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Dying to Sell
by
Maggie Sefton
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2005 by Margaret Conlan Aunon. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Published at Smashwords
Cover by Kim Killion
Thank You.
Acknowledgements
I wish to thank all of the real estate professionals in Northern Colorado who helped me over the years—agents, brokers, appraisers, consultants, lawyers, teachers, and countless others. Their professional expertise and sense of humor enabled me to get my bearings in this fascinating-yet-frustrating business.
Most especially, I want to thank all of the brokers and agents of Keller Williams Realty in Colorado who took me under their collective wings as a rookie real estate agent and gave me a safe place to learn.
Chapter 1
Divorce is not a pleasant experience. Psychologists rate it right up there on the stress scale, next to the death of a spouse. Also right up there is selling a home. Unfortunately for some people, the two experiences are often combined—the breakup of a marriage and the subsequent sale of the family home. That's where I come in. As a real estate broker, I sell the houses of feuding husbands and wives. Not that they're my only clients. Oh, no. My favorites are the fresh-faced young couples just starting out with their first home. They sort of renew my faith in marriage. They also provide a balance to negotiating the minefields of broken relationships.
Having survived a fractured relationship that ended in divorce, I can sympathize with these folks. But that doesn't make it easier. I usually enter their lives at the worst possible time—dividing up the assets. By then, lawyers have been consulted, lines drawn, and an adversarial climate firmly entrenched. My job? To tiptoe around all that barbed wire of mutual distrust and get signatures on contracts. Lots of contracts. Since I practice in Colorado, a leader in consumer protection, there are contracts for everything. The public is protected, by damn, but we're up to our necks in paper.
This time, my job was harder than usual. The divorcing couple, and my clients, were old friends of mine. Our kids had grown up together, we'd shared vacations, partied together, confided in each other—and now, after thirty years, their marriage was ending. I certainly wasn't about to point a finger, having ended my own long marriage two years before. Still, Amanda and Mark Schuster had been the Lucy and Desi for many of our friends. Despite all the loud arguments, the shouting and accusations, most of us figured if they could stay together, others could. But just like the originals, it was not to be.
I waited for Mark to sign the listing contract, not wanting to interrupt his lawyer-focused perusal of the document. At fifty-three, there was only a sprinkling of silver in his hair, just along the temples. Slim, fit, with a remnant of summer's tan, Mark Schuster was still a very handsome man, and he knew it. But more than that, he had a certain magnetism about him. People were attracted to him. Unfortunately for his marriage, that was the quality which had caused the most trouble with his volatile and jealous wife. Over the years, I'd listened to countless diatribes from a furious Amanda whenever she discovered a new indiscretion. Listened to what she was going to tell him, what she was going to do. And always in the end, she did nothing, except scream at him in helpless fury. She stayed.
Now, their tempestuous marriage was finally over. I never thought Mark would actually leave his still-beautiful and elegant wife, his showpiece for so long. And after all those affairs, the countless women—rich and gorgeous, professional and not—he leaves for an Ally McBeal look-alike from Denver. Go figure.
Mark dutifully initialed each page and signed, adding, "I want this in the multi-list right away, Kate. I'd like to have a buyer before I move to Denver."
"It'll go in today. Don't worry. Buyers are clamoring for homes in this area of Fort Collins. Custom-built with spectacular views. We won't have a problem, Mark," I assured him while I placed another sheaf of papers on his polished walnut desk. Glancing out the library window, I drank in the gorgeous view of the foothills. A sliver of distant Rocky Mountain peaks jutted from behind the lower hills, awaiting the first snowfall of winter to set them shimmering. I used to have a view like that.
Mark scowled at the papers. "How much more, Kate? I've got a conference call in five minutes."
"Property disclosure and other fun stuff. You can fill it out, and I'll pick it up later. Will you be here or at the office?"
He bent his wrist and checked a watch whose price would have paid my mortgage for several months. "After this call, I'll be at the office for the rest of this morning; then I'll be back here after lunch. I have to go through the upstairs closets." He feigned a shudder.
"Well, better you than me," I said, and shoved the listing contract in my briefcase. "I'll go over now and get Amanda's signature; then I've got a showing. I'll be back in the late afternoon, okay?" I started backing toward the doorway, recognizing Mark's slight but distinct dismissal signals.
"That'll be fine," Mark said as he opened a file folder beside his elbow and slipped on his reading glasses. Glancing up over the rims, he added, "And Kate, I want you to entertain all offers, understand?"
I paused, half-in and half-out the library door, while I chose my words. "I understand, Mark. But I have to consult Amanda, as well."
"Amanda will want top dollar, you know that. And it's September. Things might slow down, and I don't want to be slowed down, Kate."
Seeing his slight scowl, I decided to opt for a lighter tone. Placing my hand over my heart, I backed out of the room and said solemnly, "Never fear. I will always do as my principals direct. The weight of thousands of years of English Common Law leaves me no choice."
Mark gave a derisive snort. "God, Kate, you're the only real estate agent I know who quotes Common Law. Get out of here and leave me alone." He crumbled a piece of paper and tossed it my way.
"I live to serve," I said with a deep bow, then headed for the front door before Mark could throw anything heavier.
* * *
"Bastard," Amanda swore under her breath as she scrawled her name in bold strokes across the bottom of the listing contract.
I had just told her of Mark's instructions to entertain all offers. "He said you'd want top dollar."
"You 're damn right I do," she snapped. "I have to get as much as I can. He knows that, damn him." The familiar hate-filled expression twisted Amanda's lovely features into an ugly mask.
It was awful to watch what had happened to her these last six months. My beautiful, light-hearted friend with the ringing laugh had turned into a scowling shrew. Each week, h
er lawyer, Jonathan Bassett, brought another discovery of assets that Mark had tried to hide. Bank accounts in different countries, commodities, precious metals stashed away. Some, Bassett said, could be frozen. Others were tied up in legal knots. And with each discovery, Amanda's fury grew. She smoldered with resentment. Not only because of the money Mark was trying to hide from her, but also because he left her for a younger woman. That had been her oldest and deepest fear.
"You know I'll do my very best to satisfy both of you," I said as I retrieved the contract. "And frankly, I don't think there'll be a problem. That house will sell in a matter of days and for a good price. So, you'll both be happy." I flashed her a bright smile.
She didn't respond. "It better. He's screwed me with those foreign accounts, but I'll be damned if he'll screw me on the house." She tossed a letter across the coffee table. "Read that. It's from Jonathan. He's found another investment account in that German bank."
I picked up the letter and read while Amanda paced back and forth through her townhouse living room, cursing none-too-softly. Head bent forward, wealth of auburn hair surrounding her face, she stalked the spacious living room like a caged jungle cat.
While it wasn't as luxurious as her gorgeous home south of town, at 2,000 square feet, the townhouse was hardly shabby and afforded a beautiful view of the foothills. Once she discovered that Mark had brought his Denver girlfriend to their home while she was out of town, Amanda refused to set foot in the house again. Instead, she leased the most expensive townhouse she could find facing the mountains and went on a gigantic furniture-shopping spree. Since Amanda had expensive tastes, the final bill must have been astronomical. I didn't even want to know.
"Listen," I said in an attempt to soothe, "Jonathan is the best divorce lawyer in town. He'll make sure you get every penny that's yours. Now, stop tying yourself in knots. I hate to see you like this."
Amanda sent me a sharp look. "Don't start, Kate. You don't know what I'm going through. Your divorce was different. Andy wasn't trying to cheat you. And he didn't leave you for another woman, either. You left him."
She had me there. My divorce may have been tense, but it was quiet. No offshore accounts. No cheating. No hidden assets. It was kind of sad, really. We simply buried the body. The marriage had died years ago.
"Okay, okay," I said with a sigh. "You got me. I don't understand what you're going through. But I do care about you and what all this resentment is doing to you. You're consumed with it, and it's consuming you."
Amanda took a few more anxious turns around the marble coffee table and the three-sided glass fireplace, then finally sank into an armchair beside the matching sofa. I slid my hand over the creamy leather, soft as butter, and waited for her to speak. I could tell she'd calmed down.
"I wish I didn't hate him, Kate. But, so help me, I do. After all these years, how could he leave me for some little tart? Damn him! I'll bet she won't put up with his screwing around."
Not wanting to go down that path again, I kept quiet and let Amanda fume, while I traced small designs in the forgiving leather. Finally, the pauses between eruptions lengthened and I sensed it was safe to venture to neutral ground.
"Next week I'd like to take you to see some of those new homes they're building just north of Fort Collins. All custom designed. The views of the lake and foothills are fabulous. Each house is set on the hillside. Every style imaginable so far. You'll love some of the wraparound decks—"
"Don't you miss it, Kate? Those views, the house, all that? Be honest." Amanda peered at me skeptically, but at least the anger was gone.
I let out a sigh and sank back into the leather's voluptuous embrace. "No, actually, I really don't. It was wonderful living out there, and I loved it. I truly did. Especially sitting on the deck at sunset, watching the sky change color behind the mountains." I deliberately let myself remember the picture framed in my mind.
"And you say you don't miss it," Amanda said with an undisguised smirk. "Liar."
"I know you won't believe me, but I really don't. I had it once. I enjoyed it. And now I have a new home. It's smaller, of course, but then so is my mortgage," I said with an evil grin. "I live in a great neighborhood, with families and kids and students and old people. And we actually care about each other. We watch over each other's homes when someone's on vacation."
"How refreshing."
"Well, it is. In my old neighborhood, we never saw each other much, except to wave hello. We were all hermetically sealed in our luxurious homes."
"I'll stay sealed, if you don't mind." She reached across the table for her cigarettes and lit one, then rose to resume her pacing.
Amanda's fashionable black silk pants and ivory blouse accentuated her tall, slender figure. Keeping her weight in check had been a lifetime struggle for Amanda, who loved to eat, but loved even more watching men's heads turn when she entered a room. She still could catch a man's eye, and that was worth living on tiny portions, handfuls of vitamins, and two-hour daily workouts at the gym. Some of us practiced less extreme vigilance. I figured whatever was still there after my daily 6:00 a.m. hour-long workout could stay.
I glanced at my watch and reluctantly left the leather. "I have to go, Amanda. Got to check the multi-list before I take a young couple out this afternoon." I scooped up the signed contract, stuffed it in my briefcase, and headed toward the door, careful to skirt the gorgeous Oriental rug that covered the oaken floor. Hated to step on art. It just wasn't right.
Amanda ran her hand through her layered auburn curls. "I'll let you know when I feel like looking at those homes, Kate. Jonathan and I are meeting again this week. He should have a good idea of where all the accounts are hidden by then. We have to discuss our strategy."
Mention of hidden accounts was my cue to leave. "Okay, let me know," I said as I opened the door, ready to escape before another eruption. I almost made it.
Amanda's voice hardened. "I told Jonathan I'd be glad to handle it for him. I'll just go over there and tell the bastard to hand over the accounts or I'll rip his throat out."
I murmured a goodbye and silently closed the door as I hurried down the steps. Despite the balmy fall temperatures, I felt a distinct shiver ripple over me.
Chapter 2
I clicked the computer mouse. The printer hummed, then printed out my selections. Pages drifted into the tray, complete with color pictures and descriptions of each property. Four ought to be enough for this afternoon, I decided, and another four if they're super-eager.
A cold nose touched my ankle as I exited the program back to desktop icons. "Hey, Sam, how're ya doing, guy?" I rubbed the smooth, black dog head that appeared from under the desk in my snug little downstairs study. Sam, my Lab/Rottie mix, liked to keep me company whenever I was on the computer. He'd lie down beside one of the bookcases that lined the walls, gnaw an old bone for a few minutes, then drift off into an old dog's slumber.
"C'mon, boy, you've got to go outside. I have to go back to work," I said, and headed up the stairs. Sam bolted past me like always. Cataracts might be clouding his vision and winter's cold harder on him than before, but there was still a lot of puppy left in Sam. He was also company and kept me from coming home to an empty house at night.
After all those years of raising a family and lots of noise, I was surprised how quickly I adjusted to living alone. I liked it.
I soon learned that being alone wasn't the same thing as being lonely.
"Okay, big guy. Go chase that sassy squirrel," I teased, and slid open the patio door. Sam raced out and headed for the maple tree in the corner of my small back yard, which was surrounded on all sides by thick bushes, lilacs, and tall maples. Sam put both paws on the tree trunk and stared above, obviously looking for the squirrel that lived to torment him, as well as the neighbor's dog.
"Forget it, Sam. He's faster than you'll ever be, and remember, he just pretends to fall," I said, then left to meet my young clients. First-time home buyers, married only a couple of years and expectin
g their first child in a few months. God bless 'em.
* * *
The petite young woman circled the upstairs bedroom slowly. Her razor-cut red hair brushed back and forth across her cheeks as she scanned the room. Barely showing her pregnancy at five months, she paused and fingered the lacy window curtain. Her husband, tall and lean with a runner's build, peered up at the ceiling. "How old is this house again?" he asked.
"Twenty-four years. It was built in nineteen eighty, when the subdivision was started," I replied from my spot in the doorway, out of their way.
That was my job. To stay out of the buyers' way. Let them look at each house and form their own opinions—without a running stream of real estate commentary. Stay out of their way, answer questions when asked, do not distract their attention with real estate agent-speak, and—most important of all—listen. Listen and watch for buying signals. Most of the time they were verbal. Other times, body language indicated this house was different. This house, they could picture themselves living in.
Little comments, spoken so softly you had to be quiet to hear: "We could put the headboard against this wall. That way the dresser would fit." Or, simply lingering a while in certain rooms, eyes mentally rearranging furniture. Their furniture.
The mistake most real estate agents made when showing buyers a home was exactly that: showing the home, as if people didn't have eyes of their own. It was my experience that most buyers knew within a few seconds from opening the front door if the house was a possibility or not. No amount of babbling about room sizes and new furnaces could change their immediate first impression. It was sort of like dating. You knew within the first few moments whether the evening would be enjoyable or excruciating.
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