eye on the prize—helping her beat out Natalia Romanov for Top Producer. There were six months left in the year. According to Jacqueline, that was plenty of time to close enough deals to make it happen.
My first ten minutes at the office were taken up by Jacqueline describing how she’d shown one of her multi-million dollar “premier” properties to Natalia and her client last night. Unfortunately, the townhome hadn’t impressed them, and the sting of the rejection was lacquered all over Jacqueline’s face. She slammed a folder closed and huffed. Her sudden plunges into foul moods were becoming more and more common. I closed my calendar and scrolled through emails, deflecting her negative energy.
She rolled back her chair and sidled up to my desk. “Mara, I have a mission for you.”
“I’ve already got a bunch of showings today,” I said, my chest squeezing with my ever-growing to-do list.
“You can do this in between the showings.” She narrowed her eyes and lowered her voice. “Do you remember what Natali
a Romanov looks like?”
“Yeah, of course. Everyone knows what she looks like. Her face is on the billboard…” Jacqueline’s scowl hooked into me. I glanced toward the windows, my voice fading.
Jacqueline held up her hand, her mouth pulling back with irritation. “Do you know what Natalia’s car looks like?”
“No.” I leaned back in my chair. “Why?”
“She drives a silver Jaguar. The license plate says ‘Top Producer,’ except with no vowels.” Jacqueline rolled her eyes, then looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was within earshot. “It’s usually parked in front of her office at Blue Shore Group. I want you to follow her. Today. Tomorrow. All week if you have to.”
“What? Why?”
“I want to know what she’s doing. Find out where her listing appointments are.” Her eyes gleamed as if she’d revealed the door to a secret room.
“Isn’t that a little creepy, though?” I twirled a pen in my hand, a weight forming in my gut.
“She won’t know that you’re following her.”
I lay the pen down. “I know. That’s what makes it creepy.”
Jacqueline sighed and removed a stack of glossy fliers from her desk drawer. “Mara, look. It’s time to get creative.”
The fliers displayed her new tagline: ‘Jacqueline Hendersen—the Realtor Chicago Trusts!’.
She leaned toward me. “After Natalia leaves a property if you think she was giving a listing presentation, place one of these in the door.” She shoved a flier at me, forcing me to take it. “Write down the address and look up the owner’s name. I’ll call them, swoop in, and steal the listing.”
“How am I supposed to know if she’s there for a listing presentation?”