up five plush white towels and arranged them on the shelves where the liquor bottles had been. I placed some fancy, overpriced bottles of water on the bar.
The moment potential buyers enter a house, they make a judgment, either conscious or unconscious, based on the smell. They make a second olfactory assessment as they head down the basement stairs. Fortunately, Mrs. Bentley’s basement didn’t have even a trace of mustiness, so all I had to do was bring in some candles.
I arranged three grapefruit candles in round metal tins across the length of the bar like bowls of cocktail peanuts. The citrusy smell would bring a clean crispness to the space, and the grapefruit might send a subliminal message to potential owners that they were losing weight already just by standing here. This was the exercise room that might finally get them into shape.
Now that all the work was done, Mrs. Bentley meandered into the room. You just never knew with clients. Sometimes they were such hard workers, if only inspired by the thought of cutting down my final bill, that I’d be tempted to hire them to work for me. Other times they treated me like I was the hired help, which I supposed, technically, I was.
Mrs. Bentley didn’t say a word as she looked her staged basement up and down. I tried to read her expression, but it was hard to gauge. I wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it. Once her house sold, she’d come around and tell all her friends about me. Or she wouldn’t. Either way, I’d have my check and be out of there.
There was always a chance she’d eventually be so impressed that she’d want to hire me to help her get her next place set up. Even though I marketed myself as someone who staged to sell, it was a natural offshoot, so I did it all the time.
All I knew was that Mrs. Bentley and her husband had already bought a condo and that they were paying two mortgages.
I faked a big smile. “So, what do you think?”
She shrugged. Clients, especially women, often got really territorial about the homes they were trying to get rid of. Any change I made felt like a personal attack on their taste, or lack thereof. It’s crazy. If you want to sell your house, you have to keep your eye on the prize and let that kind of thing go.
I kept smiling. “I don’t think I’ve even asked you where you’re heading next. Is your new condo local?”
Mrs. Bentley ran a hand through her hair. “Minneapolis.”
“Wow,” I said. “Minneapolis. Great place to get out of the winter.”
She still didn’t say anything.
“Ha,” I said. “Actually, I love Minneapolis. Such warm, friendly people. Fabulous arts scene. And those skyways are genius. Why are you moving there?”
Mrs. Bentley shrugged. “Our kids live there. They love it.”
As a civil engineer, Greg had spent far too much time working outside during the cold New England winters, so we’d always talked about heading to some warm southern beach one day. Maybe Siesta Key. Or St. Simons or Tybee Island. Or even Amelia Island. Fairhope, Alabama?
Or maybe we’d follow one of our kids so we’d be around when the grandkids came, and they’d be nearby to house-sit for us when we traveled. But what if we got to Atlanta, and then Shannon and her husband packed up and moved somewhere else? And then again, while I knew booting Luke out of the bat cave would be the best thing that ever happened to him, he didn’t seem to have any noticeable plans for his next horizon. He might need us to stay in the area, at least temporarily, to keep an eye on him from an easily commutable distance.
We could always put our things in storage and just rent for a while. Somewhere. Or we could even rent a tour bus instead of a house and take the next stage of our life on the road.
Greg and I had had the where next conversation over and over again, in ever-widening circles. Maybe we had to let go of one place for the next one to call out to us.
Or maybe we wouldn’t really be able to let go of
The moment potential buyers enter a house, they make a judgment, either conscious or unconscious, based on the smell. They make a second olfactory assessment as they head down the basement stairs. Fortunately, Mrs. Bentley’s basement didn’t have even a trace of mustiness, so all I had to do was bring in some candles.
I arranged three grapefruit candles in round metal tins across the length of the bar like bowls of cocktail peanuts. The citrusy smell would bring a clean crispness to the space, and the grapefruit might send a subliminal message to potential owners that they were losing weight already just by standing here. This was the exercise room that might finally get them into shape.
Now that all the work was done, Mrs. Bentley meandered into the room. You just never knew with clients. Sometimes they were such hard workers, if only inspired by the thought of cutting down my final bill, that I’d be tempted to hire them to work for me. Other times they treated me like I was the hired help, which I supposed, technically, I was.
Mrs. Bentley didn’t say a word as she looked her staged basement up and down. I tried to read her expression, but it was hard to gauge. I wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it. Once her house sold, she’d come around and tell all her friends about me. Or she wouldn’t. Either way, I’d have my check and be out of there.
There was always a chance she’d eventually be so impressed that she’d want to hire me to help her get her next place set up. Even though I marketed myself as someone who staged to sell, it was a natural offshoot, so I did it all the time.
All I knew was that Mrs. Bentley and her husband had already bought a condo and that they were paying two mortgages.
I faked a big smile. “So, what do you think?”
She shrugged. Clients, especially women, often got really territorial about the homes they were trying to get rid of. Any change I made felt like a personal attack on their taste, or lack thereof. It’s crazy. If you want to sell your house, you have to keep your eye on the prize and let that kind of thing go.
I kept smiling. “I don’t think I’ve even asked you where you’re heading next. Is your new condo local?”
Mrs. Bentley ran a hand through her hair. “Minneapolis.”
“Wow,” I said. “Minneapolis. Great place to get out of the winter.”
She still didn’t say anything.
“Ha,” I said. “Actually, I love Minneapolis. Such warm, friendly people. Fabulous arts scene. And those skyways are genius. Why are you moving there?”
Mrs. Bentley shrugged. “Our kids live there. They love it.”
As a civil engineer, Greg had spent far too much time working outside during the cold New England winters, so we’d always talked about heading to some warm southern beach one day. Maybe Siesta Key. Or St. Simons or Tybee Island. Or even Amelia Island. Fairhope, Alabama?
Or maybe we’d follow one of our kids so we’d be around when the grandkids came, and they’d be nearby to house-sit for us when we traveled. But what if we got to Atlanta, and then Shannon and her husband packed up and moved somewhere else? And then again, while I knew booting Luke out of the bat cave would be the best thing that ever happened to him, he didn’t seem to have any noticeable plans for his next horizon. He might need us to stay in the area, at least temporarily, to keep an eye on him from an easily commutable distance.
We could always put our things in storage and just rent for a while. Somewhere. Or we could even rent a tour bus instead of a house and take the next stage of our life on the road.
Greg and I had had the where next conversation over and over again, in ever-widening circles. Maybe we had to let go of one place for the next one to call out to us.
Or maybe we wouldn’t really be able to let go of
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