by Jo Noelle
Kevin moves behind me, lightly placing his hand on my back as we walk through the threshold. He pulls my coat from my shoulders, and I check out the stunning foyer. The floor is the creamy white of natural sugar maple, and the walls are just a shade darker with a bit of gold undertone. An octagon in the floor design begins directly below a chandelier in the center of the round-ish room. Then the wood floor radiates out from the octagon through the adjacent hallways and rooms, carrying through to the walls, which are a complementary color but have green and peach undertones. To the left is an office—no, a den with mahogany bookcases and furniture. We are led to the sitting room on the right where Kevin introduces me to Landen before we sit on the loveseat.
“Your home is striking. As soon as we turned off the road, the exterior lighting drew our attention. It’s a view to fall in love with. And the windows along the front of both wings are amazing too.” My hand rests on the base of my neck as I come up for air. Landen is smiling and Chella joins him on the sofa across from us. “What gave you the idea for the radiant pattern for the floor in the foyer?”
Chella smiles and glances at Landen and answers. “Our honeymoon, actually. It was designed to remind us of the sun, and the color of the wood is like the beach. I don’t go a day without thinking back on starting our life together.”
My heart breaks for her a bit, thinking how she’ll leave that behind when they lose their home if it doesn’t sell in time. Either way, she’ll have to leave it.
“Would you like to see the rest of the house?”
“Well …” I look at Kevin, not wanting to rush this, but he just smiles. “Yes. I’d love to.”
Chella leads me through each room, pointing out her favorite features. This is why sellers shouldn’t show their own home—they define each space with a story, making the home reflective of their lives, leaving no room for the buyers to imagine themselves as the homeowners. But I’m not a buyer, so I follow her from room to room, listening to her stories and taking note of the unique features. Landen and Kevin traipse behind us, mentioning the house occasionally, but doing more catching up on each other’s jobs and lives.
Several of the rooms have focal points that will be candy to the camera. The virtual tour of this home will definitely draw many potential buyers—the floor-to-ceiling river-rock fireplace in the family room, the distressed-metal apron sink in the kitchen, the glass shower and steam room in the master bath, the outdoor kitchen on the large deck and the motocross-style trails carved into the field and mountain behind the backyard for playing on four-wheelers are all big draws.
We end the tour back in the kitchen. “I think everything is ready. Shall we eat?” Chella asks.
“Can I help you with something?” I offer and walk further into the kitchen. “I’ll just leave this here, if you’d like to contact me later,” I say and drop a business card on the counter by the phone.
“Sure. You can help me get it all to the table.” Chella pulls out a salad bowl and a boat of dressing for me to carry. “Can you get this too?” she asks, holding a tray of bread, which she balances on top of the salad. “You and Kevin seem to be well matched.”
“I think so. We definitely have different talents and strengths. That’s been good for us. He works the days, and I work the nights.”
“That seems like a difficult schedule? When do you see each other?”
“It’s not hard at all. We get together every Saturday morning at nine for an hour or two. We keep it in our calendars—a standing appointment every week. That’s all it takes.”
Chella has a surprised look on her face that she quickly morphs into a smile. “Well, you’re lucky to have each other.”
“Oh. I know. Our partnership works out much better than most I’ve seen.”
Chella follows me out of the kitchen, carrying a dish of manicotti. Although there’s some conversation during dinner, the pasta is definitely grabbing everyone’s attention.
“This is wonderful. Is it terribly hard to make?” I ask.
“No. Easy,” Chella replies. “I’ll give you the recipe before you leave.”
“I wouldn’t know how to use half the machines I saw in your kitchen. It may be easy for you, but for me? Hmm.” I shake my head a bit.
“You would do fine,” Kevin offers, patting my arm.
His vote of confidence is kind but misplaced. “You have no idea what a disaster I can wreak in a kitchen,” I reply.
“You’ve never cooked together?” Chella asks.
We’ve never even been in a kitchen at the same time before the tour tonight. “No. We always go out to eat,” I answer. “It’s more productive for us.”
Chella gives another sideways glance to Landen, who shrugs in response.
“How long have you lived here?” I ask her.
“Two years. But I also worked on the design for it for two—a year on the structure and a year on the interior décor. Then it took almost a year to build, so it’s been part of my life for almost five years.”
And now you’re going to lose it. “Does that make you sad now?” The words tumble out of my mouth before I realize how rude they could sound. “Sorry—it’s none of my business.”
“It’s okay. It was hard waiting and even frustrating sometimes, but when I look at the result, I have no regrets at all.”
Great attitude. She looks like she really means it. “One of the real selling points for your home is this great view,” I say, pointing to the long windows beside the table.
Kevin quickly sets his glass down, nicking the side of the plate loudly, staring at me.
“The windows along the west wall light up red and orange with the sunset in the fall. The changing colors of the aspens, with green and gold, deepens the beauty. We get the sunset from all the seasons, but the position of the sun in the fall makes the window a perfect frame for it,” Chella explains.
“What would you think is the best selling point for your home? Do you have a favorite feature?” I ask.
“Probably the outdoor kitchen …” Landen interjects.
Kevin leans forward across his plate. “Have you been following the Nuggets this season?”
“No,” Landen says, then turns back to me. “We use the deck and the outdoor kitchen almost every day during the summer.”
“The four-wheeler track is a lot of fun, too—a great way to unwind,” Chella counters.
“Someone else might not enjoy it as much as you do. Me—I’m a little dangerous on toys. But there’s plenty of room back there to do whatever someone would want to do.”
Kevin launches again. “Allen Iverson’s been hot, scoring twenty or thirty points a game. Good trade.” This time, no one responds to his comment.
Kevin looks nervous, but I’m not pushing. He doesn’t need to worry. They both seem excited to talk about their home and the sale. I mouth, “stop it” toward Kevin when the Garretts aren’t looking.
“That’s another part I like. There’s so much room. It’s private, but close to the city and still in a neighborhood,” Chella explains.
“Very strategic. Good. We’ll start there. When are you planning to move?” I ask as Kevin’s chair pushes back and stands, tipping over his chair.
He stoops to pick it up and says, “Sophie, may I speak to you for a moment?” It’s not a question, and he’s heading toward the door at a clipping pace. He faces Landen. “We’ll be right back.”
We step out, and he closes the door behind me. “Sophie, um … the thing is …” His gaze moves from the welcome mat down the curve of the driveway. “The thing is, they aren’t selling.”
I look at him curiously. “Did they change their minds? Because they need to understand how a short sale can save them from a foreclosure or even a deed in lieu. Both of those will hurt their credit longer. It might be in their best interest to reconsider.”
“No, you don’t understand.” He shakes his head and gives me a pleading look. “I lied.”
Lied? “And by that you mean …?
” I gesture for him to continue.
“I mean I lied … so you would go out with me. This is a social visit, not a listing appointment.”
I’m stunned. Lied. He’s still talking—something including “interested,” “chance,” and “understand.” I think back over the evening, wondering how many stupid remarks I made under the wrong pretext. “Oh.” I shove my hands into the pockets in my jacket. “I see. Give me a minute. You can go back in, and I’ll come in when I’ve composed myself a little more.”
“I can wait.”
“No. You will go in. Now.”
Kevin turns back to the front door. As his hand reaches the knob, he looks back and begins, “Sophie, I …”
“No. Now. I have to think.” I turn my face away. The door clicks behind me and I pull my phone out of my pocket and hit speed dial. “Hi …”
When I re-enter the dining room, all eyes turn to look at me. “Sorry,” I mumble as I tuck into the chair. My face feels hot. I have no idea what more to say, or what excuse Kevin gave for my rogue comments or our little therapy session on the porch.
“Kevin said you didn’t find any Tylenol in your purse in the car. Can I get some for you?” Chella asks with concern.
“No, thanks. I’ll take care of it when I get home, and it’s really not a big deal. I feel fine now. But I have to ask . . .” Kevin was concentrating on his dinner plate, but now looks up at me through his eyelashes. “. . . did you make the breadsticks, too? I thought maybe they were purchased, but I noticed the Bosch on the counter.”
Chella blushes. “Yes, I made them. I love to cook.”
“It’s your dream kitchen, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Landen calls it my playground. The year I spent on interior design and décor was mostly on the kitchen.”
“Your attention to detail has really paid off. Thanks for the tour.”
The conversation then turns to everyone’s work and hobbies, and we get to know each other better. Kevin is much more relaxed. I’m sure he’s relieved he got that off his chest.
“Is everyone ready for dessert?” Chella asks, returning from the kitchen with four white ceramic mugs piled with swirling whipped cream and sprinkled with curly shavings of dark chocolate. “Pots de crème,” she says, placing a mug in front of me.
My spoon sinks through the whipped cream and scoops out the rich chocolate below, pulling it back up through the cream. “Mmm. This is wonderful,” I sigh. You know, it is true—chocolate really does pair perfectly with any mood. A few minutes later, the doorbell rings. “That’s probably for me.”
The Garretts look surprised, but Kevin looks positively floored. Good! “You don’t need to get up. I’ll get my own coat. I have loved meeting you both, even though it was under false pretenses. Kevin told me this was a listing appointment. He lied so I would go out with him. He’s my real estate partner. Is? Well, was.” Everyone comes to their feet and follows me to the door anyway. My heart is jumping from my chest, and I restrain each step not to run through the foyer. I pull my coat across my arm and walk outside.
“Liam, this is Landen and Chella.” Turning to my hosts, I continue, “This is my boyfriend, Liam.”
Liam nods, though his face looks fierce. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes,” I answer, then say to Chella, “I wish we’d met another way. I’ve enjoyed your company and your home. Good night.”
Now it’s Kevin’s turn to look stunned and truly embarrassed. He steps across the threshold as Liam and I begin to turn away.
“Sophie, I thought things had changed for us after we slept together in La Junta.” The look on his face is insolent. So that’s how he is trying to save face, by throwing me under the bus. Shock burns through me. Liam swivels quickly, and his fist connects with Kevin’s nose, knocking him into the door molding and setting off the door chime. “Glamorous” sings again as I walk away.
Liam pivots back to me without giving Kevin another glance and wraps his arm around my waist protectively, leading me out of Kevin’s lies. He opens the passenger door of the Porsche for me, gets in the driver’s seat, and we leave.
Again, Liam is quiet. My thoughts are churning with disgust, embarrassment, and rage. He’s so quiet. How do I just keep blowing it with Liam? “Thank you,” I say in a small voice. “Thank you for punching Kevin’s nose and picking me up.”
Liam pulls the car to the curb and gets out. Then he opens my door and reaches for me. I step into his arms without saying anything. Neither does he. It feels so good to be with him. “You’re welcome. Call me anytime.”
“There’s something about La Junta I haven’t told you.”
“Sophie, you don’t have to say anything. I know who you are. And now we both know who he is.”
“Well, technically . . .”
Liam’s expression is gentle and relaxed. I wonder if mine looks the same. I doubt it with the anxiety raging over keeping secrets about our trip to La Junta.
“Well, technically, there was only one sofa sleeper where we stayed.”
“Yes,” Liam replies, “but that wasn’t what he meant by his comment. And he wasn’t really speaking to you, either. He got my reply.”
March 29, 2008
Newbie Blog:
I’m a Teacher
It’s obvious to me I’ve made the right choice to remain a teacher and drop the real estate career, which, I guess, is my fallback now.
I’ve dropped by the office three times today and haven’t seen Mr. Chavez yet. Finally, I ask Mrs. Johnson and am told he is at a conference and will be back on Thursday. I decide to email him.
__________________________________
Subject: Meet with you on Thursday?
April 1, 20083:32 PM
Hi Jonathan,
Mrs. Johnson said you would be back on Thursday. Can I meet with you? There are a few things I’d like to talk over with you.
Sophie
__________________________________
Everything about this decision feels right. If I hadn’t lived in Colorado Springs, if I hadn’t been a real estate agent when the market crashed, if I hadn’t gone to the interview, my life would be so different. Everything works out for a reason, doesn’t it? You just put all your possibilities into the universe and good things happen.
__________________________________
Subject: RE: Meet with you on Thursday?
April 2, 20087:47 AM
I will be back in my office on Thursday, but Mrs. Johnson has already scheduled my calendar very full. May I meet with you after school on Friday just before the end of contract time? Would 3:00 work?
JC
__________________________________
__________________________________
Subject: RE: RE: Meet with you on Thursday?
April 2, 20083:32 PM
Hi,
Sure. 3:00 on Friday is fine.
Thanks,
Sophie
__________________________________
Tuesday after school, Mrs. Hays joins me and Beth for planning time to go over the last-minute details for our field trip to the zoo tomorrow. Buses have been ordered to arrive at nine—check. Lunch ladies are making sack lunches—check. Enough parent volunteers have responded to have two to three students per group—check. (As long as Mrs. Gregg doesn’t ditch out again this time—check.) Teachers are not assigned a group—brilliant—check.
“Parent packets have been made?” Mrs. Hays queries, looking at me.
“Check,” I answer brightly.
“They have a map?”
“Check.”
“They have a schedule?”
“Check.” Seriously?
“Field trip and bus rules?”
Really. Do you think I’m incompetent? “Check.” I smile.
“Do you mind if we look them over?” she probes.
By “we” you mean “you.” And yes, in fact, I do mind. Maybe smug is how she always looks—her face relaxes into smug. I pull a red manila enve
lope off the stack on my counter and hand it to Mrs. Hays. She pulls the papers from the envelope and peels each one off the top, scrutinizing them.
What—no spelling errors? “I also included a thank-you letter to the parents for their help with the field trip and a gift card donated by the new ice cream place by the grocery store. They’ll give each volunteer a free dish of ice cream.”
“How thoughtful,” Beth says.
Without looking up, Mrs. Hays shoves the papers back into the envelope. “This looks in order,” she drones.
“Check,” I answer brightly.
Every student is on time today, and my class is swelling with excitement and laughter. All my students have been here for at least fifteen minutes and some for thirty.
Beth pokes her head in my door. “Excited much?”
“You think?”
“Mine too. Put your groups together and run over the bus rules. I’ll meet you out front by the flagpole. I’m getting the lunches loaded.”
“You can’t do that! Let me.” Beth is seven months along now. The baby seems to be sitting in front of her and not actually inside her. From the back you would never know she’s pregnant, but from the side it’s like an inflatable beach ball with an outie has been stuffed under her shirt.
“It’s okay, I’m just counting and supervising. Mr. Sam will be doing the lifting and carrying.”
Within half an hour, we’re seated on buses and bouncing over the roads toward the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo.
When we reach the zoo, we gather near the entrance. Mrs. Hays instructs the chaperones and students, “Lunch will be near the playground by Old Gnarly. Check your schedules and be on time. One of the teachers will be there all day if you need help. Remember to refill your water bottle often. Okay, have fun.”
The groups scatter, and I’m left standing with Beth and Mrs. Hays. The bus drivers have unloaded the wheeled ice chests and a power chair Beth’s husband insisted she use today. Good idea, since the trails in the zoo can be steep in places. Mrs. Hays and I pull the ice chests up the trail—definitely steep in places. By the time we reach the lunch spot, I’m surprised to see one of the groups from my class sitting on a bench, waiting for us.
