“List price?”
“Four million.”
“Is that firm?”
“Very much. We believe it’s priced to sell.”
“How many bedrooms?”
“Three bedrooms, including a master suite, and three fully renovated bathrooms.”
“Square footage?”
“Roughly twenty-eight hundred.”
“I need an exact number.”
“Two thousand, eight hundred and seventy-three.”
“There’s no garage. Am I right?”
“There’s a carport.”
“A four-million-dollar house with a carport? Where does the Bentley go?”
“In the carport. The yacht goes on the dock. Have you seen the boat lift? State-of-the-art.”
“Is the seller willing to make any concessions?”
“You’ll have to ask Nick.”
The last couple of questions were from an agent named Marisol Sanchez. Earlier, Nick had introduced her as an old friend. Marisol stood as tall as Leila and wore cigarette pants and high-heeled pumps to better show off her long legs. Leila wanted to know his definition of the word “friend.”
“But he’ll likely say no concessions are necessary,” Leila added. She couldn’t help herself.
“My client will be the judge of that,” Marisol said.
The other agents were equally annoying. Leila was shocked by the behavior of these so-called professionals. They trampled the grass, stomped on the newly polished floors and slammed the kitchen cabinet doors. They pointed to hairline cracks in the ceiling and quizzed Leila on the local zoning laws, as if the only reason their clients would not put in an offer was because they’d likely want to convert the porch into a Florida room.
The most appalling behavior was from one of the agency’s own, Tony Manning. He showed up late.
After chatting with Nick for a while, he came looking for her. “Nick says you’re responsible for this impressive turnout.”
Leila took a look around. The party was in full swing. Now that business was out of the way, everyone appeared more relaxed, drinking and munching on taquitos. Her job was done.
“How would you like to take on my next open house?” he asked.
“Sorry. Nick keeps me busy.”
“I’m sure he does,” Tony said wryly. “That might not always be the case, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just want you to know you can always switch camps.”
“Nick’s been very nice to me. I wouldn’t think of switching.”
“I’ve known that guy a long time. He’s a lot of things, but nice isn’t one of them.”
Leila looked him in the eye. “Tonight’s signature drink is a classic margarita. Would you like to try it?”
“I can find my way to the bar,” Tony said with a snicker. “I always do.”
Nick called out to her from the house. “Leila! I need you.”
Tony let out a playful whistle. “You heard the man. He needs you.”
Leila’s gaze swept from Tony to Nick. She was the rope, stretched taut, in their tug-of-war. When she was close enough to see the scowl on Nick’s face, she very nearly laughed.
“You needed to see me?”
“That’s a careful edit. I said I needed you, period.”
“Well, here I am.”
“Marisol says you’re tough,” he said. “I’m impressed. You might be a natural.”
His approval raised her two feet above ground. “I think the open house is a success.”
“Success is a confirmed offer, but this is a very good start.”
The music stopped, Sean Paul’s raspy voice cut off mid-chorus, leaving the party din bare like teeth.
“I think the mp3 player died,” Leila said. “I’ll go check.”
“One more thing,” he said forcefully. “Be careful around Tony.”
She should have known he wouldn’t tap-dance around the issue. But she was familiar with guys like Tony and wasn’t concerned.
“I can take care of myself, Nick.”
“I can take care of you better.”
“How is this a competition?”
“Don’t you know me?”
“I’m not sure.” Who was he? The shark that Jo-Ann and Tony described, or the nice guy who bought her coffee, offered to mentor her and complimented her achievements?
Marisol joined them. “What’s going on here?” she asked nastily. “I thought Monica was your one true love.”
Nick turned to her. “Monica’s gone. Now Leila’s the light of my life and if she says we’re not willing to make any concessions, it’s because we’re not.”
* * *
While a cleaning crew returned the house to its former pristine condition, she and Nick sat at the breakfast bar with a platter of leftover appetizers and three open bottles of wine.
“What if Marisol’s buyer doesn’t come through?” Leila asked.
Nick filled their glasses. “I already have an offer.”
Even before the open house had started, an offer had come through by phone: the call that had saved her from having to regale him with tales of her pageant days. A woman who’d grown up in the house was hoping to raise her kids in it.
“That’s so sweet. I’m rooting for her.”
“You’re rooting for me, remember?” Nick said. “It’s a low offer.”
“How low?”
“Three point five.”
That sounded like a lot of money to Leila.
“This brings us back to our talk. Keyword: pageant.”
Up until then, she’d been feeling fine, riding high on the success of her first open house, Nick’s approval and even Tony’s fit of envy. She had no desire to revisit the past, not when the present was so good.
Nick browsed through his phone and pulled up a photo he’d saved. There she was, on stage, in a yellow bikini and perilously high heels, hair curled and sprayed in place, and gold glitter rubbed into her brown skin. Leila blinked at the photo then scooted off the bar stool, taking her wineglass with her.
She heard him scramble to his feet. “Are you okay?”
“I’m bracing myself for the jokes,” she said. “Go ahead.”
She’d heard it all. It had become a “first date” ritual, of sorts. The guy would say, “Tell me about yourself.” She’d say, “I used to compete in pageants.” He’d follow with asking, “So, what’s your plan to wipe out hunger?” or “How will you bring about world peace?”
“I wasn’t going to make a joke,” Nick said. “I think you look good.”
“That’s not why you showed me that picture. To tell me I look good.”
“Leila,