I hightail it out of that grocery store before she can get another word in. I hate Texas. From now on, I’m driving one town over for my groceries. No more random run-ins with Madeleine Thatcher—though I guess random run-ins won’t matter anymore because I’ve just ensured that I’ll see her every week at puppy training class. Bravo, Adam.
I wonder if it’s too late to move to Hawaii.CHAPTER SIXMADELEINE“Mr. Boggs, I assure you this house is up to code.” I rifle through my paperwork just to confirm. “Yes, see here, it was just inspected last month.”
He shakes his head. “Inspections mean nothing. Inspectors are crooks, the whole lot of them. If we’re gonna start trusting inspectors, you might as well start showing me open caskets instead of open houses.”
I barely manage to stifle a groan. Boggsy certainly has a way with words.
He taps on the wall, trying to find a stud, and when he does, he looks none too pleased about it. “That doesn’t seem like sixteen inches apart. Shoddy construction, if you ask me.”
I’m not shocked by Mr. Boggs’ assessment of this house. Over the last year, I’ve shown him no less than fifty properties, and he has found fault with all of them.
“Perhaps if you shared your budget, we could narrow down our—”
He waves away my question, as he does every time I ask it. Mr. Boggs isn’t concerned about budgets—he always says they’re like crabs in your craw. I haven’t quite figured out what any of that means.
“I’ve told you, if it’s the right house, I’ll buy it,” he repeats for what has to be the hundredth time since our first meeting. Call me a pessimist, but it’s hard to believe him. He’s not the sort of dapper gentleman you’d find living in the nicer area of Hamilton. His jeans are worn. His cane—which he uses to favor his left leg—is peeling away at the handle, and I can’t be certain, but I swear the scent of Cream of Wheat trails after him like a bad shadow.
I’m not just judging him by his appearance either. Mr. Boggs and I have sat down for many lunches to discuss housing options, and I can’t recall him ever picking up the tab. I have a growing suspicion that he’s either lonely, or just using me for free bacon and eggs at Pam’s Diner. But I refuse to give in. Without Mr. Boggs, I’d have no clients, and that’s too sad, even for me.
“And you double-checked that this place hasn’t been constructed on an Comanche burial ground? No arrowheads or funeral mounds?”
He’s being serious.
I shake my head.
“I searched through the old city building records at the library,” I repeat for the hundredth time—it feels like a personal mantra at this point. “The only thing notable about this plot was a big oak tree they had to cut down to build the house.”
“Hmm, that’s obviously a bad omen,” he grumbles under his breath. “Trees are like—”
“—like the Earth’s hats,” I say, finishing a bizarre sentiment I’d heard a half dozen times before. He nods approvingly before wandering off down the hallway. I chance a passing glance around the small bungalow I’m showing him today. It’s beautiful, originally constructed in the 1920s but completely remodeled in recent years. The previous owners had to get approval from the Hamilton Historical Society before beginning renovations, which means the bones of the house are still there, detailed and ornate. However, they’re not Mr. Boggs’ taste.
“Not the right one,” he concludes with a thump of his cane on the hardwood floor. “Not even close this time.”
I don’t want to be dramatic, but I swear I see my savings account dwindle just a little more in this moment. I haven’t had the heart to check its balance in a while; I think it would give me a heart attack if I did. Besides, it’s not Mr. Boggs’ problem I’m so strapped for cash. If he wants to look at a million homes and waste my time, that’s his prerogative. It’s up to me to find a new client though, one who will actually buy something.
…
I nearly forget about puppy training class. I stayed at the office late, cold-calling various leads around town. It’s my least favorite part of the job, but sometimes it can produce real results. In all, I set up three meetings for later in the week. Loretta Rae is looking to sell her modest townhome, Greg Van wants to upgrade to a bit more land, and Cameron Carr thinks he’s finally ready to “escape the rent trap and find an equitable investment property”. In the beginning, I’d have gotten my hopes up about all three potential clients, but I know better now. Loretta Rae will find some reason to become suddenly attached to her house and won’t want to sell for all the tea in China, Greg Van will see how expensive land prices are at the moment and suddenly find that he doesn’t mind what little land he currently has, and Cameron Carr just likes to show off vocabulary words he learns from skimming The Wall Street Journal every few weeks.