Read Online Brown-Eyed Girl by Virginia Swift - Free Book Online Page B

shrugged and stifled a recoil. He didn’t like having his hand patted and he hated it when people referred to houses as “homes.”
    She ignored him, lumbered on. “Well, what we do is every week we get a printout of homes on the market in your price range from the multiple listing service of the Wyoming state real estate board. Now I know you’re looking for something in the tree district near the university, but I want to start out by showing you some of the real bargains just a wee bit farther out, where you get so much more square footage for the money!” She was heading east on Grand, out of the trees and into the tracts.
    Hawk forced himself to speak. “Mrs. Czerny, I don’t really need a big house, living by myself.”
    â€œWell, just wait until you see a few places, and then you can decide,” she told him firmly. “I’ve selected a nice range of homes to give you some choices. Don’t hesitate to ask if you have any questions about financing, or inspections or any of that stuff. After all, that’s what you’re paying me the big bucks for, ho ho!”
    Hawk said nothing.
    The first place was one of those plywood and plastic houses erupting like boils every year in the outer reaches of every western city. It had four bedrooms the size of packing crates. The window frames were vinyl-coated aluminum. The mauve carpet smelled like every dog and cat in Laramie had peed on it, and then some idiot had come in and sprayed it with a firehose. “Now don’t think of this place as it is now, picture it with your own things in it,” advised Sheila Czerny. Five minutes and they were gone.
    The second place, way the hell out in West Laramie next to a gas station, was dark as a tomb and freezing cold even in August. Every room was painted a different muddy color. “Visualize!” she exclaimed. Hawk visualized that the hot water heater was in the garage. He’d lived in a similar house one winter long ago, and woken up one morning with his undershirt frozen to a glacier that had crept down the wall overnight. Five more minutes.
    Hawk was openly unimpressed with the bargains she’d presented him. Now she’d give him what he wanted, but at a slightly higher price. He could almost hear the noise in Sheila Czerny’s head, the sound of the cash register: chching . “Well, I do have one place here,” she said, peering at the printout from the M.L.S., “that’s only about four blocks from the U, right on Eighth Street. It’s small, though, and pretty pricey for the square footage.”
    Who used words like “footage” besides Realtors? But it was time Hawk bought a house, took advantage of the tax laws and put some of his savings into a place to live. He’d be out in the field a lot anyway. “Okay,” Hawk said, gritting his teeth and hoping wildly that he wouldn’t be stuck in a Jeep Cherokee with a Realtor for the rest of his life. It had been less than an hour, hellish.
    He knew from the moment he saw it. It was a small white frame house with a big window in front.
    Sheila Czerny unlocked the lockbox, opened the door, sniffed. “The owners did some remodeling recently,” she said, “so they want more than they should, given the square footage.”
    It smelled like varnish and fresh paint. The floors, recently and brightly refinished, were blond oak, the walls were white. The living room was washed in morning sun, with floor to ceiling built-in bookshelves. The bedroom had windows on two sides, with a view of the Snowy Range to the west. The sun streamed in large, new, wood frame, double-paned windows. The bathroom had real tile in it. He could throw down a sleeping bag anywhere in this clean, well-insulated house. Hell, he could get a bed. He might even buy a chair and a TV.
    â€œI’ll take it,” said Hawk, standing in the bathroom, looking at a big tub with whirlpool jets.