Abide With Me. Delia Parr
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by the restroom and two conference rooms on either side of the hallway and went straight to the front office. Her office—her home away from home—held memories that swelled and washed over her. She swallowed the lump in her throat. Cancer threatened her life, true. But it also threatened the quality of her life, both present and future, and she was not going to see all that she had worked so hard to achieve fall by the wayside because of an…an illness.
She paused and glanced around. The picture window showcased photographs of properties she had listed for sale, both residential and commercial, for pedestrians. Nearly half had a “Sold” banner tacked on top of the photograph, and she needed to update the display as soon as the new photographs were ready.
To her left, five wing chairs, upholstered in a blue-striped fabric, were grouped around an old mahogany coffee table. A stickler for neatness and order, Andrea refused to allow the table to become littered with piles of brochures or pamphlets; instead, she kept a bowl of fresh fruit in the center, along with several milk-glass dishes filled with hard candy. The brochures and pamphlets were neatly stacked on shelves on the wall, below framed photos of the local girls’ T-ball and softball teams, which Andrea’s business had sponsored over the years. The photos reminded her that she still had to inform Carol Watson about whether or not the realty would sponsor the newest sports endeavor in town, a girls’ crew team.
“I’ll save that decision for another day,” she whispered and headed across an Oriental rug to get to her massive L-shaped desk—the command center where she spent most of her time. She slid her briefcase under the desk and sank into her high-backed upholstered chair. There was nothing antique or low-tech about her desk or the tools it held. The computer, fax machine, laser printer, telephone and answering system were all state-of-the-art, although with technology changing so fast, she would probably be updating her equipment within the next year.
She checked her messages first and took notes. Of the six calls she’d received, three were from prospective clients, including the Davises, who canceled their four-o’clock appointment. One was from Carol Watson. Decision made. She would call Carol tonight and agree to sponsor the team. Another message was from Doris Blake, a retiree who had recently relocated to Welleswood after a career in real estate. She was looking for part-time work. Andrea wrote down her number, just in case.
The last message was from Jane Huxbaugh demanding to know the status of the proposed sale of the house she had inherited from her uncle, the late Anthony Clark.
Andrea tapped the eraser of her pencil on her notepad. Jane was not the most disagreeable client Andrea had ever had, but she surely ranked in the top ten. In all fairness, however, Jane had a right to be anxious. She had accepted a proposal to purchase from a prospective buyer, Bill Sanderson, early last week. To Andrea’s complete consternation, Sanderson had not returned a single one of her telephone calls or responded to any of her e-mails asking him to come in and sign the formal contract. She assumed he simply had been delayed in returning from one of the long-distance hauls he made as a truck driver. Not that Jane would care. She wanted the house sold. Yesterday.
Determined to see this resolved, Andrea pulled out the Sanderson folder and sorted through the paperwork. She set the CIS, Consumer Information Statement, aside. Operating a dual-disclosure agency, representing both sellers and buyers, required a strong set of ethics, and the law was very clear about her responsibilities to both parties. Beneath the proposal to purchase, she found the contract, lifted her phone and tapped in Bill Sanderson’s home telephone number.
“We’re sorry. The number you have dialed, 555-2608, has been disconnected.”
“Great,” she muttered, checked the number he had listed for his employer in upstate Pennsylvania, and dialed that number as she tried to keep her heart from racing.
“AAA Hauling. Henry here.”
She cleared her throat. “This is Andrea Hooper, with Hooper Realty. I’m trying to locate Bill Sanderson, one of your drivers.”
A snort. “You and the state police from here to Colorado. Feds got involved, too. Landlord called yesterday. Get in line, lady.”
“S-state police?”
“Sanderson left four days ago with a van loaded with computers and headed for Denver. Ain’t been heard from since.”
Andrea closed her eyes to organize her thoughts. “That’s terrible! He must have had some sort of…accident?”
Another snort. “Ain’t that wishful thinkin’! We got the van. Found that in Ohio. Empty, of course. I wouldn’t go wastin’ any hopes you got on that thievin’, sneaky—”
“Thank you,” she managed, and quickly hung up. Heart pounding, she leaned back and steepled her hands. So much for that deal. Exactly why Sanderson had gone to all the trouble of pretending to be serious enough to purchase a home here did not really matter. She had been in this business long enough to know better than to guess at the motivations of any of her clients, buyers and sellers alike, but she thought she was a fairly decent judge of character.
Apparently, she was not.
As for the check that he had given to her as earnest money, she assumed she would hear from the bank that it was not going to be honored.
She also knew for certain that Miss Huxbaugh was going to be rip-roaring mad.
At seventy-seven, Jane Huxbaugh was a fixture in Welleswood, well-known for her thriftiness and her gift for making snide remarks, which was almost as legendary as her temper. Andrea had no desire to light a match to that woman’s temper. It had burned her once too often. But unless Andrea came up with a buyer fast, she would be well-advised to tell Jane the bad news in person, rather than by telephone.
Andrea swiveled around in her chair, stared out the front window and twirled her pencil while she mulled over her options. She could wait until tonight and visit Jane at home. Or she could leave now and walk the two short blocks to see Jane at the hospital auxiliary’s thrift store, one of the last holdouts from yesteryear, where she volunteered weekday afternoons. Or she could…
She laid down the pencil, sorted through the folders for prospective buyers until she found the one she wanted. Cindy and Paul DiMayo were highly motivated buyers. They had a number of deadlines looming that had intensified their search for a new home. Paul was scheduled to start a new job at the end of September, their apartment lease ran out around the same time and they were expecting a baby, due August twenty-seventh, less than a month from now. Under all these circumstances, they were more than a little anxious to settle into a home before the baby arrived.
The young couple also had been prequalified, a decided benefit, particularly in this case.
Andrea wrinkled her nose. Sanderson had been prequalified, too.
She dialed the DiMayo’s number. When Cindy answered, Andrea let out a sigh of relief and checked her watch. It was only three o’clock. Maybe she had time to turn this day around after all.
On their second walk-through of the house, Paul paced the perimeter of the empty living room and nudged the sheer curtains that had fallen to the floor, along with the rods and brackets that had once held the curtains in place. “How long did you say it’s been vacant?”
“Nine months. The property is part of an estate,” Andrea replied, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead.
Cindy poked her head into the kitchen and wrinkled her nose. “That red indoor-outdoor carpet has to go!”
“Careful! Don’t go in there unless Paul’s got a good hold on you,” Andrea warned as she approached her very pregnant client. “See the ripples in the carpet? It’s not safe.”
Paul escorted his wife into the kitchen and lifted a brow.
“It’s a throwback to the forties or early fifties,” Andrea admitted as she followed behind them.
Paul chuckled. “Early neglect is my guess. Just like the rest of the house. They pulled up the carpet in the bathroom and took half the tiles with it. Guess they decided not to try again