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But is that the end of the story? Is love the end-all, be-all.
Maybe I shouldn’t feel as disappointed as I do at missing him. I find myself driving past downtown toward Hilltop Street. I’ll park at the house I’m hoping to buy, have lunch alone, and think about that “L” word.
The “sold” sign at Hilltop House has me slamming the brakes.
“What the heck?” I shriek as my tires screech to a stop in front of the 1910 arts-and-crafts house on Hilltop Avenue. I blink several times, sure that I’m seeing things.
But no, there it is.
And there’s Harley’s truck parked in the drive.
This must be a mistake? What is he doing here? And why does the sign say it’s been sold?
Confused, I set my lunch aside and stare up at the house.
I have to gather my thoughts before I go marching up there. There must be some explanation.
What am I doing here, ruminating? If I want to know something, I come out and ask it. I didn’t get this far in real estate by sitting on my hands and waiting for my boyfriend to explain things to me.
I take a long, satisfying gulp of my Diet Coke and exit the car.
I’m sure Harley didn’t sell the house out from under me to someone else.
If that did happen, it would be especially egregious of everyone involved to keep my original sign up, with my photo and name on it.
Surely, he wouldn’t allow someone else to earn a commission when I did all the work of prepping it and listing it.
I’m about to climb the steps to the porch when I hear a clatter alongside the house. I take a detour to the side yard, where a construction dumpster has been placed, blocked from view by Harley’s truck. I stand there confused when suddenly a huge, white, fiberglass corner garden tub comes flying out the side window, landing with a crash into the dumpster.
Not interested in getting injured by standing out here like a dumbass, I turn back and barrel through the front door, calling out for Harley.
“What the heck is going on, Harley! Who bought the house?”
No answer.
I move through the rooms, down the hallway toward the sound. On my way, I pass by the refinished hardwood floor in the parlor.
Weird. That was one of the things I requested as a contingency from my fake client. And so was the removal of the garden tub.
“Harley?”
I pass by the stairs to the finished attic, where the old carpet has been ripped out and replaced. Another stupid request I made last week.
I need an explanation.
Finally, I find Harley in the bathroom, chucking out tile and other fixtures.
“Harley!”
He turns to face me with the biggest grin of the century. “Hi!”
“First of all, who bought the house?”
“I did.”
I gape at him. “You did? Why? How?”
He shrugs like buying a house is just another day of work. “I couldn’t get the loan for the remainder that I need to hire a crew for my business, so I used what I had saved up for a down payment on the house. The bank wouldn’t work with me, so my brothers are selling it to me directly. I’m going to work off with equity in the business.”
