Ron nods and turns back to Rico, and I hurry toward the visitors, hoping to waylay them.
As I round the corner of the house, I see a woman I recognize from open houses fiddling with the lockbox while her clients wait. “Hi there,” I say. “Can I help you?”
She turns to me and says, “Just taking a look. Don’t worry—we’ll stay out of your way.”
“Can I speak to you for a moment?” I ask her.
We walk a few paces away before I say, “Look, my client is really particular about his privacy.” My expression is tense and anxious. “I promised him that we would have the place to ourselves while he brought his contractor over to check out that back hillside.”
The agent looks sympathetic. In Los Angeles, the demand for privacy is common among a certain demographic, and agents are used to accommodating their requests.
“We’re almost done,” I tell her. “Perhaps I could treat you all to lunch, and you could return this afternoon?”
She looks toward her clients, who are peering in the windows and whispering on the porch. “Tell you what,” she says. “We have two other properties to see in the area today, so why don’t we go look at those and return in an hour. Will that be enough time?”
I nearly hug her, my relief genuine. “Thank you,” I breathe. “I owe you. And seriously,” I say pulling out my wallet and handing her $200. “Lunch is on me.”
She plucks the cash from my hand, not even hesitating, before striding back to her clients and conferring with them. Then they head back to their car. “Thank you so much for understanding,” I call out.
Soon, they’re driving back down the driveway and turning right, toward Sunset. I breathe out hard, leaning against the side of the house, trying not to imagine what would have happened if she’d refused. If her clients had been on a tighter schedule. If we had arrived a little later and already found them walking a property Ron believes is his.
I push off the wall and head back toward Ron and Rico. “All set?” I ask, desperate to be done and gone.
Ron shakes his head. “Not yet. I want to show Rico the creek, where I’m thinking I’d like to expand the bank on the eastern side.”
I follow them, my nerves jangling, watching the time slip by, wondering if we can actually get out of here in an hour unscathed. But after forty-five minutes, we’re back in our cars, though I don’t relax until we’ve exited the property and are heading back toward town.
Meg
October
Two Weeks before the Election
It’s time to go.
Kat sits across from me, plates littering the table between us as the restaurant empties. She doesn’t know it, but this is our last lunch. Tomorrow, I’ll be gone, and Kat will be left to piece together what I’ve done.
“Any new clients on the horizon?” Kat asks. Still digging. Still hoping to figure it out. She’s so much closer than she thinks.
I play with my napkin before telling her a partial truth. “I’m thinking of taking a break from real estate,” I say, looking through the window toward the street, where shoppers pass by with bags from expensive boutiques. “Maybe take a vacation. I’ve been doing this for so long, and it’s the same picky clients, the same escrow snafus, the same sellers, trying not to disclose a leak in the basement or noise from the airport. It’s exhausting and it’s nonstop. I thought moving home would be the change of scenery I was looking for, but I just can’t shake the feeling that I need something different.”
Kat studies me, and I wonder if she’s finally going to break, asking questions I know she’s dying to ask. How do you do it? Who do you target? What’s your plan with Ron?