“Sounds like bureaucratic red tape,” Webb says.
“Well, no, not actually. The regulations are there to protect the environment and the property itself. This is a landmark house, you know.”
“Mm,” he says.
“Ah, here it is,” she says, and finds the key to the lockbox, and then opens the box, and removes the key to the front door. “The owners are up north,” she says over her shoulder, “they also have a home in North Carolina.” She inserts the key into the lock on the front door, twists the key, opens the door, turns to him, and says, “Please come in.”
The view is truly breathtaking.
From just inside the front door, one can see through the living room to the sliding glass doors at the rear of the house, and beyond those doors to the wooden platforms that drop gradually from one to the other, down to the dock where a thirty-two-foot Seaward Eagle is moored to the pilings. Out over the bay, a squadron of central casting pelicans swoop low over the calm silent waters.
“Nice,” Webb says.
“And you get this same magnificent view from every room in the house,” she says.
“Was it a boating accident?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says briefly, and leads him through the living room, past the fireplace…
“That’s fossil stone,” she says. “The chimney’s been restored, with a new flue and top. The cedar floors are new, too, throughout the entire house.”
“Out here on the Bay?” he asks.
“The Gulf,” she says, again briefly, and opens one of the sliding doors. “All the windows and doors were replaced during the renovation, this hardware is all new,” she says, and steps out onto the first of the platforms.
“The decks were all replaced and enlarged, too,” she says. “Highest grade, clean-cut, dense dry wood and stainless steel screws…”
…and walks him down to the dock itself.
“Note the swimming pool and privacy garden just off the master bedroom,” she says.
The Allenbys’ power cruiser sits bobbing gently alongside the dock.
“The dock is new, forty feet long. It can hold one large and two small boats, or a second boat up to twenty feet. Dual 50 AMP service to the dock. Full access to the Gulf of Mexico, no bridges on the way.”
“When did you start selling real estate?”
“Almost six months ago,” she says.
“Lots of widows in the real estate game,” he says.
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Widows and divorcées. Keeps them busy, I suppose.”
She wants to tell him that this is more than busywork, this is her way of starting a new life, her way of coping with the aftermath of her husband’s senseless death, when her very existence was shattered…
She catches herself, looks out over the water.
“It’s so utterly still here,” she says.
She allows him to stand on the dock in silence for a while, savoring the solitude and the majestic view.
“Come,” she says, “let me show you the rest of the house.”
Inside again, she shows him the kitchen with its custom teak countertop and hand-built, hand-painted kitchen cabinets, its Miele and Thermador appliances…
“A water softener has been added to the entire house,” she says, “and there’s a new two-zone air-conditioning system with all new ducts. All the plumbing and plumbing hardware was replaced, too, including a new line to the street. There’s a new irrigation system, a new well pump, a new shell driveway. In effect, you’d be getting a brand new house that just happens to be a historic landmark as well.”
She takes him into the large room on the southern end of the house. From Frank Allenby’s spacious desk, the view over the bay is spectacular.
“This is actually a second bedroom,” she says, “it has its own private bath. But the Allenbys live here alone, so Frank uses it as an office.”
“They say it takes a year,” Webb says.
“I beg your pardon?”
“To get over a divorce or a death.”
She says nothing.
“I’ve been divorced for nine months now. You suppose they’re right?” he asks.
“I have no idea.”
“Are you over it yet?”
“I get by,” she says.
Which isn’t true. She is struggling. She is struggling mightily.
“The master bedroom is at the other end of the house,” she says. “It’s identical to this one. Think of the house as a beautiful butterfly, the living room and dining room as its body, the two bedrooms as its wings.”
“How large is the living room?”
“Twenty by thirty. That’s a good-sized room.”
“And the bedrooms?”
“Each fifteen by twenty. Come, let me show you the other one. Total square footage under air is a bit over three thousand.”
She leads him through the house again, past the living room, and into the dining room, and then through to the master bedroom.
“From the bed, you can look right down into the privacy garden and the pool,” she says.
“How much are they asking?”
“A million-seven. They’ve been offered a mill-four but they turned it down. I think they might be willing to let it go for a mill-six, somewhere in there.”
“That’s a lot of money,” he says.
“Not for this location.”
“For any location,” he says. “A million-six comes to more than five hundred dollars a square foot.”
“You’ve got to figure a million for the property alone,” she says. “You won’t find many other views like this one.”
“Well, I’ll have to think about it,” he says, and her heart sinks.
She gets back to the office at a quarter past noon.
They exchange phone numbers, and Alice promises to have some new houses to show him by tomorrow morning at nine, when they’ll go out looking again. She hopes he might call before then with an offer on any of the three houses she’s shown him, but she knows this is unlikely.
He’d told her he was looking for something that would cost no more than a million, a million-five, and she’d assured him that getting an eighty percent mortgage would be no problem. That means he would have to come up with $320,000 in cash if he goes for the Healey house at a million-six. She knows for certain that Frank and Marcia Allenby will never budge below a million-six, never.
Of the seven percent commission on the sale, the agency will keep three and Alice will take home four, which comes to $64,000. She figures that will carry her a good year and more, even if she doesn’t make another sale, a likelihood in that she hasn’t made a sale thus far, and she’s already been working for Lane Realty for almost six months now.
She took the job at the end of November, when she realized she wasn’t going to be able to make it on the scant savings she and Eddie had managed to accumulate since their move to Florida. The house she still lives in with the kids is in a good school district, even if it does cost $1,600 a month, which at her present rate of cash flow she will no longer be able to afford come June, unless Mr. Reginald Webster or somebody or anybody buys something. Or unless, of course, the insurance money comes through. It was supposed to come through a month and a half ago.
She picks up the phone, dials a number by heart, and waits.
“Briggs, Randolph and Soames,” a woman’s voice says.
“Mr. Briggs, please,” she says.
“May I say who’s calling?”
“Alice Glendenning.”
“One moment, please.”
She waits.
“Hi, Alice,” a man’s voice says.