Cheyanne Young
Copyright © 2014 Cheyanne Young
All rights reserved.
First Edition July 1, 2014
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This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Chapter 1
One 1873 Winchester 30/30 rifle. One Purple Heart war metal. A framed photo of Grandpa and his wife whom I never got to meet. And a gold Rolex that hangs so loosely around my wrist, it falls to my elbow when I raise my arm. Two weeks after Grandpa’s death and this is all I have left of him.
Oh, and a check for seventy-five thousand dollars. One of the three equal amount checks that was split between my mother, my older sister and me. I expected the rifle; he had always said I was the only one who appreciated his antiques, but I didn’t expect the money. Grandpa lived in the one room garage apartment behind Mom’s house for the past twenty years. I guess I never pictured him living frugally while storing money away for a rainy day. Guess I never thought he had any money.
Stopping at a red light, I glance at the cashier’s check folded in my car’s cup holder. Seventy-five thousand dollars? It doesn’t seem real. I wonder if it will become real when I deposit it into my bank account on my lunch break. Something tells me that the five digit account balance on a computer screen won’t be proof enough that I’m richer than I’ve ever been. I used to think the commission from selling the Medical Center Townhomes of 2013 was the biggest chunk of cash I’d ever see. But this blows that out of the water. This is more than ten townhomes.
Maybe I should cash it into dollar bills, fill up a kiddie pool in my living room and swim in it. I can picture it now: Ms. World’s Most Sensitive Ears from downstairs would stomp up to my floor, bang on the front door and tell me to stop splashing around up there because she was trying to get some rest before the new episode of Criminal Minds came on. I’d offer her all the cash she could carry with two hands to leave me alone.
As I pull into the Carter Properties parking lot, my cashier’s check tips to the side and flutters down to the floorboard. I temporarily think about dropping the wheel to catch it, not caring that I’d crash my car in the process. Shit. The money isn’t even in my account yet and it’s already driven me insane. I let the check sit weakly on the floor mat, as if it was just any old check and not my inheritance. Not an amount of cold hard cash that could really change someone’s life.
I shut off the engine, grab my purse (and the check), walk past the sign in front of my parking spot that says PARKING RESERVED FOR ROBIN CARTER, and head into work for the first time since Grandpa died. I expect the place to look different, but it doesn’t. It still smells of freshly-brewed coffee and some kind of flowery-vanilla scent in the wax melter that is my sister Maggie’s obsession. Grandpa spent the last six months in Hospice care, so it’s not as if the office would suddenly feel empty without him here. To my disappointment, it doesn’t feel like his loving spiritual presence is hovering over my head, watching over me.
It feels, well, like a normal work day.
“The people with the house for sale on Mike Street called you three times already,” Maggie says, pushing past me with an armload of paperwork and a coffee in her other hand. She wears black leggings that show off her toned legs and a baggy rhinestone-decorated shirt I’m certain she bought off the racks at a Forever 21. Her eighteen-year-old daughter doesn’t even dress this juvenile. “Something about a teenager crashing into their fence and how they’re not going to spend money to fix it.”
“Of course they aren’t,” I say with a sigh as I pour a cup of coffee and lean against the counter in the break room. “Why the hell would they do something productive to sell their ugly, underwater house?”
My older sister eyes me disapprovingly as I pour not one, not two, but three scoops of real cane sugar into my coffee mug. “If you’d read the health book I gave you two months ago, you’d know how toxic that shit is for your body,” she says, eyeing my mug with such vehemence that I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. As Maggie nears the age of forty-five, the crow’s feet in her stare is so close to Mom’s that if she gained thirty pounds I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart. This is the shitty thing about having a sister who’s nineteen years older than you and an estranged father. You essentially have two mothers. Neither one of these women are particularly good mothers themselves, so when combining their crappy maternal instincts on me, it’s amazing I grew up even somewhat normal.
Of course, Grandpa had a lot to do with making sure I turned out all right. He only made it until I was twenty-five, so I guess I’m on my own from here on out.
I take a long, slow sip of my coffee, closing my eyes and groaning as if it’s the most delicious and fulfilling thing I’ve ever tasted. Maggie sighs in such an exaggerated way I can feel her breath on my hair.
“That house has been on the market, what—ten months?” She clicks her tongue and I shrug, pretending that ten months isn’t a big deal. When it’s absolutely a big deal. You don’t get to be Houston’s Top Realtor two years in a row for keeping houses on the market ten months. I should have never agreed to take over Grandpa’s residential clients when he went into hospice care, since all my experience in real estate is with downtown condominiums and high-rise lofts.
“Something like that,” I say casually as I stir my coffee and then take a sip through the tiny stirring straw—another habit Maggie hates. She always bitches that stirring straws are meant to stir, not to suck from. “Residential properties are a beast in this economy.”
“I’ll be happy to take it over for you,” she says. “I do well with middle class homes.”
I take another sip of coffee to avoid the bitch look that is so close to flashing across my face. Of course she would be happy to take it over for me! Of course she would. In real estate, it’s not about being kind to your fellow partner; it’s about swooping in and taking their commission out from under them. She knows how important it is for me to transition into residential homes, to do my grandfather proud. She’d never say it, but I know it bothers her that I’m twice as successful and half her age.
Not to mention I was Grandpa’s favorite. So neiner, neiner Maggie.
“I’m fine, thanks. It’s the owners, not the house.” I grab a protein bar from what used to be the muffin basket on the counter before Maggie went all health-crazy, take a bite and try to figure out an excuse as to why the house hasn’t sold. I can’t come up with any decent ideas by the time I swallow. The crap in my mouth tastes like cardboard, if cardboard was kind of spongy and grainy. “They, um, are refusing to accept lower than listing price offers.”
“Really?” Maggie says, her voice rising in a way that makes me shudder. “Because when I spoke with the homeowner while you were running late this morning, she said she hasn’t had a single offer, not even a low ball. She was quite displeased. She even mentioned going to Remax.”
Shit. She’s got me. What the hell is she doing talking to my clients anyway? Realizing I’m twirling a strand of hair around my finger in that nervous way that makes a woman look like a child, (o
r so Maggie always says) I drop it and walk from the kitchen into our office. I sigh and match her glare with one of my own. “Fuck them, let them leave if they want,” I say, turning on my heel and letting my hair flip around in a way that lets her know exactly what I think about her disapproval. I close my office door and yell loud enough for her to hear, “Remax sucks anyway!”
Right, because that didn’t look childish or anything.
With an empty mug, a surge of sugar and caffeine energy, and Grandpa’s Rolex around my wrist giving me a reminder of why I’m here in the first place, I organize an open house for the property on Mike Street—for tomorrow. The homeowners, a couple in their early twenties who bought a house they couldn’t afford with borrowed money from their parents, are thrilled when I tell them the news.
“We did everything on your list,” Mr. Addison says. His first name has been legally changed to Axe, if I recall correctly, but that’s not why I call him Mr. Addison. Homeowners like being treated with respect, and it makes them more likely to listen to my suggestions.
“Well, almost everything,” Mrs. Addison says, placing a tattooed hand on her husband’s shoulder. “I couldn’t find the electrical covers you were talking about, and we’re still missing some light switch covers. Plus we can’t afford to pay for that broken fence out there, and the kid who hit it just drove off so we don’t know who it was.”
I bite my tongue and don’t point out that they can’t afford to fix a fence but she can afford to carry a new designer handbag and get a full sleeve tattoo since the last time I saw her. “The fence will hinder your asking price. We can get away without fixing it, but the buyers will call for an allowance when they make an offer. It’s a good thing you don’t have a swimming pool or we’d be in violation of state law. I’ll pick up the light switch covers at the hardware store.” I scribble a note on my clipboard. “Did you paint over the naked woman in the sunroom?”
They glance at each other.
“That’ll need to be painted over. You can do it tonight.” I mark it on my clipboard, ignore their groans of protest and proceed with my walkthrough.
“I’m glad you moved the clutter out of here,” I say as I walk, remembering the wall to wall stacks of DVDs and video games. The guitars have been pared down to three, neatly displayed on stands and not propped against the wall like before. It no longer looks like the inside of a grunge band’s tour bus in here. Unfortunately, it still smells like one.
“Where are the dogs?” I ask. As if on cue, I hear a bark from the back yard and walk to the kitchen window to see. Three massive pit pull maniacs mull around the yard looking like they’re just waiting for a child to maul. “It’s good that they’re out of the house, but is there anywhere you can take them for the open house tomorrow?”
“I don’t trust my babies at some kennel,” the woman says, hissing the word kennel like it’s a concentration camp. “They don’t do well with other dogs anyway.”
“They have to be gone for open house. People are scared of pit bulls. Can they stay with a friend maybe?”
The couple turns to each other and Mrs. Addison starts wringing her hands. “Todd?” she asks. Mr. Addison shakes his head. “They pissed in his backseat last time. What about your parents?”
“Fuck them, you know they’ll say no.” She turns to me and twirls her finger around her temple as if that explains everything I need to know about her parents.
“Robin,” Axe says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “It’s a small back yard. People can just look out the window and see all they need to see. The dogs will be fine.”
I flash a polite smile. “Maybe you could take them for a walk when people arrive to look at the house?”
Mrs. Addison groans. “Not happening. They outweigh us both. They’d take us for a walk and then tear up the neighbor’s flowerbeds while they’re at it.”
Mr. Addison laughs. “That was so funny that day you took Max out. You were covered in mud, oh my god. It was fucking hilarious.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Six months ago, this would have been Grandpa’s client. What would he have done? He would have shook their hands with his mighty grip, told them a story from the good old days, connected with Mr. Addison over guitars and then he would have won their hearts and convinced them to do whatever is necessary to sell their house.
The weight of his watch feels like a thousand pounds as I lift my arm and point to the guitars. “So who plays guitar?”
“He does. I sing and sometimes I play keyboard.” Mrs. Addison wiggles her fingers on an air keyboard in front of her.
“Awesome,” I say, sounding as enthusiastic as I possibly can about a hobby I know nothing about. “I love…er…guitars.”
“Sweet, do you play?” They say in unison.
“No, but I’ve always wanted to,” I lie. I have no clue where I’m going with this conversation, but this is exactly the kind of small talk that Grandpa always did and it somehow always worked for him.
“Dude, I’ve got just the guy to give you lessons,” Mr. Addison says. He pulls open a kitchen junk drawer and digs around for something amongst all the crap in there. One of the pit bulls outside lifts his head and stares intently at the floor to ceiling windows in the kitchen’s French doors. I wonder if he can hear us talking with the way his ears perk up.
Mr. Addison slams the drawer closed with an annoyed, “I swear I have his business cards somewhere.” He pulls open the next drawer and shoves aside a package of dog treats to feel around the back of the drawer for these supposed cards. Two dog bones fall out of the drawer and land with a crack on the tile floor. There’s a blur in the corner of my vision and I look out the window just in time to jump out of the way as the dog who was watching us leaps into the air.
Mrs. Addison screams and I pull her to the side as we all watch in shocked horror as her beloved pit bull dives through the glass window and pounces on the fallen doggie bone. Shattered glass flies everywhere. The dog plops to the floor and chews on his prize, unfazed by the glass shards all around him.
Mrs. Addison puts a hand on her hip. “I’m not paying for that shit.”
Chapter 2
Maybe it’s the money. It has to be the money. Because in seven years of selling real estate, I’ve never called a client and dropped them. Dropped them! Just a carefree hello and a, “I don’t think our professional relationship is going to work out right now. Good luck finding a new Realtor.”
My forehead hits the steering wheel and I just sit here, in my personalized parking spot that I completely don’t deserve. Big plastic real estate signs with my name on them crouch in my backseat, dirt still on the metal frame from where I ripped them out of the earth as fast as humanly possible in a pencil skirt and heels. The only thing worse than talking to the homeowners on the phone would be seeing them in person as I took my failure of a for sale sign out of their unsalable yard.
Does seventy-five thousand dollars mean I can suddenly suck at my job? Does it give me rights to earn the embarrassment of Worst Realtor in Houston award? Not that there is such a thing. Maybe they will invent it just for me.
I take a deep breath, pull my forehead off the steering wheel and stare at the patch of sunlight peeking out through clouds in my sunroof. This isn’t normal Robin Carter behavior. This whole, wah-wah my life sucks and I suck at everything and I’m getting too fat for this skirt and maybe I should just quit everything! feeling in my head, it isn’t me. I’m confident. I have a radiant, four-thousand-dollar smile that can be seen from billboards across town. And I can fit in this skirt when I don’t eat McDonald’s for breakfast.
I sell real estate like a motherfucker. It’s the only damn thing I’m good at. I definitely don’t date because dates turn into fiancés who cheat on you. And I don’t bother with girlfriends because all they do is fake caring about you and then sleep with your fiancé.
No, I’m not bitter about it or anything.
That house on Mike Street just wasn’t good enough for m
e. Middle class single-family homes are Grandpa’s thing. Were Grandpa’s thing. But they aren’t my thing and that’s okay; I don’t have to excel at everything. It’s better to be great at one thing instead of so-so at several things… or something like that.
Go ahead and add Inspiring Heart-felt Words of Encouragement to the list of skills that lack from my repertoire.
I spend the next few hours replying to emails, ignoring phone calls and listing photos of lofts for sale in the Houston online database. I try to go back to work as normally as possible, pretending that Grandpa isn’t dead and that he never made me promise to quit my job and follow dreams I don’t even have, and that I’m not still beating myself up over failing to sell the house on Mike Street.
Maggie has an open house later today so I won’t have to see her this afternoon. Although I’m free for now, I know I’ll have to account for my behavior eventually, probably over some fancy dinner with Mom or while bumping into her while speaking with a high-dollar client. Maggie’s good at ruining the day like that. Our other two associate realtors, Claire and Jen, tell me they’re sorry for my loss and then go on to be so busy with listing houses that they don’t bother me for the rest of the day.
I’m cropping a homeowner’s hairy arm out of a photograph of his dining room when my office phone rings. My chest clenches into a knot as I read the caller ID: CLEAR LAKE PAIN. Pain as in hospital? Is someone hurt?
With shaking fingers, I reach over and press the speakerphone button, checking to make sure my door is closed. “Hello?” I ask, drawing out the word as if this is a fun happy day. Because people wouldn’t give detrimental news to someone who’s having a great day. Right?
“Is this Robin Carter?” asks a familiar male voice.
“Yes,” I say. “This is Robin. Is this the hospital calling?”
A Little Like Fate (Robin and Tyler) Page 1