Page 7 of Misadventures of a Biker

“You’ve had the listing for six months, Teddi.” She folded her napkin and laid it beside her half-eaten plate of ceviche. “We’ve got two hundred million tied up in two homes, one of which we don’t need. Raymond’s livid about this. He said to give you sixty more days. If the home isn’t sold at that point, we’ll look at other alternatives.”

Other alternatives meant other listing agents. If I lost the listing, it would my first. I’d become the laughingstock of the industry. The loss would be the beginning of the end my career. I took a gulp of wine and then another. It wasn’t my fault the home hadn’t sold. Its continued existence on the MLS listing certainly wasn’t from my lack of trying.

Six months prior, I sold Raymond and Margaret a one-hundred-and-thirty-million-dollar modern beachfront mansion. They then placed their twelve-thousand-square-foot Mediterranean home on the market for less than half that amount.

The sixty-million-dollar mansion had been crafted of imported limestone. Standing at the gated entrance, it was breathtaking. The interior, however, was plagued with massive marble columns, hand-carved dark wood ceilings with Venetian plaster inlays, imported Emperador marble that was even darker, and arched stone doorways. Short of a wealthy European couple, I could see no one accepting the dungeon-esque home in as-is condition.

I pushed my empty wineglass to the side. “See if he’ll entertain a hundred and eighty days. That will give me an opportunity to direct my focus solely on European clients. I should be able to schedule viewings—”

“Sixty days,” she said. “He was adamant. I’m sorry.”

“What can I do, Margaret? We’ve known each other for what? Almost fifteen years? I sold you your first home here, right after Raymond—”

Her apologetic look hardened to one of distress. “I’m sorry.”

There was clearly nothing she could do.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck.

I put on a smile. “I’ll get my team on it.”

“I want you on it, Teddi. I want you devoted to this sale.”

“It will be my only focus,” I assured her. “My team will be on it as well.”

She pushed herself away from the table. “I hope this ends well. I’d certainly—” She shook her head. “The thought of a new agent is appalling.”

I reached for my wine and then realized it was empty. I ogled the glass as if it were a mystery. “I couldn’t agree more.”

She stood. “You’ll be in touch?”

Yeah, as soon as I find a filthy-rich Greek doctor.

I needed to pay for our lunch. I stood and shook her hand. “I sure will.”

She turned away.

I fell into my seat and sighed. A cursory glance around the restaurant produced no one of importance. Relieved, I checked my messages on my phone.

“Did the other party leave?” the waiter asked.

“She did,” I responded without looking up. “I realize it’s probably on the way out, but you can forget the food. Would you bring me another glass of wine, please?”

“Forget the food, ma’am?”

I set my phone down and shifted my attention to him. “I’ll pay for it, but I’m not hungry any longer. Just bring the wine, please.”

He nodded. “Very well.”

“On second thought,” I said, “bring a bottle.”

* * *

It was barely noon, and I was shitfaced. A giggle fit in the front seat of my car turned to a crying session. Incapable of driving, I swept the tears from my cheeks with the heels of my palms and called an Uber.

A ride from hell in the back seat of an un-air-conditioned car suited for an alley of clowns followed. Despite my desire to roll down the window, I couldn’t find a switch anywhere. After the fifteen-minute drive to the office, the back seat of his car was drenched in ten pounds of my sweat.

The driver pulled into the parking lot. “Here you go.”