Forced Sale

The fourth book was the one that really took off. It was recommended both by Larry King and by Oprah, and my agent said he had never seen such a reaction—and that it would be a while before it ever happened again.

It was a surprise to me, too. I didn't think the way that I had written about the old south would have been so well-received. I had anticipated that the book would have been too stuffy, since I felt like it was over-researched. And that it would have been too scandalous. I had expected that the old money families I had written about, whose debutante daughters still worked their charms to maximize the benefit of both their purses and their pussies; and whose young sons manipulated and pursued in order to add women, companies, and real estate to their conquests, would balk at the frank and detailed stories. But the south turned out to be highly receptive of the book.

And I also thought I would kill my own sales. Personally, I stood in sharp contrast to the elegant, mysterious, old south. I was new money. I had a successful career earned by working in the high-tech industry, back when the long nights and inventive thoughts had counted for more than being in the right place at the right time. The fruits of that success were allowing me to regain control of my own life. No longer did I need to slave away for eighteen hours a day, six days a week. I was semi-retired. I managed some rental property, lived off the dividends of my assets, and pursued my true dreams—one of which was writing.

My belief was that my first interview would cause my exploding writing career to crumble. Who would buy books from a guy who was already worth millions? Who worked hard for a fortune, then hit a home-run working his hobby? A scruffy, rich, technical guy wasn't what the people who bought this book wanted to see on the back cover when they were reading about the elegance and mystery of the old south.

But for the time being, I wasn't without spoils. I purchased a couple of exotic sports cars, which I rove as often as I could, and as aggressively as I could. My workhorse pickup truck was still with me. It was my first vehicle, now more than 25 years old. It was great for hauling those big things I seemed to need when maintaining one of my rental properties, or even taking care of my own home.

And my house—my house was modest, though not of a size that a single man my age would nominally purchase for himself. I lived in a neighborhood where most residents weren't so young, and where nobody else in the neighborhood association's contact list was single.

I reveled in the rift my success created, though. When I bought the cars, for instance, I went to the dealership in torn jeans and a tee-shirt. At the time I was working hard and I had just received my first sizable royalty check. I was flush with cash, but I was also in the middle of a wave of work on the next book and hadn't shaved in a while. And I wasn't sleeping a lot, either. When I get into the swing of things like that, I don't always have time to take care of myself. I had run out of allergy medicine and was sneezing frequently, and I was about three weeks overdue for a haircut. At the dealership, I had to mill around the parking lot for a while before a salesman finally approached me.

I told him that I wanted to buy a new one, and he chuckled. I shook it off, and persisted with questions about options—without asking of the prices. We returned to his desk in a low cubicle at the back of the showroom, and before the afternoon was over I spent more than a eighty thousand dollars and he learned a lesson about judging customers for their looks.

Whenever I return to the dealership for parts or service, I beam. All the employees greet me warmly by name. And quickly.

Since going starting my semi-retirement plan, though, incidents of my appearance betraying my status were not quite as common. I had time to take care of myself; I could work three or four days a week, quietly at home and as productively as ever. I had pursued my fiction writing more aggressively. Since I wasn't working another job at the time I was writing it, this new seemed as if it had rolled off my printer. And on the other days, I could relax, work out, and have time to enjoy my own self.

Of course, I stubbornly didn't dress or speak the part. I still wore jeans, though they weren't often as ragged. And I was still a direct, and blunt, and earthy, and honest. Nothing like the southern old-money society families I had been writing about.

In retrospect, I suppose that behavior and attitude is what caused me trouble with my new real estate agent. That newest title was only just released, but renewed swarm of media attention had it selling like hotcakes, and I didn't realize that my literary agent had anticipated it—bless his soul. He had negotiated an aggressive deal which brought me a better royalty percentage, and managed my withholding in such a way that, as the book took off, the publisher owed me even more money because of the successful sales.

With those funds burning a hole in my pocket, and with my success solidifying instead of crumbling away under me, I had called my previous real estate agent to see about buying a new place. I was pretty particular about a couple of exclusive neighborhoods in town. They were on a hill, surrounding a rolling, plush golf course. I had no interest in golf, but I supposed that I'd use the tennis courts and weight room at the club. And even if I didn't have a view of the golf course, the hill overlooked a wonderful valley that ran east towards the bigger mountains.

When I made the call, I was disappointed to find that my original real estate agent had left the firm and moved out of state. But the office receptionist remembered me, and offered to get someone new to call me back right away. And she did: within the hour, I received a call from a new agent. On the phone, her voice struck me as tremendously alluring, though I talked myself out of thinking that she'd be attractive because a long string of disappointments has taught me that one can't make an accurate physical appraisal over the phone.

We agreed we would meet at her office and go over some maps. I'd talk to her a bit about other neighborhoods, I guessed, and then spring my interest about Fairway Ridge.

When I arrived at the office, she kept me waiting for only a couple of minutes. She introduced herself as Monica, I as Joe, and we shook hands warmly. I was pleasantly surprised: she was very trim and petite, in a snappy grey skirt and a cream silk blouse. My over-the-phone appraisal, for once, was somewhat accurate.

While she was about five-foot-six, she was very thin with broad shoulders and nice curves. She had flowing blonde hair, though it was only just long enough to reach her shoulders. Her blouse had a deep neckline, and immodestly revealed the ample swell of her chest. A gray jacket covered her chest and conserved her appearance. Her look was very subtle, but quite sexy.

As I noticed her figure, I smiled warmly. And as she noticed my attire, she seemed to wince. Just as I met eyes with her, I caught a cloud pass over her face—as if she was deciding that her chance at a commission was too small and this trip wouldn't be worth her effort.

She led me back into the offices, and I watched her ass. Her jacket was fitted and suggested narrow waist, and her skirt ended a few inches above her knee. The slit in the back spread just a bit with each stride, and I saw glimpses of the backs of her thighs.

I declined her offer of coffee or a soft drink. "What sort of areas are you interested in, Joe?" she asked, as we entered her office.

"Well, I'd like to upgrade a little bit. I've been thinking of a larger home with some acreage, maybe a little seclusion. And I've thought a bit about Fairway Ridge." I abandoned any plan of waiting and teasing. Why not go right for my goal?

She stopped where she stood, behind her desk before sitting down. "Oh, really?" she asked. She was beyond cold, now—she was baiting me. "And have you arranged for financing?"

"I don't think that will be a problem."

She looked at me up and down again. My appearance had been improving, but I was still far from being a clothes horse. My polo shirt wasn't tucked into my jeans, and the Velcro strap on my sandal had ripped so it flopped with each step. I wore a nice watch, but by an obscure Swiss manufacturer that only watch collectors seem to recognize. I really like platinum jewelry, but my ring was old and tired—most people assume it's silver, or even that it's as cheap steel piece from a folk fair vendor.

"Well, I suppose I can show you what's there. And I think there are actually two homes listed at this time. But that is a very exclusive neighborhood. Your earnest money, alone, will be an amount over fifty thousand dollars. Are you prepared for that?"

"I don't think it will be a problem, Monica," I said. I locked eyes with her and gently stressed my words. I hoped she would get the idea and make this fun instead of challenging.

"Where's your wife?"

"I'm single." As if it's your business, you cunt. Why are they pretty ones so bitchy?

"Mmmm. Well, okay." She seemed to be resigning herself showing me the properties, as if she fully expected me to falter when it came to the finances. She turned to her computer and used the Multiple Listing Service software to print pages for the two listings in the neighborhood.

I thought of bluntly asking for an agent that was more motivated. I watched her pick up the phone and contact the Fairway Ridge home owner's association security service. She talked with them quickly, and it was apparent she knew the neighborhood well.

After providing her state agent license number, the security firm gave her a security code for the neighborhood gate. "Is this Alexander?"

I could only hear one half of the conversation, of course.

"Yeah! How have you been?"

Another pause. She smiled.

"About twenty minutes from now." Then she laughed, and another pause while she listened.

"I don't think so." She looked at me. I was staring directly at her. Apparently, she didn't expect that and turned quickly away, busying herself with something on her desk. Guessing by her reaction, she was talking about me. "But we'll see. OK—OK, bye!"

She replaced the phone in its cradle, grabbed her car keys, and stood.

"We can go out for a look right now, if you'd like." Again, her tone belied her. In direct contrast with her phone conversation, she was clearly cold to me. She was warm and all smiles with the security guard. I consoled my disappointment by studying her for just a second longer than I should have, and maybe just a second or two longer than was socially acceptable. Her posture held her shoulders high, making a wonderful presentation of her breasts and neckline. Her wide stance conveyed her confidence, which before it became bitchy, was actually attractive. Even with her jacket obscuring my view, I could that her flat stomach relieved the fabric of her skirt over the flat of her belly, and her hips were plainly visible in the contour.

Finally I rose too, and met her eyes. "Thank you," I said.

She asked if I needed to use the restroom, and I declined. She said she wanted to, and would meet me in front in a couple of minutes.

I walked through the lobby and outside into the parking lot. There weren't many cars here; I guessed that the luxury import or the SUV would be hers. The sports car I drove to the meeting was parked near the entrance but facing the street. But I noticed a beaten economy car, so I stood next to it and waited for her. I decided I would bait her, just a little bit.

Monica emerged from the office, scanned the parking lot, and found me. "I can drive," I offered, and pointed over my shoulder at the car. I suddenly hopped it didn't belong to anyone she knew. "Jesus Christ," she muttered under her breath. She looked away, then back at me. "That's fine. I can take us both comfortably." She pointed at the black SUV.

I climbed into the passenger seat, chuckling to myself. As we started driving away from town, I wondered why she hadn't tried to initiate some small-talk. Or why she hadn't tried to ask me about the kind of house I wanted, or what parameters in my home would be most important to me. There wasn't much reason to wonder, of course: my appearance and demeanor had put her off. We passed the drive in silence, then, until we entered the gate. She entered her code, and the gate began sliding open.

Just as she entered the gate, a security guard popped out of a tiny outbuilding. She stopped and rolled down her window. "Hi, Alex!"

"Morning, Monica. How long will you be?"

"Not more than an hour, I don't expect. We'll have exclusive access, won't we?"

"Yes, you will," he said, and smiled.

"Great. Thank you!" She rolled up the window and didn't wait for a reply from the security guard.

As she drove forward, she addressed me again. "There are two properties for sale here, now," she announced coldly.

"Does one have a better view?"

"Of the—yes. But it's a little more expensive," she replied. I felt that she stopped her intended answer. She should be telling me about the property itself instead of fixating on its price.

"Let's try that one, then."

She sighed, quietly. "It's not occupied, as the owners have already left. But they're doing some repairs in anticipation of a move in. So, the upstairs is a bit of a mess." She glanced at me. "I guess that won't matter to you."

I chuckled. "No, it won't bother me a bit." I paused a beat before addressing her. "Monica, look. I have the money. I'm interested in living here for the security and seclusion. If you want to make a sale, you really need to improve your attitude."

She gasped, and said: "What about you? Look at the way you're dressed. Do you think that's appropriate? Don't you think—"

"Do you want the sale or not?" I was getting a little angry. Sell me the fucking house, you bitch. This will be over soon enough, and you'll get your six percent.

She didn't respond. We pulled into the driveway, which rolled over a little hill and then snaked its way through some thick trees to the house. There were lights along the driveway. I enjoyed that kind of detail.

She parked the SUV in a loop at the top of the driveway, in front of the four-bay garage. She got out. With her door still open, she took off her jacket in the warm sunshine, opened the back door, and hung it carefully in the rear of the truck.

I shook my head; this wasn't going to be fun at all. Even the car salesman warmed-up to me, and I found that amusing. But Monica wasn't warming up at all. She hadn't asked what I did for a living, or where I had found the money, or what interested me in this neighborhood. My responses to those questions would reduce her fears and let us get on with business. But she wasn't asking them.

And the exchange we just had? How far would any business get if they treated their customers like that? She hadn't even offered an apology. In fact, her attitude was making me just a little bit angry. Someone in her position should work with their clients, not judge them. Perhaps I had taken my own game just a little bit too far.

She opened the lock box at the front of the house, a sprawling architectural feat that faced the golf course. But the course wasn't visible from the turnaround because of the trees in the front of the lot. The landscaping was very natural; the grass gently gave way to the denser trees at the edge of the front yard. Inside the turnaround, there were thick green bushes and small landscaping trees in the flower beds.

The home opened into a huge, sunken grand room with windows that faced towards the front. We walked through there into the formal dining room, and that led into the kitchen. The dining room had bay windows which looked into the valley. The view was marvelous; there were far fewer trees in the back yard than out front, and the hills appeared over the lush grass of the fairway in a breathtaking perspective. The kitchen had some large windows, too, facing in the same direction. Sliding glass doors just past the breakfast nook opened on to a wooden deck.

Monica turned to watch me for a second, and then continued walking. I took note of her behavior and immediately became interested in the appliances. If she felt like she was dragging me around now, I'd make sure she felt the weight.

I knew I already wanted the house. I'd found a website by the selling agent which had a walk-through multimedia tour, and even included floor plans that I downloaded and studied. But I took my time. I was looking out the kitchen windows at the view, and just wasting time.

She returned to the far doorway. "The rest of the house is this way."

I ignored her. "Isn't this a wonderful breakfast area?" It really was. There was a breakfast bar—a real one, not just the end of a countertop facing an open area. The other side of the room opened to a marvelous deck that rose over the sloping grounds towards the golf course. The door that Monica guarded led off in the other direction to the rest of the first floor. A walk-in pantry, a door that I figured lead to the basement, a narrow private stairway to the second floor, and a yawning door with an arch top that went back to the formal dining room—the doorway which we entered to get here, into the kitchen.

"Yes, it is," she said impatiently. Not really in sales mode, are we, Monica?

"How wide is this area? Fifteen feet?"

"I guess," she said.

"Well, uh, I have a big table to put in here. Do you have a tape measure?"

She rolled her eyes, digging in her purse for the tape. We measured the room—twenty-one feet wide.

"I'm sure your table will fit."

I thought about questioning her, perhaps insisting that it wouldn't fit just to milk her a little bit more. But I decided to let it drop. A little slack in the line now would let me reel her in harder, later.

We toured the rest of the first floor. The kitchen nook opened into a den, with a fireplace and impressive built-in bookshelves. Well—Monica had called this room a "den". It was really a library. The built-in bookshelves were simply beautiful, rising to windows that opened towards the high ceiling. The interior wall needed to be painted, but it was the only flaw I had found so far. That same wall rose to a balcony which made the hallway for the second floor after the landing for the stairs in the formal entry curled around. It was very open and airy.

The shelves were incredibly tall, with a two rolling ladders hooked to rails above the shelves. In the middle of the room, under the windows, there was a niche for some paintings or a desk.

A home theater room was behind the den in a small hallway leading to the garage. The theater room included no equipment, but Monica said that the movie house chairs would stay with the home. The room had both a false back and a false front; perfect for hiding all the electronics. I thought about mounting a projector and speakers, and made Monica take some more measurements. Then, I asked her to write them down for me. She didn't seem to like that. She tore the page from her notebook and handed it to me as if she was giving away a used tissue.

We moved on through the mud room—a real mud room, with a rack for coats and a utility basin, and room enough for a bench and shoes and an umbrella rack—into the garage. There were two pull-through bays, so the garage housed six. I was really falling in love with the home, and Monica was getting impatient. I made her help me measure the ceiling; I was looking forward to working on my own cars in my spare time, and wanted to install a lift. She rolled her eyes when I mentioned my plan.

We proceeded back through the mud room, and Monica pointed out the laundry room opposite the mud room in the hallway. It was giant; two washers and two dryers, a giant ironing area, and an island countertop in the middle. The layout was very sensible, absolutely maximizing utility from the already large space. I thought of my first apartment, where I couldn't open the door on the oven and the dishwasher at the same time because they'd block the floor in-between. Now, I'm moving into a house with a laundry room that must have been designed by a team work efficiency experts.