Melodic chimes awakened me. Propelled from bed by their urgency, I snatched my robe and hobbled into my slippers with all the glamour of a drowsy puppy. The miniaturized view through the peephole focused on a beaming delivery boy balancing a tray of croissants, exactly what I needed. The moment I flung open the door, their warm, yeasty aroma filled the room.

      “Compliments of Carol’s Kitchen. The card’s on the tray.” He thrust the whole affair into my hands, wheeled about, and headed for the elevator before I could rummage through my purse for a tip.

      Enlisting some fancy footwork, I kicked the door shut and headed for the kitchen where a cursory foray through the cabinets revealed an array of staples guaranteed to help one survive a blizzard. I selected a tin of coffee and set a pot to brew on the stove while I examined the card. Sheila’s breezy, authoritative manner registered on paper exactly as it did in person.

      “Good morning Amanda. Enjoy! Janel Bates, one of our agents, will pick you up about ten. Wait in the lobby and watch for a burgundy car with our gold Cameron logo. We’re all thrilled that you’re joining us! Sheila C.”

      Who, I wondered abstractly, is thrilled? And why? I tore off a flaky layer of croissant and popped it into my mouth. As the rest of the remarkable pastry disappeared, my silent questions floated away to the bottomless pit of unsolved mysteries.

      The croissants, a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and two satisfying cups of hot coffee elevated my spirits. I showered quickly and slipped into my most respectable “dress for success” suit of banker’s gray and a silk turquoise blouse that accented my eyes.

      Descending to the lobby, I smiled to myself. Why, I felt almost at home in the ridiculous bird cage elevator. Outside the revolving door, the regal Cameron colors on the car parked at the entry commanded attention. “You must be Janel,” I said, extending my hand to the driver. “I’m Amanda Prescott.”

      She smiled back. “I picked you out right away. You definitely have the Cameron stable look.”
“Stable?” As I slipped in beside Janel, I marked that she was not unlike a prancing filly, her regal blonde upsweep topped by a perky velvet bow that softened the severity of her tweed suit.

      Janel suppressed a giggle. “Just a figure of speech…with a fragment of truth. We win the sales race through fair means rather than foul, although we might have to take our clients for a ride to win the prize, if you understand what I mean.”

      “I don’t, actually. Are you talking about the agents?”

      “That’s right. Super Agents, we call ourselves. We make sales that would stymie others.”

      “How are you different?”

      Janel smiled knowingly. “I’ll let our honorable honcho explain.”

      “You’re talking about Burke Cameron?”

      Her eyebrows arched. “You’ve heard about him?”

      “What should I have heard?” I shot back.

      “Nothing in particular. Just that he recently appeared out of the blue and right away was appointed lord of all that Cameron Properties survey.”

      “Is he…difficult to work with?”

      “Burke? He’s the devil personified, or so I’m told. Fortunately, I’m out of the office most of the time, except when I deliver a contract or have extra assignments like this. I don’t have much chance to touch base with the other agents, so this is a pleasant change of routine.” 

      “Is there a lot of rivalry among the agents?”
“
      None. That’s a huge plus in this job. We deal with top-of-the-line properties, so it makes no difference who sells which house. It’s merely a matter of matching a client to one that suits his life style. We handle only ‘point’ houses.”

      “Point houses? I’m not familiar with the term.”

      Janel smiled. “Real estate jargon. A million point eight, three million point five, and up, strictly the upper brackets. Many of our clients come from overseas to important positions in Washington, so we have to converse on subjects from politics and great literature to horse breeding and opera.”

      I sighed. “Cameron agents sound like a cross between United Nations ambassadors and proper Bostonians. I’m afraid it takes someone with more self assurance than I have.”

      “Nonsense. It also requires modesty. You don’t recognize your own greatest asset.”

      I softened under Janel’s kindness, but I could not shake my serious reservations about being cast in an unlikely role…and meeting Burke Cameron.

      Momentarily, Janel swung into a parking space amidst a fleet of Cameron cars. Before us was a sleek building of tinted glass and black marble. Once through the revolving door, we entered a reception room furnished in antiques, original oil paintings, and exotic plants. The young woman at the front desk smiled warmly.

      “Amanda, this is Robin, our indispensable receptionist,” Janel said.

      Robin extended her hand. “And you must be our new agent. You’ll love working with our great team. By now you probably have met the Camerons.”

      “She knows Sheila, but not ‘his nibs,’” Janel said. “He’s next on the agenda.”

      “Good luck. Don’t let him change your mind. The rest of us are quite normal.”

      I returned Robin’s earnest smile with a guarded one. At that moment, she responded to a persistent buzz from the intercom. “Yes?…Right here…Janel brought her…Yes, sir.” She turned to me. “Mr. Cameron will see you now.”

      Robin’s knowing glance evoked a titter from Janel. “You’re on your own now, Amanda. I’ve done my duty. 
You might find me in the lounge after your indoctrination lecture.”

      “Thanks, Janel. I may need your moral support.”

      “Through the door on your left and down the hall to the last office,” Robin said.

      As the door closed behind me, I proceeded cautiously, the sensible side of me reticent, even afraid, locked in battle with my natural curiosity. 

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