Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [112]
“Hey, be careful she doesn’t get anything on that sofa. It’s white, you know,” Skip whispers loudly, putting his hand over the microphone of his hands-free phone. It’s a nice sofa. Impractical for kids maybe, but it’s slipcovered, and the fabric looks washable. Much nicer than the sofa I have in storage in New York, the red mohair with a loose spring in the middle cushion that Jake and I had found on the street one day and dragged home under cover of darkness.
Skip and his client are haggling over the costs. Apparently, she hadn’t done her homework on the appliances and is balking at the cost of the professional-grade kitchen. It turns out that she has a family living in Dallas, a husband and two teenaged children, and is planning on commuting between there and Pittsburgh for the next four years, at least until the last kid is out of high school.
“Hey, you, Mary, is it?” Skip says, snapping his fingers to get my attention. “How much you figure she’d save if she decides to downgrade to electric?”
“Gaggenau, so far as I know, doesn’t make an electric version.” They do, but no real cook would want one. Soon we are down to a GE Monogram electric range and a Starbucks Barista–model espresso maker. She steadfastly refuses to yield on the marble countertops, insisting that they will look classy with cherry cabinets. “Very Tuscan,” I can hear her say, with a heavy Texas drawl. I feel like grabbing the phone and telling her that cherry is not Tuscan. Chestnut, pine, or cypress maybe, but definitely not cherry.
You shouldn’t buy a loft because the real estate agent is an annoying jerk who doesn’t take you seriously. You also shouldn’t buy a loft because the woman who’s about to make an offer is loudly insisting on putting totally impractical marble countertops in what you are now thinking of as your kitchen.
I write a number on a piece of paper and slide it over to Skip. He pushes it out of the way without even looking at it. I push it back. “Hang on a second,” he tells Ms. Moneybags.
“What’s this?”
“I thought you were a real estate agent. It’s an offer. To buy this place.”
“An offer from whom?”
“From me.”
I’ve offered the asking price, which is considerably higher than the offer Ms. Moneybags is proposing. It also represents a significant chunk of my divorce settlement, but for the first time in almost a year I can envision, even if it’s only the tiniest glimpse, a life without Jake. I can see myself making a cup of espresso in my little stove-top macchinetta, my vintage Italian posters hanging against the old exposed brick, Chloe playing contentedly in the cozy space under the stairs, her toys and books filling the long, low shelves. Intoxicated by the vision, I’m suddenly willing to spend whatever it takes to make it mine.
“I’ll call you back,” Skip tells Ms. Moneybags.
chapter 24
By the time the paperwork is done it’s almost noon. I’m ravenous, so Ben, Chloe, and I go across the street to Primanti Brothers. We order two Primanti specials, mine with extra coleslaw, Ben’s with extra fries and a fried egg on top. When the waitress puts the overflowing red plastic basket in front of me, the sandwich topped with glistening French fries, I dig in with both my hands.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Ben says. “I propose a toast. To a masterful negotiation and a wise investment.”
I respond with a groan. “I don’t think the deal I made would qualify as either masterful or as negotiating,” I tell Ben, swallowing painfully. “After all, I paid the asking price. Who does that?”
“No, no, it was masterful. You were masterful. And actually, you paid five thousand dollars more than the asking price.” Unfortunately, Ben is correct. After