A realtor answered.
“Hello?”
“My name is Walter Hayes.”
“I’m standing across the street from the Oakridge listing.”
“Is it available?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see it today?”
She hesitated.
“Possibly.”
“How soon?”
“Forty minutes?”
“I’ll be here.”
Her name was Denise Morgan.
She arrived in thirty-five.
I toured the house.
The interior needed paint.
The kitchen was dated.
Carpet upstairs.
But the bones were solid.
I knew buildings.
Years of store acquisitions teach you what walls hide.
Basement dry.
Foundation good.
HVAC seven years old.
Roof five.
Plumbing copper.
Nice yard.
The porch looked toward Ethan’s house.
That amused me.
Denise asked.
“Are you downsizing?”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
I pointed across the street.
“Temporarily staying there.”
She looked.
“With family?”
“Yes.”
Then.
“Do they know you’re buying?”
“No.”
She smiled carefully.
“I see.”
I asked the price.
Four hundred and eighty thousand.
I nodded.
“How quickly can we close?”
