he knows us. But twenty percent down is half a million. That could be something that takes a little discussion. He trusts you. And we’ve got six months.”
I nodded.
“So, you want to stay? I guess we’ll go to Minelli’s for some spaghetti. Felicity and Hank are bringing the boys over.”
I shook my head.
Now Gordon came right up to me. “You keep Bobby out of Salt Key Farm for now. He’s bound to do something to screw it up, even if it’s just running his car over the outside lighting or falling down the steps. I want this deal to go smooth as possible. You do the paperwork and I’ll give you your three percent, but that means you keep Bobby busy on something else.”
I nodded. Three percent of $2.5 million was seventy-five grand. If by some piece of luck we ended up selling the place for $5 million, of course, 6 percent of $5 million was $300,000. That you could make that kind of money brokering real estate seemed so amazing I didn’t know what to think about it.
On the way back to the office, I detoured past Salt Key Farm. The longest side of the property ran along American Legion Road. White board fencing in double rows traced the contours of the pastures, which were a thick mature green. Fruit trees had been planted in the aisles between the fences and, carefully pruned, looked oddly Japanese, the way the dark trunks twisted within the clouds of blossom. It was late afternoon, and grooms were leading some of the horses to the barns. I didn’t know too much about their horses, but some went to the racetrack, I thought. One dark figure was fixing a line of fence, hammering a board to a post, and the horses nearby were standing at attention, shining in the sunlight, their ears pricked, watching him. There was a pasture for mares and foals not far from the road, and some sort of feed had been thrown into their trough. They were lined up with their tails to the road, their heads down. For a family estate, Salt Key Farm was unusually visible from the road, but then, when the place was built, American Legion Road had been a dirt track. Where the residences had once been visible, the Thorpes had put up a high stone wall, which I soon passed but looked at with renewed interest. It must have been ten feet tall, faced with beautiful local sandstone the color of peaches. Against the green of the pastures, it glowed like an early sunset. Instead of continuing down American Legion Road to County 169, I turned at the farm gate onto Dixon Road and continued past the sandstone wall, which ran for maybe two hundred yards, also planted with flowering trees—dogwood and redbud, which would soon be in bloom. Underneath these, a meandering track of daffodils, tulips just beginning, and iris still dormant. Outside the wall along this little-used country road but clearly maintained by the Thorpes, this border amounted to a private garden, dedicated to the enjoyment of very few—not really even the Thorpes themselves but just those who happened to make this turn, neighbors and passersby. I had never seen it before. It was daunting to think of this property coming into Gordon’s hands, our hands.
It’s funny what happens. One time Sherry and I had some friends who spent two years remodeling and decorating their house, which was a small brick three-bedroom in Callaway Village. Good schools, nice neighborhood: a real jewel box. When the husband was transferred to Texas suddenly, I put it on the market. Every room was just so—wallpaper, carpets, curtains—including the basement bathroom, which was done entirely with a Nittany Lions theme. I showed that house a hundred times; everyone said it was so cute. I got one single offer, from a childless couple. The wife was blind. So much for redecorating. Very few buyers want something that is incredibly beautiful or well-done. They seem to feel they are just not up to it, somehow.
Nevertheless, the privilege of becoming familiar with Salt Key Farm was a privilege I was glad to
I nodded.
“So, you want to stay? I guess we’ll go to Minelli’s for some spaghetti. Felicity and Hank are bringing the boys over.”
I shook my head.
Now Gordon came right up to me. “You keep Bobby out of Salt Key Farm for now. He’s bound to do something to screw it up, even if it’s just running his car over the outside lighting or falling down the steps. I want this deal to go smooth as possible. You do the paperwork and I’ll give you your three percent, but that means you keep Bobby busy on something else.”
I nodded. Three percent of $2.5 million was seventy-five grand. If by some piece of luck we ended up selling the place for $5 million, of course, 6 percent of $5 million was $300,000. That you could make that kind of money brokering real estate seemed so amazing I didn’t know what to think about it.
On the way back to the office, I detoured past Salt Key Farm. The longest side of the property ran along American Legion Road. White board fencing in double rows traced the contours of the pastures, which were a thick mature green. Fruit trees had been planted in the aisles between the fences and, carefully pruned, looked oddly Japanese, the way the dark trunks twisted within the clouds of blossom. It was late afternoon, and grooms were leading some of the horses to the barns. I didn’t know too much about their horses, but some went to the racetrack, I thought. One dark figure was fixing a line of fence, hammering a board to a post, and the horses nearby were standing at attention, shining in the sunlight, their ears pricked, watching him. There was a pasture for mares and foals not far from the road, and some sort of feed had been thrown into their trough. They were lined up with their tails to the road, their heads down. For a family estate, Salt Key Farm was unusually visible from the road, but then, when the place was built, American Legion Road had been a dirt track. Where the residences had once been visible, the Thorpes had put up a high stone wall, which I soon passed but looked at with renewed interest. It must have been ten feet tall, faced with beautiful local sandstone the color of peaches. Against the green of the pastures, it glowed like an early sunset. Instead of continuing down American Legion Road to County 169, I turned at the farm gate onto Dixon Road and continued past the sandstone wall, which ran for maybe two hundred yards, also planted with flowering trees—dogwood and redbud, which would soon be in bloom. Underneath these, a meandering track of daffodils, tulips just beginning, and iris still dormant. Outside the wall along this little-used country road but clearly maintained by the Thorpes, this border amounted to a private garden, dedicated to the enjoyment of very few—not really even the Thorpes themselves but just those who happened to make this turn, neighbors and passersby. I had never seen it before. It was daunting to think of this property coming into Gordon’s hands, our hands.
It’s funny what happens. One time Sherry and I had some friends who spent two years remodeling and decorating their house, which was a small brick three-bedroom in Callaway Village. Good schools, nice neighborhood: a real jewel box. When the husband was transferred to Texas suddenly, I put it on the market. Every room was just so—wallpaper, carpets, curtains—including the basement bathroom, which was done entirely with a Nittany Lions theme. I showed that house a hundred times; everyone said it was so cute. I got one single offer, from a childless couple. The wife was blind. So much for redecorating. Very few buyers want something that is incredibly beautiful or well-done. They seem to feel they are just not up to it, somehow.
Nevertheless, the privilege of becoming familiar with Salt Key Farm was a privilege I was glad to
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