“Giving you an estimate while it’s in this state of disrepair is difficult, Miss Kincaid. I mean, the land is prime. You’ve got great acreage here. But, you know, the location isn’t the best. Clover Springs isn’t exactly an in-demand hub,” she says, the disdain is evident in her voice.
“Oh, I thought you lived in Clover Springs?” I ask dumbly. When I’d looked her up in the phonebook this morning, I’d assumed she was local.
“No!” She looks at me in horror. “I live in the city. It took me almost 45 minutes to get here today,” she adds, her tone making it clear that she feels as if I’m personally responsible for this fact.
“Some people really value that kind of seclusion,” I say as I follow her upstairs, where she continues her self-led tour. “Maybe that’s a selling point for certain buyers?” I think briefly of Benjamin, trying to escape the media hubbub for once in his life.
“Somepeople. Not most,” Madison snaps quickly. “You want a place that’s as marketable as possible. That will give you the maximum demand and more interested buyers,” she continues, barely stopping her criticism of the house long enough to let me get a word in.
“Well, you’re the expert,” I say lamely.
I’m so shocked by her critical tone, I don’t even know what to say. I would have thought Rose Manor would have plenty of eager buyers. The property is huge, and the house is pretty. It just needs some TLC.
“Is there a basement?” Madison asks in clipped tones as we return to the front hall.“Down there.” I point to the stairs at the back of the hall.
She walks briskly to the stairs and descends them. Seconds later, I hear a small shriek.
“Are you okay?”
I run to the top of the stairs, praying she hasn’t tripped and fallen in her crazy high heels. For a moment of terror, I imagine having to call dad to tell him we have a personal injury lawsuit coming our way.
“What onearthis this?” Madison stands at the bottom of the stairs and looks up at me accusingly, pointing into the basement.
“Oh, uh, a recording studio?”
“A recording studio?! Well, that’s going to be a problem,” she says, marching right back up the stairs.
I back up to let her pass.
“A recording studio is a problem?” I ask dumbly.
I mean, I knew that it wasn’t a great addition to Rose Manor, but I didn’t think it would be a ‘problem.’
“Of course. Nobody wants arecording studio,” she snipes at me.
I hear a muffled grunt from the closet—apparently, a sign of protest from Benjamin.
“Well, maybe there are some musicians looking for houses?” I ask tentatively.
“Sure, in cities like Nashville and LA,” the real estate agent says grimly. “But what kind of serious musician would come toClover Springs?”
As if on cue, the closet door opens, and Benjamin steps out.
Madison gives a small shriek of surprise as he emerges. But then the look of horror on her face is replaced by something else. Recognition. Followed by adoration.
I’ll admit, Ben has never looked more like a rock star, with his hair all mussed up from nestling amidst the old coats, his ripped jeans slung low on his hips, and his t-shirt slightly wrinkled. Put a guitar in his hand, and he’d look like he was straight off one of his own album covers.
“Hi, I’m Benjamin,” he says, sticking his hand out towards her.
“Of course, I know who you are! I’m Madison,” she simpers, batting her eyes at him.
“So, what’s your verdict on Rose Manor, Madison?” Benjamin looks deep into her eyes, his voice low and smooth. Geez, he’s laying on the charm thick.
“Well, as I was just telling Miss Kincaid, it’s going to be a tough sell. The size is great, the acreage is great. But the house itself is a mess. And there are a few, ah, quirks, that aren’t really what buyers are looking for.”
“Like my recording studio?” Ben asks, giving her a dazzling smile.
“Well, yes,” she admits, looking slightly embarrassed. She’s clearly realizing now that Ben has heard every word.