“I was about to send a search party after you,” Sheila said. “Judging by the length of time you were with Burke, you two must have gotten along well. I suspect he found you fascinating.” I must have stared at her as if she were mad, because she clasped my wrist and changed the subject. “Come along, Amanda. I’ll get you started on the tapes. The sooner you study them, the sooner you can serve our clients.”

      Sheila’s forceful kindness prevailed. I soon was luxuriating on a sofa piled with downy pillows and viewing the first tape in the film library outlining Cameron sales techniques. By late afternoon, I almost felt ready to sell homes.

      “Amanda, can you take a break?” Robin’s voice coming through the speaker jarred me back to reality.

      “Actually, I was about to call it a day.”

      “Perfect. Your car’s ready. Thought you’d like to get acquainted with it.”

      “My car? Do I really get one?”

      The smile in Robin’s voice was evident. “The car goes with the territory.”

      I turned off the VCR, arranged the tapes to be viewed the next day, and headed to the office with a step visibly jauntier than I managed earlier.

      The top-of-the-line model had every option imaginable, including a navigation screen and a television for rear seat passengers. Once behind the wheel, I tested each button and switch. The contrast with my dilapidated car, now resting in Martin’s garage, was enough to turn me into a believer. I smiled to myself, reveling in my life’s sudden upturn; a moment later, I frowned, unable to shake the notion that everything was working out too smoothly.

      By the end of the week, I had completed the tapes, made copious notes, and studied the current listings. Boldly, I told Sheila, “I’m ready for a client.”

      “And just in time,” she said. “You’re perfect for Mr. Elmont. Money’s no object, but the house must be colonial in style, preferably with a history. He’ll be in the Ritz-Carlton lobby at nine tomorrow.” 

      So it was that Justin Elmont and I were on our way to Leesburg, a haven for Washington-weary bureaucrats who value pastoral weekends and miniature estates. Horses are a requisite.

      In scanning my computer print-out before leaving the office, I had noticed a fluorescent yellow slash highlighting an underground dwelling featured in a recent home magazine. Even though I knew that Mr. Elmont was not in the market for anything so starkly natural, I suggested to him that we stop by. 

      “Why not?” He seemed amiable enough. “Always like to keep up with the latest trends.”

      Several miles west of Leesburg, we parked on the shoulder of a narrow gravel road, then climbed the newly excavated driveway that flowed into the hilly terrain. Once inside, I was struck by the bright interior. Sunlight slanted down from skylights, while stone walls and couches circling an ornamental tree conveyed an atmosphere as cool and fragrant as a Colorado forest.

      “Interesting,” I mused.

      “If you like this sort of thing,” Elmont said.

      By the time I returned the key to the lock box and caught up with him, a truck blocked the end of the driveway. 

      The driver leaned from the window. “Can I help you folks?” 

      “We’ve been looking at the house,” I said. “Are you the builder?”

      As the man swung down from the cab, I marked a thick neck suggesting years of intensive body-building and short-cropped hair topping a ruddy complexion. His attire was neat, yet rumpled. “You might say so. 

      What do you think?”

      “I’m intrigued, but it’s not what my client has in mind,” I said.

      The man extended his hand to Elmont. “Tom Grigsby’s the name. Too bad I can’t sell you on what’s bound to be the wave of the future. Lots of energy-saving features.”

      “My client is looking for something that he can occupy right away. I’m Amanda Prescott from the Cameron Agency,” I added.

      Grigsby grinned. “I saw your car and figured as much. Your organization has a great reputation…and not just for real estate. Maybe you’ll have another client who’d be interested. If so, come around anytime.”

      Did I detect a leer? Taking an instant dislike to Tom Grigsby, I said, “With all the wonderful homes available in the area, I doubt that I’ll be back soon. Mr. Elmont is looking for something with a bit more character.”

      Grigsby brightened. “An older home? It so happens I live in one a couple of miles from here. Goes back to 1748. With stone walls two feet thick, it was the energy saving style of its day, but I can’t add solar heating until I replace the roof. If I sell it, I may move into this one.”

      Elmont’s eyes widened. “1748, you say? Is it on a large lot?”

      “Depends on what you mean by large,” Grigsby said. “It sits on about eighteen acres.”

      “Then it’s secluded?”

      “It’s on an unimproved road like this, very private.”

      Elmont beamed. “It sounds worth seeing. By the way, do you know of any other buildings about that same age in the vicinity?”

      “Sure. There are several churches, and even some old taverns. They say George Washington stopped at all of them.” Grigsby laughed.

      Before I realized what was happening, Elmont had arranged to view Grigsby’s house the next day. Inwardly, I fumed. Tom Grigsby’s house was not one of Cameron’s listings. If  Elmont bought it, the agency would have to split a commission. Were I not such a novice, I would have been more astute and steered Elmont away.

      Later, the more I thought about the encounter, the clearer it became that it was planned by an unknown person in our office for a reason. Tom Grigsby could not have known we were coming, could he?
Studiously, I ignored his wave as I gunned the motor and headed toward the main road. 

© 2004 Emily Pritchard Cary. All Rights Reserved. Contact Emily Cary at