Brenda wrinkled her nose. “The kitchen is… original.”
“Another one,” she muttered to her cat, Gizmo, who was busy judging the world from the window. dillion harper open house
By hour two, Dillion was ready to pack it in. She’d made lemonade no one drank and put out cookies that only Gizmo had sampled. The only remaining guest was an elderly woman named Mrs. Vancamp, who had already lived in the neighborhood since before the street had sidewalks. Brenda wrinkled her nose
Dillion smiled her realtor-smile, the one that didn't reach her eyes. “That’s character. The house was built in 1923. It’s got opinions.” She’d made lemonade no one drank and put
“The hush.” Mrs. Vancamp opened her eyes. “This house isn’t empty. It’s waiting.”
Next came a solo man in a bow tie who introduced himself as “Todd, the investor.” He walked through the house with a laser measure, muttering about “square footage per flip ratio.” He paused in the living room, where the late afternoon sun fell across the hardwood floor in long, honey-colored stripes.
“Wall here is load-bearing?” he asked, tapping the fireplace mantel.