by Murphy, R.
I paced the deck for another minute, now oblivious to the gorgeous morning. “I need to run the numbers again and give this some thought, Penny Mae. I’m not sure it makes sense to sell if I just wind up in the same financial hole in a new location. I’ll call you in a few hours.” I shook my head as I hung up. I still needed a nest egg to carry me over for a few months once I’d paid off the mortgage. If I gave these newlyweds the bargain of their dreams, that nest egg would vanish in the mist and I could be flipping burgers in a strange city while I hunted for work. I didn’t like even thinking about such a grim scenario. But maybe Knobox? I knew I couldn’t count on it yet. And jeepers, young, romantic newlyweds . . . Who didn’t have a soft spot for such a couple?
While I wandered the deck I noticed Stan out early, shoveling shale into his decrepit wheelbarrow. Once it had been green, but decades of heavy use had stripped virtually all the paint off. Postponing my rendezvous with the calculator, I walked over to visit and finalize arrangements for our trip to the Community Chorus’ final concert in a few days.
As usual, Stan’s placid acceptance of life calmed me down. He kept shoveling while we discussed time frames for the concert. After agreeing that he’d be over at my place at six, Stan slowed down his shoveling, studied my face for a minute, and then said, “What’s on your mind this morning, Roz? Something’s bothering you.” Gradually I found myself telling him about the offer I’d just received on the house. Stan folded his arms and rested them on the handle of his now-quiet shovel. He gave me a rare sharp look.
“What are the names of those newlyweds who want this nice big fat wedding present from you?” he questioned me with more interest than I’d usually seen from him.
“I don’t know their names,” I stuttered, surprised. “Why do you ask? Do you know some newlyweds who are house-hunting on the lake?”
“Newlyweds? Hah! Ray Chapman and Irene have lived together for years. He’s been married four times, she’s on her third, but I did hear they just made it official a couple of weeks ago. They’re my age, for cripe’s sake. I wouldn’t put it past the old coot to be crying ‘poor’ so he could save some money on a lake house. He’s richer than Roosevelt, but it would be just like him to play the newlywed card to try to get a bargain offa someone. You go back to this Penny Mae lady and find out the names of the newlyweds. I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts Ray’s trying to pull the wool over your eyes.”
“I’d be surprised if Penny Mae fell for their tricks,” I said, puzzled. “She’s pretty savvy.”
“She’s one of them reelatoors, ain’t she? Usually they’ll do just about anything to get a sale is what I’ve heard,” Stan replied in a brusque tone. “If that was Ray and Irene, your reelatoor played you like a fish when she said they were poor newlyweds looking for a good price. I’m not sure I’d trust that young lady as far as I could throw her. And”—he picked up his shovel and returned to filling sandbags, motions abrupt with anger—“I sure as heck would not be very happy if Jacob and his chippy moved in just down the road from me. Nosey sorts, I hear, and I like to keep my private business private,” he said in the huffiest tone I’d ever heard from him.
I waved goodbye and returned home to rerun my finances. Regardless of the drama behind the offer, it was an offer nonetheless, and there weren’t a lot of them being made on lake houses during this Great Recession. Shuffling through my mortgage statements, I came to the reluctant decision that, even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t accept the offer. Either the buyers came up with more money, or they’d have to move on. Sure, if I accepted their offer I could pay off my mortgage, but there’d be no nest egg left for me to live on for a few months while I settled into a new job.
After dialing Penny Mae’s number, I settled in for a long talk.
“Hi, Roz,” she answered perkily on the second ring. “Have you had a chance to make up your mind on the offer? I told the other real estate agent that we’d be back to them by the end of the day.”
“Before I give you my decision, Penny Mae, I’m curious about these buyers. You called them newlyweds, right?”
“They sure are. Why, they’ve only been married a couple of weeks. About as newly-wed as they come.” Penny Mae chuckled throatily, as if she and I shared a secret.
“Are they a local couple?” I continued my interrogation relentlessly, and I could visualize Penny Mae starting to squirm on the other end.
“Umm, yeah, they are, although I’m not sure what difference that would make one way or another. After all, a newlywed is a newlywed,” Penny Mae chirped.
“Their name wouldn’t happen to be Chapman, would it?”
Now the silence on the other end was complete. “Why do you ask?” a subdued voice questioned.
“Well, a friend mentioned a newly married couple he knew named Chapman who might play off their newly married status to get some unsuspecting lake-owner to take a big hit on their asking price on a lake cottage. But I said you’d never go along with any such shenanigans. I knew you couldn’t be that desperate to make a sale. Correct?” I said sharply.
A gasp from the other end, then Penny Mae said, a little snippily I thought, “Well, Roz, I guess my attitude differs from yours. I always think a genuine offer is a genuine offer, and the background story for the buyers doesn’t really matter. The critical issue is whether the buyers have the money in the bank to back up their purchase and these people do. You said you focused on numbers. Maybe you should forget how these buyers described themselves.”
“They didn’t describe themselves to me at all, Penny Mae―you did,” I said in a firm voice. “You’re the one who brought me an offer twenty percent lower than the lowest number I told you I could accept and then described them as newlyweds so that I wouldn’t turn it down out of hand. Frankly, it makes me wonder if I can trust you.”
“Don’t get carried away, Roz. I figured you would want to make a counteroffer that would bring the price up a considerable amount. Most people do. These folks probably expect you to. So instead of getting upset, why don’t we talk about where you’d fall on a counteroffer?”
Sure, I’d considered the counteroffer possibility. But mostly the trust issue worried me. I felt like Penny Mae was trying to manipulate me, and I didn’t like the feeling one bit. So I put my concerns on the table.
“Penny Mae, I feel like you’re trying to manage me, and it’s not my favorite feeling in the world.”
“Roz,” Penny Mae said, an edge of frustration in her voice, “I’m not trying to manage anything except the sale of a lake house in the middle of a recession where no houses, especially not optional second homes, are moving on the market. When you hired me, you told me you needed to sell. I’ve brought you an offer. It’s as simple as that,” Penny maintained in her dogged, professional voice.
Simple is definitely what it was not. I began to suspect, though, that my frustrations had as much to do with Penny Mae’s pursuit of David as they did with a low-ball offer on the house. Who needed that kind of complication? Since I had no right to get involved in David’s personal life any more I tried to clear my mind and focus only on the financial matter at hand.
“Penny Mae, I’ve run the numbers again, and I won’t sell the house for less than . . .” I named the figure circled in red on the mortgage papers in front of me. “If I can’t get that number I’ll take the house off the market and figure out a way to pay my mortgage until the real estate market picks up in a few years. I’m not going to sell my home to bottom-feeders.”
“Fine, Roz. I’ll call the purchasers’ real estate agent and let them know your bottom line. We’ll see what they say. I’ll tell him I need to have an answer tonight by eight. Can I call you at home then?”
“No, I’ll be at the last Community Chorus performance then. You can leave a message on my cell and I’ll call you as soon as I’m done there.”
“Oh,
that’s right―I forgot,” she said, “I guess I’ll just see you there and catch you in person at the concert. After sitting in on the chorus rehearsal the other day, I’m going to join in the fall. I’ve always loved singing and it sounds like you folks have so much fun. Your Carnegie Hall concert with a weekend in Manhattan must have been a blast.”
“Yes, we did have a good time,” I replied in a wooden tone. I knew perfectly well why Penny Mae had such a sudden, avid interest in the Community Chorus, and it had nothing to do with singing or trips to Manhattan. It had to do with a certain good-looking dark-haired grape grower. Darn it. “Okay, then I’ll see you this evening and we’ll discuss where we are with this offer.”
“See you then,” Penny Mae signed off cheerfully, unruffled by any part of our conversation.
Oh, how I wished I could have that Teflon skin. I’d be chewing over our words for hours.
Later that afternoon, after a sweaty hill walk and a soothing hot shower, I sat down on the bed in the middle of the outfits I’d been trying on for the concert. Even though Stacey restricted us to black bottoms and white tops for our performances, I still wanted to explore my options. Tight, short black skirt, maybe? It’s hard to decide what to wear to a concert when you know your ex-boyfriend is going to come under assault by a diminutive but determined Marilyn Monroe. Penny Mae would be gorgeous, I knew, even though she leaned toward very casual dress in her off-hours, Daisy Dukes and visible thongs her typical outfit of choice. I didn’t think the Daisy Dukes would be present tonight but even if she wore a gunny sack she’d still be stunning. How do you compete with that? Simple―you don’t. Thank goodness.
As I modeled a black A-line skirt in the mirror, a drop of water fell on my hand. Puzzled, I searched for its origins. I wasn’t sweating, and my hair was mostly dry after my shower. No drips from the ceiling that I could see. Where the heck had that water come from? The shriek of the phone distracted me, both from the drip and from my wardrobe musings. It was Tess.
For a few minutes Tess burbled about our visit in Manhattan and the kudos she’d been accumulating. She read me the ‘attagirl’ letter she’d received from Dick, and promised to send me a copy of the letter from the President for my portfolio, with a letter from her clarifying my role in the win. “We’re having a great time promoting this award in the community,” Tess continued. “Dick is so pleased with the recognition we’re receiving from many of our clients and vendors. It’s been a win-win all around. And,” she continued enthusiastically, “it doesn’t stop there, Roz.
“You impressed Tom so much in New York that he said he’d be willing to fly you out here to interview for our new position. I shouldn’t say this, but he really liked you. He thought some of the ideas you mentioned in our meeting could be very effective in next year’s campaign. Oh, I have a good feeling about this!” she trilled, then hastened to dampen her enthusiasm. “Of course, there are no guarantees here and we’ll have to post the position for any internal candidates who might be interested but,” she continued gleefully, “Tom’s interest is a good sign, Roz. A very good sign! Could you fly out sometime next week?”
“You just say when, Tess, and I’ll be there,” I chimed in with enthusiasm. “I’d just love to be able to work with you and the team on a full-time basis. It would be great!” Visions of health care insurance and paid vacation time danced through my head.
“I’ll email you the details tomorrow. I want to move on this quickly, while everyone is basking in the glow. I definitely want to get you out here no later than next week. I’ll be in touch,” Tess said, hanging up the phone with that definitive note in her voice.
Although too early by far to celebrate a job offer, I felt optimistic about this positive turn of events and continued dressing in a rare upbeat mood. For an evening, I pushed that mysterious water drip to the back of my mind and decided to focus on the positive. Maybe everything would work out, after all, and this miserably difficult period of my life would be just a memory in a few months. I’d have money, I’d have a coterie of business friends—well, except petulant young Charli—and I’d belong somewhere and my life would make sense, with a clear, defined path forward. What a change of pace that would be!
Stan showed up a couple of minutes early for our trip into Avondale. I hadn’t seen the suit he wore since Mary’s funeral and I realized, again, that for a seventy-ish-year-old man, he didn’t look too shabby. During the drive, I brought him up to date on the Chapman situation. He shook his head and I heard him mutter under his breath, “Damn Ray.” Stan’s irritation gave off a decades-old vibe. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Ray had tried to get Mary’s attention in their high school days, or worse yet, had tried to horn in before Mary and Stan set up housekeeping.
Winter-scrubbed air filtered into the car, still holding an undercurrent of chill but also carrying the fresh green scent of a new season. We worked our way through Avondale’s version of a traffic jam—two horse-drawn buggies and a pickup truck with a flat crowding the side of the road—and joined other neighbors on the sidewalk to the Community Center.
My potential-job-offer good cheer lasted until I entered the room. In the large hall where we’d be singing our final concert of the season, every metal seat had been unloaded from the storage closets. Many of those seats now held family and friends. I’d achieved the enjoyable status of recognizing neighbors and gave a few waves. Then I noticed Penny Mae.
Although seated in the first row, butt planted firmly in the chair to prevent anyone else from stealing it, Penny Mae still managed to work the room and her contact list without ever getting up. Of course she looked lovely. Her low-cut dark-blue dress (how on earth had she ever found out that blue was David’s favorite color?) hugged every curve and a ridiculously high-heeled shoe dangled off her toes at the end of her crossed legs. Definitely a woman on the prowl. If I hadn’t been so frustrated by the situation I’d managed to set in motion, I could almost summon a wisp of pity for David. The poor guy didn’t have a clue. Talk about dogged, relentless pursuit. Penny Mae had the schlub in her sights and she wasn’t about to let go.
Penny Mae beckoned when she saw me. “We’re almost there, Roz,” she whispered jubilantly. “The buyer’s real estate agent hinted they’re seriously considering coming up to your minimum―sounds like they really want your place.” She monitored the people sitting nearby to make sure they couldn’t hear us, then murmured, “Call me tomorrow morning and I’ll let you know where we stand. It’s looking good!” She reached over and pumped my hand in a hearty, business-like handshake.
I escaped into the back room and joined my choral companions. We women touched up our lipstick and hair, while most of the men buffed their shoes on the back of their slacks. Stacey stepped to the front of the room. Using her pitch pipe she warmed us up in quiet chords for a few minutes, then closed her hand to silence everyone so she could give us her customary pre-concert pep talk.
“What a year it’s been, hasn’t it, folks? So much fun, and I have to thank you for all of the hard work and enthusiasm you put into making Carnegie Hall and all of our seasonal concerts such a success,” Stacey said. “Tonight I want you to celebrate our triumphs by sharing your musical joy with the neighbors and friends who always support us. Have a great time out there, and sopranos, remember to watch out for that tricky entrance in ‘Jazz Memories.’ Like the song says, I’ll see you in September. Have a great summer, everyone, and let’s have some fun tonight!”
The program opened with our, by this time, very well-rehearsed Shakespeare songs. Even though the melody of ‘It was a lover, and his lass,’ plucked at my heart strings because it made me think about David, Stacey kept us moving along in tempo. Then I got my star moment.
At our first rehearsal after our Carnegie Hall debut, Stacey had announced that I would be reciting the lines for the St. Crispin’s Day speech from Henry V at our final Community Chorus concert. I th
ink it was her way of making up for the rotten time I’d had with Prout and Trevor in Manhattan. (Either that, or it kept me from singing too much. Hmm . . .) Her consolation prize worked, except that I couldn’t get thoughts of battles and their aftermaths out of my head. And not just Shakespeare’s blood and gore battles, either. Metaphorical battles, like my constant striving to repair the damage done in my life by a magnificently indifferent, utterly ruthless Economy. The white whale to my Ahab. The bull to my matador. The totem pole in my survival waltz.
Stacey permitted me to hold Shakespeare’s speech so I could read it, but I’d practiced so often that his words not only rolled off my tongue without prompting, but they’d sunken into my brain and colored my life. I’d walked around with Elizabethan phrases echoing in my head for weeks. ‘We few, we happy few,’ ‘We band of brothers,’ and ‘Gentlemen in England, now abed, shall think themselves accursed they were not here.’ Henry’s laudatory, enthusiastic speech about how the soldiers who survive the upcoming battle will be celebrated for the rest of their lives. How they’ll get free drinks in the pub every night as onlookers beg them to recount the glory of the victory. How the valor of the soldier bestrides the terror of death.
The words surrounded me, weaving into my days of real estate skirmishes and feints of thoughtfulness in planning meetings. I loved Henry’s martial words about the glory accruing to those who would survive, and the envy cowards would feel toward them in future years for their heroic achievement.
