The Girl I Used to Be: A gripping and emotional page-turner

by Heidi Hostetter

  “Thanks. Let me show you the rest.” Jill led them through the foyer into the main part of the house. She’d opened the drapes on the far wall to showcase the view. Everything inside the house—the bleached hardwood floors, taupe area rugs, and low beige furnishings—was designed to fade into the background so all the focus would be the sweeping view of the ocean. And it worked—today especially, the view was undeniably magnificent. Nothing but sandy beach, dancing ocean, the endless horizon.

  Seth stopped to take it all in. Even Sheri stopped tapping on her tablet long enough to look. It was a good decision, opening all the drapes to show that view. That view would sell this house. Hopefully soon.

  “Wow,” Seth said finally. “I did not expect that.” His voice faded as he absorbed it, and Jill let him. The more he liked it, the harder he’d work to sell it. Finally, after clearing his throat, he said, “Your email said you wanted to sell quickly?”

  “I do.”

  “I just might have a client in mind.” Seth brushed his palm across his chin as he considered. “They’re looking for something further north but might consider coming down this way, if only for this view.”

  “It’s pretty spectacular,” Sheri agreed.

  “Do you mind if we start upstairs?” Seth asked as Sheri set down her briefcase. “A quick look around before we talk specifics.”

  “Of course. Go on up.” Jill swept her hand through the air, happy that they hadn’t asked her to join them. She’d been upstairs exactly twice since her arrival, both times to stage the bedrooms, and both times had been painful. Jill would not force herself to go up there again. “The door leading to the rooftop deck is at the end of the short hallway.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Seth and Sheri descended the stairs, Seth dictating notes and observations to Sheri, who scribbled on the tablet as she trailed behind.

  Seth whistled. “This is some house, upstairs and down. And the rooftop deck is perfect for private parties. At least, that’s what I told Marc anyway.”

  Jill startled, convinced she’d misheard. “I’m sorry, did you say, ‘that’s what I told Marc’?”

  “Yes,” Seth confirmed. “Your husband contacted me a couple of times to ask my opinion about selling this house. I’m surprised he didn’t mention it.”

  “So am I.”

  “I offered to sell it for him, years ago, but he wanted to handle it in-house.”

  Jill assumed “in-house” meant Brittney.

  “Well then, what’s your opinion on why this house hasn’t sold?” Jill asked.

  Seth shrugged. “Could be anything from not finding the right buyer to financing not lining up. Marc didn’t tell me why he was having trouble, just that he was, so I dropped it.”

  Sheri interrupted. “I’ve finished entering notes. Only thing left is the kitchen and garage.”

  “Coming.” Seth headed into the kitchen as Sheri settled into a chair close by.

  “Ready?” he asked Sheri.

  Sheri nodded, her stylus poised above the screen.

  “Professional grade appliances. Ten burners, gas.” His fingers grazed the stove as he walked past. He gestured to the tile behind it. “Hand-painted tile backsplash. Pot filler attachment on the wall. Warming oven below.”

  “You forgot the induction microwave underneath the island. It’s a built-in.” Sheri pointed to an appliance Jill had never used or seen used.

  “Good catch.” Seth paused to take several pictures with his cell phone. “Two dishwashers, a commercial refrigerator deep enough to handle party platters. This is all really good.” He lowered his phone and turned to Jill. “All the appliances stay?”

  “Yes,” Jill answered. She couldn’t imagine what she’d do with any of them.

  “Okay. We can get model numbers later.”

  Seth opened a door and flicked on the wall switch. “Walk-in pantry with room for storage.”

  “There’s another storage room down that hallway,” Jill offered. “Caterers use it to store platters, dishes, and party food.”

  “Excellent. Clients love extra storage.” Seth glanced at Sheri. “Make a note of that please.”

  His voice rose as he continued down the hallway. He tapped on the door to the garage. “Attached garage. We saw it on the way in. Two-car?” He paused for confirmation.

  “Three,” Jill corrected. “One spot is tandem. And there’s overhead storage across all three.”

  “Even better.” Seth joined them and took a seat. “We should position this house as more than just a summer home…” His voice trailed off as he thought. “Are you planning to sell it furnished?”

  “Yes.” A designer in New York had selected everything in this house from websites. The contents were lovely, and expensive, but Jill had no use for or attachment to any of it. “They can have anything they want. Furniture, linens, towels, wine in the rack and food in the pantry—”

  “I get it.” Seth laughed as he held up his hand in mock surrender. “We’ll get a full inventory later. Right now, a broad picture is fine. The client I have in mind is looking for move-in ready, so selling it furnished would definitely be a plus.” He leaned back in his chair. “If you’re ready to list with me, let’s draw it up. I’ll call my client from the car on the drive back and I’ll let you know what he says.”

  Jill pretended to consider it, though there wasn’t much choice. None of the other agents she’d contacted had even bothered to respond to her inquiry. So it was fortunate for her that Seth seemed like he knew what he was doing.

  ”What about pricing?” Seth folded his hands on the table. “Do you have a number in mind?”

  Enough to clear the mortgage, Jill thought, but she didn’t want to appear desperate. Instead, she said, “I’d like to know what you think.”

  “Okay.” He pulled a report from his bag and showed it to Jill. “After you called, I did some preliminary research, pulling comparables from the area. This house is unusual for the location, more in line with inventory much further north, like the Hamptons.”

  She’d done her own research and Seth’s report confirmed her findings: this house didn’t belong in a sleepy town like Dewberry Beach. They studied Seth’s report, arriving at a price that would attract a larger pool of buyers. Still, the number was high compared to neighborhood homes.

  “Selling it quickly is more important to me than making a huge profit,” Jill told him. “Should we go lower?”

  “Believe it or not, if I list it any lower, buyers will think there’s something wrong with it and they’ll stay away,” Seth said. “I’ve seen it before. So no, I don’t think so.”

  Jill glanced at the listing price again. It was more money than she had ever seen before, but the mortgage would take up most of it. So Jill signed the listing.

  A few hours after they’d arrived, their business was concluded, and Jill’s house was listed.

  “Your neighbors,” Seth asked as he and Sheri rose to pack up their things. “What do they think about this house?”

  “What do they think of it?” Jill echoed.

  “Dewberry Beach is a small town,” Seth pointed out as he shouldered his bag. “We both know this house is a bit… large for the neighborhood. I’m just wondering if you’ve heard anything or know their feelings toward it?”

  “One disgruntled neighbor can destroy a closing, especially if they’re well connected to local politicians,” Sheri added. “Remember that property over in Sag Harbor? How hard it was to close? We had to get court approval for everything, even the inspection. Added months to the closing.”

  “I remember,” Seth groaned. “That was awful. Just a few vocal neighbors can scare off buyers who don’t want trouble. We almost lost that Sag Harbor sale entirely.” He straightened as they headed for the door. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. This is a great house and you’ve offered it at a bargain price. It should go quickly.”

  After they left, Jill let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It was true tha
t this house was wildly out of scale compared to those around it and probably shouldn’t have been built at all. But the time to object was before it was built, not before it was sold. For whatever reason, the town had allowed Marc to build this house, and its residents had no right to complain about a change of ownership afterward.

  Their dispute was with Marc, not with her.

  Sixteen

  It was time to leave Dewberry Beach.

  With the listing agreement signed and the house properly staged, there was nothing to keep her here. Jill blew out the scented candle, straightened the chairs, and gathered the green apples from the bowl. She made her way upstairs, closing the windows and drawing the shades as she went. She’d leave the quilts on the beds and the towels in the bathrooms, figuring the house would show better that way. Securing a listing with an agent was a huge step forward, and Seth’s comments about having a buyer already in mind lifted much of the worry from her shoulders.

  On impulse, she grabbed a towel and headed for one of the guest rooms. She would celebrate with a long, hot shower and a fresh change of clothes. Afterward, she felt more like herself. The next step was to find a job, so on her way out of town, she planned to telephone temp agencies from her car to follow up on leads. As Jill stuffed her dirty clothes back into her suitcase, she felt something in a jeans pocket and remembered the card she’d taken from the bulletin board at the deli. She dug it out and smoothed away the creases, reading the notice again.

  It was probably nothing. Or, if it wasn’t nothing, the job had probably been filled already.

  But what if it hadn’t? What if they were still looking for someone? What an opportunity that would be.

  Jill stood and stared at the card, wondering if she should call—just to see. Her cell phone chirped to signal an incoming email. She pulled it from her pocket and unlocked the screen, uneasy to see two separate messages from the bank that serviced her mortgage.

  Dear Customer,

  This letter is to inform you that, per your request, we have made a change to your account. If you did not authorize this change, please contact us immediately.

  That one was no big deal. The judge had helped Jill change her name from Goodman to DiFiore, and Phyllis had helped her file the paperwork with the bank.

  She skimmed the second email with a renewed sense of dread.

  Dear Ms. DiFiore,

  This letter is to inform you that property taxes are due on October 30 for the property you hold in Dewberry Beach. Please be advised the tax amount may have changed from the previous year. If you have already paid, please forward a receipt to us showing payment. If you intend us to pay them as part of your mortgage, please contact us for instructions about depositing additional funds to cover the payment.

  Jill dropped into a chair… property taxes. She hadn’t considered property taxes. She hadn’t realized she needed to, and the amount was substantial. After arbitration, Jill had pulled together every dollar she had, and the budget left no room for surprises. Property taxes were definitely a surprise. Jill’s mind raced as she swapped one expense for another and still came up short. Selling her car or trading it in for something cheaper was a possibility; she’d look into it. One thing was clear: she had to find a job right away and that meant leaving Dewberry Beach.

  So, as intriguing as it was, the photographer job was not meant to be. Disappointed, Jill stuffed the card back into her pocket and finished packing. She’d just zipped her suitcase shut when her cell phone rang. She flicked on the screen and smiled when she saw it was Ellie.

  “Ellie, hey,” Jill answered. “Is the wedding over already?”

  “Nope. I’m on break. I’m calling because I needed to talk to someone normal, Jilly. Rich people are so weird—completely out of touch. You won’t believe the things I’ve seen in only a couple of days.” Ellie groaned. “But I can tell you all about it later. Right now, tell me about you. What’s going on down there?”

  “Well.” Jill pushed her suitcase aside and sat on the edge of the guest bed. “The property agents just left so that’s something.”

  “Oh yeah? How did that go?”

  “I liked them. I signed the listing and the guy said he’s already got a client in mind, so I’m hopeful.”

  “That’s great.” Ellie hesitated, clearly not buying Jill’s forced enthusiasm. “So why don’t you sound happier?”

  “Oh, I am,” Jill said quickly. “I really am. It’s just that…” Jill pulled the index card from her pocket and stared at the print. She shouldn’t even be considering this. She needed to find a job and quickly. The house, the mortgage, the property taxes—when she thought about the amounts involved, she could barely draw a full breath. But there was also a tug of possibility, a whisper that she didn’t want to ignore. It reminded her of photography classes and workshops, and how much she loved her work.

  So, yes, she had financial obligations, but didn’t she owe herself something too? Something beyond money?

  “This is crazy, but I found a help-wanted ad for a photographer tacked to a community bulletin board and I really want to call. I’m not even sure it’s a real job but I can’t leave without knowing. What do you think? Does that sound terrible?”

  “Depends. What does it look like?”

  “Well.” Jill turned the grubby card over in her hand. “It’s handwritten on an index card so it’s probably not a scam. It was left in a deli down here.”

  “Down there? You mean in Dewberry Beach?” Ellie snorted. “Oh, please. The way you talked, I thought you might have found a notice at a rest-stop on I95. Dewberry Beach is like Cape May. What’s the job?”

  “They want a photographer to help with a fundraiser—a lead photographer, not an assistant, which is a really big deal. There’s not a lot of detail—not any, really—just a phone number and that one sentence.” Jill turned the card over again. “What’s interesting is that it says ‘minimal experience required.’ I’ve never seen a job posting like that, not ever.”

  “Have you called the number?”

  “I’ve been busy with house stuff,” Jill began, but Ellie cut her off.

  “Definitely call,” she urged. “At least then you’ll know. It might be nothing, or it might be great. You won’t know until you call.”

  Jill knew that the responsible thing was to throw away the card and forget about the job. To drive back to Ellie’s, sell her car, and pay the property taxes. And yet. Opportunities like this didn’t come along every day. In fact, they didn’t ever come along.

  “You there?” Ellie’s voice pulled Jill from her thoughts.

  “Yes, sorry. I’m here.”

  “Call the number. See what they say. Maybe it’s the real deal.”

  “You’re right.” Jill straightened. “Of course you’re right. I’ll call them now.”

  “If anything about the interview location sounds sketchy, text me before you interview. I’ll watch the dot.”

  Jill laughed at the absurd idea of sharing her live location in a town like Dewberry. “I think I’ll be okay.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Ellie replied. “I gotta get back to work. Lemme know what happens.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll call you later.”

  After she hung up, Jill dialed the number printed on the card.

  “Hello, Grable Inn.”

  “Hi. I’m calling about the help-wanted card you posted in the Dewberry Deli. About a photographer for a fundraiser?” Jill winced at how immature she sounded, so she cleared her throat and added, “I’m calling to see if the job is still available.”

  “Are you? That’s wonderful.” The woman muffled the phone as she called to someone else in the room, “I told you girls putting a card in Danny’s place would work.” Returning her attention to Jill, she said, “I’m so glad you’ve called. Your timing is perfect; we’re meeting right now, in fact, to discuss the fundraiser. Are you free to come over?”

  “Um, sure.” Jill fumbled for a pen. “Where are you?”

&
nbsp; “We’re meeting here at the Grable Inn. Are you familiar with Dewberry Beach?”

  “Um, a bit. If you give me the address, I can find it.”

  Jill scribbled down the address and said she would leave right away. The woman promised they’d hold the important parts of the meeting until she arrived, which Jill took as a good sign. On her way out, Jill grabbed her portfolio from the car. The last time she had opened this portfolio was to show her work at the Brockhurst mansion, a lifetime ago. The smudged bridal portrait had not been well received and Jill had briefly considered removing it altogether. But she was proud of the work she’d done in Brooklyn that day and proud of the grade she’d received on the project, so she’d left it in.

  She slipped out the side door, careful again not to be seen, and followed her phone’s directions to the Grable Inn.

  Seventeen

  The Grable Inn was one of Dewberry Beach’s older homes, built at the turn of the century far from the oppressive heat of the city. It was a grand Victorian that reminded Jill of a gingerbread house, with its rounded tower, intricate scrollwork, multi-paned windows, and a fat pelican weathervane firmly planted atop the pitched roof. Just inside the white picket fence, a sign welcomed guests, and a slider board below advertised a current vacancy. As Jill unlatched the gate, she noticed a thread of rose vines between the fence slats. The fall weather had taken the flowers, leaving behind only the rose hips, and the contrast between the crimson-colored berries and the white fence was striking, and Jill wondered about the woman who lived inside.

  As she followed the path to the front door, she caught the scent of freshly turned earth and noticed a bed of deep orange chrysanthemums planted nearby. On the front porch was a scarecrow dressed in overalls and gardening boots, with a thatch of straw hair under a wide-brimmed hat. He was positioned on a chair, overseeing the garden as if he’d done the work himself, and Jill laughed. Surely someone who’d put together something like that wouldn’t question why Jill hadn’t graduated with an art degree, as Mrs. Brockhurst had.