1
The minute I hear the mailman leave I’m pouncing on the mailbox. I had enough dignity to not actually be standing outside waiting for him—barely. My real estate license should be here today. That means I can call Jeremy and start working right away, and I can’t start working soon enough. That’s what the numbers in my bank account are telling me anyway. I carry the mail into the kitchen, ignoring the fact that there is more than one envelope with large threatening red letters.
Yes! There it is. I tear open the envelope and pull out the little laminated card and stare at it. My picture isn’t great—but what ID picture is ever great? Who cares? I’m licensed. I can finally say I sell homes for a living, and finally actually have something to live off. This is L.A., everyone wants to live here. In the meantime, the last of my savings will cover me until I can get my first house sold and the paperwork signed.
I pop a frozen meal in the microwave, running to grab the clothes I’ve set aside for today. Hopefully I’ll be able to use them. Jeremy—my cousin—agreed to let me start at his company Sunset Realty. I think it was his mother that talked him into it honestly, but I’m not going to argue with it. I need a place to hang my license, and his company has a great reputation.
Slipping on the heels and dress I ironed earlier, I grab my cell phone and dial Jeremy’s office number. It rings a couple of times before he picks up. “Jeremy Nelson.”
“Hey Jeremy, it’s Penelope.”
His voice warms a bit from his usual business tone. “Hey Pen, what’s up?”
“My license came today.” I can’t keep the smile out of my voice.
“Really? That’s great.” He sounds distracted, but when he’s at work Jeremy is usually distracted.
“Yeah,” I say, “so I’m available whenever.”
I hear papers shuffling around. “This is actually perfect timing. I didn’t think I was going to have anything for you for a while, but I had someone quit today.”
“Oh, wow. I’m sorry.” I feel like a terrible person at the bubble of excitement that floats up through me.
“It happens,” he says. “How soon can you get here? Sam had a showing for a new client at four.”
I look at the clock. It’s one-thirty. I calculate the distance in my head—the office isn’t too far. “I can be there by two. Two-fifteen at the latest.”
“Great. See you then.” He hangs up before I can say goodbye.
I race through my make-up routine, trying to be as fast and accurate as possible. I count myself lucky that I honed my getting ready speed so well in college. The food is done when I get back to the kitchen, and I eat it quickly while holding it over the sink so I don’t spill something on myself. I used to get jokes that I couldn’t make it through a meal without some kind of spill. Today’s not the day to prove those people right.
I leave my dishes in the sink and unplug the microwave. These days I don’t leave anything plugged in if I don’t have to. Not powering that little LCD display may only save me five cents this month, but this month five cents might be all I have to spare. Grabbing my purse and my new license, I’m out the door. Not as fast as I wanted, but I’ll still make it to the office by two-fifteen.
Twenty minutes later I’m pulling into the parking lot and thanking the traffic gods for clear roads and the fact that I wasn’t pulled over for my less-than-legal speed. I head on in, and Jeremy is on the phone when I get to his office. He gestures for me to sit while he finishes the call, and hands me a folder. Inside is the information for an absolutely gorgeous mansion in Beverly Hills. Perfect swimming pool and view overlooking the valley.
Jeremy finishes the call. “Hey, Penelope.”
“Hi.” I can’t keep the smile off my face.
“I forgot to say congratulations when we talked earlier. I know it’s been a long time coming.”
“Thanks.”
He points to the folder in my hands. “That’s the house Sam set up a showing for. It’s at four o’clock. Take care of this first, meet the client, show him the house. Might as well jump straight in with your first client, right? Nothing teaches like experience. Tomorrow we’ll get you more up to speed on things in the office and we can assign you some properties.”
“Sounds good.” I nod. “Who’s the client?”
Jeremy waves his hand, “He calls himself Mr. Corduroy. He’s one of these incredibly wealthy people who wants his real name kept out of things until the last minute.”
“Okay,” I say, laughing.
“Don’t worry,” Jeremy says, “he was a referral from one of our existing clients—one of mine actually. I’m not sending you off to meet a crazy person.”
“I appreciate that,” I say, standing. “Actually, if that’s all you want for today, I’ll head over to the house now. I’d like to do a walk through so I’m more familiar with it before I do a showing.”
“Thinking like a realtor already,” Jeremy says, handing me a card. “Here. This is your new login to our website. In case you need to access a listing or schedule a showing while you’re not here.”
I take the card and tuck it into my wallet. “Thanks. See you tomorrow?”
“Good luck.”
The sun momentarily blinds me as I step out of the building and I take a breath, trying to calm my nerves. My first client. A very rich client. This is going to be great. It’s going to be easy. Easier than easy. I take another deep breath and force my body to relax. Then I get into my car and head toward the hills, fully ready to impress my new mystery client.
2
The house is just as gorgeous as the pictures. A sprawling tangle of hardwood floors and creamy walls. It’s very sleek, with a lot of natural light and open spaces. It also has a large surrounding property—rare in L.A.—and a nice privacy fence. I can see why someone who changes his name for something like this might value the addition of the fence. I think anyone would like to live here. Hell, I would love to live here. But I'm not a millionaire, so I must make due.
I make some notes in the file of the house, ways I can pitch and highlight the various features. Between the drive over and my walk through, four o’clock comes way too soon. I head outside to wait for the client. It’s nice outside, cooler than a normal summer day with a slow breeze coming across the valley. I don’t mind standing outside.
Then four-fifteen comes around.
Four-thirty.
Four-Forty-Five.
My frustration has been building for the last forty-five minutes, and I’m practically seething. Did Sam even confirm this appointment?
Is it possible that the client isn’t coming at all? I’m about to give up and call Jeremy when a car pulls into the driveway. Damn it’s a nice car. A silver sports car that looks like it would be more at home on the Autobahn than the clogged streets of L.A. It pulls to a smooth stop next to my car, making my sedan look like it’s fresh from the junkyard.
I bite the inside of my cheek and force myself to smile, not letting my irritation show. The door of the car opens, and Derek Conway steps out of the car. The. Derek. Conway.