Renovated Heart

Chapter 1 It was shortly after eight on a Wednesday evening when real estate agent Joanne McConnell finally pulled into her parking spot outside her apartment complex. When had her nine-to-five career become an overtime nightmare? Being her own boss at thirty-six was supposed to mean she could set her own hours, but more and more frequently it seemed her clients set her schedule for her. And she didn’t like it. The morning had begun too damn early, in her opinion. As she trudged up the steps to her second floor garden apartment, she wearily reviewed the day’s events in her mind, searching for the moment when she’d lost control. It had to have been with her first client, a young couple expecting their third child and interested in moving into a larger home. The husband worked graveyard shift, and because he claimed he was most awake right when he got off work, he wanted to house hunt at the crack of dawn. Joanne had met him and his very pregnant wife at Starbucks, armed with a handful of carefully selected homes she thought they’d like. When the two clambered into her car to check out the offerings, everything looked promising. But there was something wrong with every single home she showed them. The yard was too small, the school district was bad, it had poor parking or loose shingles on the roof, and even when she explained the previous owners would pay to replace those, the couple was no longer interested. She had to dig deeper into her bag of tricks, but the more homes she showed them, the more they complained. This one was too large, these bedrooms were too small, this kitchen was cramped, there was no room for their piano in the living room here, this one had no den. By and large, though, their biggest complaint was price. Everything was too expensive, and the homes they could afford weren’t right. Finally Joanne had to beg off a little before noon because she had another client scheduled. “I’ll see if I can find something else in your price range,” she promised, knowing it would be fruitless but determined to try anyway. “I’ll call you in a few days—” “Maybe then you can show us the good stuff,” the husband said. “Those…what do you call them? Hidden listings. The ones that aren’t in the home books.” Joanne sighed. “You mean pocket listings?” Damn the internet, she thought. Google made people feel like instant experts in everything. Pocket listings were exclusive contracts some real estate agents held on properties that were not advertised in the multiple listing system, or MLS. Unfortunately, Joanne hadn’t been in the business long; she only had a few industry contacts, and almost all of her clientele found her through word of mouth. Her portfolio was growing, to be sure, but she didn’t have any pocket listings hidden away to unveil to the right buyer at the last minute. Many of the houses she showed she found the same way her clients did—in free home buying guides at convenience stores and gas stations. But admitting that would cost her the sale. Why involve an agent like herself when the client could buy direct? So instead of telling the couple they’d already seen her best, she simply nodded and murmured, “I’ll see what I can do.” Then it was off to a lunchtime meeting with a group of college kids looking for an “off-campus frat house” (their words), and Joanne let out a frustrated groan. There went whatever neighborhood she moved them into! She tried directing them towards isolated houses with large yards that might act as a buffer between them and any future neighbors, but the kids were adamant they wanted something downtown, close to campus. Which meant old Queen Anne row homes with thin walls and no off-street parking. She already knew she’d never get a referral from anyone who lived within earshot of the frat house, though the surrounding properties would likely clear out from all the noise and partying the kids would generate. She almost felt guilty helping them find neighbors to pester. Fortunately, the kids liked the first home she showed, which was a good thing—she had an afternoon meeting back at the office. She was an independent contractor, which only really meant her company didn’t have to give her benefits; she still had to attend the weekly sessions to check in and get the latest listings. A quick scan through the new homes, though, didn’t reveal anything any of her clients would want. She spent some time afterward hunting through the MLS listings—again, no dice—then took a call from a woman whose Mary Kay lady had bought through Joanne months earlier and recommended her. “I’m looking for a small bungalow,” the potential new client said. “Three bedrooms, two baths, two floors, and a large kitchen. A yard that gets direct sun, because I’m always out in the garden. A garage, too. Something set a ways off any major road, but close enough to zip into town when I need to. Do you have anything I can look at tonight?” Joanne should have said no. She should’ve said give her some time, let her look around, and she’d call back in a few days. It was already quarter after four, and five o’clock was only a few heartbeats away. But the thought of an easy sale dangled in front of her and, stupidly, she said, “Sure. I have a few homes I think you’d love. Give me a half hour to get a few things together, and then we can meet to review what I come up with. How’s that sound?” Idiotic, her mind whispered, but she ignored it. Turning back to her computer, she typed in the client’s requirements and hoped she’d get a few hits from the firm’s listings which she could show now, without having to wait to coordinate with the owners or retrieve the keys from another agent. It wouldn’t take too long. The client probably didn’t want to be out all night, either. * * * * She really should have said no. In their database, she only found two homes of interest, and of course they were on opposite sides of town. At five o’clock during rush hour traffic, it would take a good thirty minutes to get from one to the other, and that was only if the interstate was clear. Add in the time the client would spend at each home, and Joanne was looking at an hour overtime, tops. But if it landed her a sale… However, though the client had sounded really interested on the phone, she was less than enthusiastic in person. Joanne drove her to the first home, sure the woman would love it, but she spent most of her time fiddling with her smart phone as Joanne led her through the rooms. Maybe she’s taking pictures, Joanne thought. Or, who knows? Facetiming with her husband so he can see the place, too. But when Joanne snuck a peek over the woman’s shoulder, she saw a game of Words With Friends in progress. Dull anger rose within her. Seriously? I’m wasting my evening on this? In a clipped voice, she suggested, “If you’d rather we picked this up again tomorrow…” “What? No,” the woman said hurriedly, pocketing her phone. “I was just checking my e-mail. I’m waiting on a message from my boyfriend.” Lying b***h. Joanne bit the inside of her lip to keep from saying the words out loud. Though she knew she should have called it a night, Joanne agreed to show the second home. This time the woman’s phone stayed in her pocket, but Joanne could tell her heart wasn’t in the visit. With a sigh, the woman told her, “I’m really looking for something a bit…I don’t know. Larger?” “You said you wanted a bungalow,” Joanne pointed out. “Maybe something split-level?” her client asked. Joanne suppressed a growl of frustration. “That’s a completely different kind of house.” The woman nodded, her mind made up. “That’s what I want. Do you have any of those available?” By then it was already after seven. “I’ll have to look,” Joanne said. The woman stood, waiting, as if she expected Joanne to pull out an iPad and start searching right that minute. Joanne clarified, “Tomorrow, when I get back to the office—” “Oh, I was hoping to see some more homes tonight,” the woman complained. The next home I’m going to is my own, Joanne thought, irritated. Had she really once thought going into real estate would be fun?