The F-Word

I can ignore it.

I can tell her about it and hand her a tissue—she has a box of them on her desk.

Or I can lean down and lick that drop away.

A shot of heat goes from my balls to the top of my head.

“What?” she says, and for half a second I wonder if she sees flames shooting out of my fly.

“Nothing,” I say crisply. “I just—I just—I forgot something.”

She pushes back her chair. “Tell me what it is and I’ll get it.”

I wave my hand in the air. “Not necessary. It isn’t important.”

She looks puzzled. “But you said—”

“I’ll see you at two,” I say, and I turn my back to her and make my escape.

* * *

I meet my would-be clients at a place tucked into the heart of Old Greenwich. The Scotts chose it and it’s handsome and quiet, but it figures that it’s all dark wood, spindle-top chairs, and enough potted plants that I expect to be handed a watering can instead of a wine glass. Still, the food is good, the wine is, too, and the Scotts are nice people. We have some general conversation over glasses of a Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon.

Then we get down to business.

Mostly it consists of me giving them all the reasons building the house they envision on those four acres would be a mistake. I talk about the rise of the land, the view out over a forest, the small lake and the untouched valley just beyond it. I tell them it all calls for something sleek with lots of glass, high ceilings and pale floors. When they don’t say anything, I tell them I wish I could build their house for them, but I can’t.

I can see I’ve finally gotten through.

Jim Scott puts his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers.

“We appreciate your honesty, Matt.”

I shrug. “I’d be wrong to pretend that I share your vision for this house, Jim. And I know it sounds corny, but I think sharing a vision for a place is important.”

The Scotts nod at each other. Jim looks at me. “Would it be possible for you to—“

“Recommend someone? Absolutely.” I take a sheet of paper from my pocket. I’ve written two names and phone numbers on it. “Either of these guys would be excellent choices. Be sure and tell them I sent you.”

Jim hands the paper to his wife. She tucks it into her pocketbook. Then we talk about stuff for another couple of minutes and Jim

reaches for the check.

I get to it first.

“It’s my pleasure,” I say, and it truly is. I like this couple. I just don’t like what they want to do with that land.

We stroll outside. My ’Vette is parked at the curb. Their car is in the lot behind the restaurant. We exchange handshakes, promises to keep in touch, and as I start towards my car I can hear the Scotts speaking softly to each other. I reach my car, unlock the door and start to climb in when Jim calls out to me. I turn around. He and his wife wave me over.

“Julie and I thought you’d like to know that we’re going to call the realtor,” he says, “and tell him we’re giving up our option on the land.”

I’m puzzled. “But you just asked me to recommend a builder.”

“You convinced us,” Julie Scott says, and smiles. “That land is for a different kind of house.”

I’m pleased and I tell them so. We shake hands again and this time, just before we part company, Julie puts her hand lightly on my arm.

“I can’t help but wonder,” she says, “if you’ve ever thought of buying that land and building a house for yourself?”