I didn’t think I’d made that many enemies as a kid.
Chance checked his watch as he put the car in gear. “So . . . we’ve had our daily dose of adrenaline. It’s not quite five yet, despite the weather. Let’s see if we can find a real estate agent on the square somewhere.”
I couldn’t remember seeing anything of the sort, but we drove downtown, keeping an eye peeled for anything remotely helpful. Most of the stores were closed already, or had never opened for the day. At ten minutes to the hour, I spotted a small white sign that read REGIS PROPERTY MANAGEMENT.
“That looks promising.”
As Chance parked in a metered spot, I glanced down. Yuck. We’d be hard-pressed to convince the real estate agent we weren’t vagrants, given my current state. While I tried to brush the worst of the dirty leaves off, he came around to open my door. Despite my determination to sort my feelings without letting him influence me, my heart gave a happy little jolt. He knew I was a sucker for such courtly, old-school gestures.
Butch pawed at me from inside the bag. I knew what that meant, so I set him down near the drain beside the curb. He did his business, and then we went on into the office. No bell jingled to sound our entry, but a middle-aged woman sat at a pasteboard desk, writing a memo by hand. There was an old typewriter on the table on the wall to her left. Dreary landscape photos lined the walls, and brochures about property taxes lay scattered on the table.
All told, it was a typical front office . . . if you’d flashed back to 1963. The woman looked mildly annoyed to see us, as it was nearly closing time. She reminded me of a cow, although not in a bad way; she was just placid and well fed. A fake walnut plate in front of her appointment calendar read AGNES PETTIGREW.
“Did you have an appointment to see a house?” she decided to ask when it became clear we weren’t going away.
Chance shook his head. “We were hoping to talk to Mr. Regis about a rental. Are there any apartments or houses to let in town?”
She bestirred herself for him. All women did. “Let me check the books.”
“We have two properties that might qualify,” she told us after a moment. “And a couple of owners might be amenable to a long-term rent-to-buy program. They’re very motivated sellers.”
“Are they?” I asked, exchanging a look with Chance.
Desperate to get out of town, you might say.
Agnes took that as a polite rhetorical question. “But you’ll need to make an appointment. Mr. Regis can’t—”
“What can’t I do?” A booming voice came from the back room.
The door burst open, rebounding against the opposite wall, and the doorway filled with the largest man I’d ever seen in real life.
Destiny for Sale or Rent
Agnes stammered. I didn’t blame her. I wouldn’t have wanted to be caught trying to organize this man’s life for him, even if I did know best. But she didn’t look frightened; instead her gaze gobbled him up. As she stared up at him, her mouth went soft and she propped her chin in her hand.
Curious, I brushed her jacket with my fingertips. I didn’t expect much of a burn; there shouldn’t be any trauma associated with this object. The pain was slight, and the coat showed me that they usually walked out together. He made sure she got to her car safely each night, and he sometimes stood by the driver’s side, chatting to her, after he shut her door. Wonder if he knows how much that means. I could see her face tilted up toward him, reflected back in the rearview mirror, and these moments meant everything to her.
“You don’t have time to talk to these folks tonight, Phillip,” Miss Pettigrew said then. “They should schedule a proper appointment.”
And you won’t miss your nightly date.
The real estate agent dismissed her concerns with a wave of one meaty paw. “Go home, Agnes. I can talk to these folks without you hovering, so don’t worry. You won’t miss Wheel of Fortune. Lock up on your way out and flip the sign to ‘Closed.’ I can surely handle this myself.”
Her lips drooped as she gathered up her purse, but she didn’t waste any time in getting herself out the front door. She probably wanted to make it home before dark. I offered a pleasant wave, and she frowned before turning to hurry down the walk, head down in anticipation of a coming storm.
“Thanks for your help,” I said with a polite smile. He was the first normal person we’d met in Kilmer. He didn’t seem nervous or frightened—just eager to sell us something, which fit the real estate agent profile to a T. His face was broad as an iron skillet, pink skinned, and smooth. His eyes shone like blue stones, but with considerably more warmth.
“Not at all. I’m Phil Regis.” He shook my hand with a grasp that ground my knuckles a bit, and then he ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, sheepish, as if he constantly forgot his own strength.
Mr. Regis stepped back and waved us into his office, a good-sized space with a big cherry desk littered with pens and paperwork. The pictures in here were prettier than the ones in the waiting area, good watercolors that might be worth something. I’d need to look at the signatures before I could say for sure. Chance and I settled into padded vinyl chairs on the other side of the desk.
“Now then,” Regis said, “I heard something about y’all needing a rental. Are you newlyweds? Because I could probably get you a mortgage cheaper than you’d expect. It’s a buyer’s market, you know.” He gave a deep laugh that swelled his chest like a bellows.