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Authors: Amanda Eyre Ward
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immediately.” I didn’t have an assistant, but I knew Jonesey would help me out if the day was slow.
“Well,” said Ben, putting his glasses back on and folding his hands in his lap, “I want to walk or, worst case, ride a bus to work. I’ve been driving for thirty years, and I’m sick of my car.”
“Okay,” I said. Betty had told me her husband worked in finance and that his new office was on Third and Congress.
“Furthermore,” said Ben, “I’d like to try ethnic restaurants. I want to walk to various ethnic restaurants from my home.”
“No problem,” I said encouragingly. After all, the P. F. Chang’s in the Arboretum mall was—technically—ethnic, and you couldn’t throw a rock in Austin without hitting a burrito.
“I love the capitol building,” added Betty. “I’ve seen pictures. Let’s have a view of that, wouldn’t it be neat? And I’d like to walk to a park.”
“There’s Zilker Park,” I said. “Barton Springs is a great place to swim.”
“Okay, let’s be able to walk to the park, whatever,” said Ben. “And maybe something sleek, something modern, you know?”
I thought of the folder in his hand, which was filled with photos of sprawling limestone homes decorated with cowhide furniture.
“And at least two fireplaces,” said Betty. “A nice big garden, maybe a cozy extra bedroom for my sewing? A turret or a widow’s walk would be over the top, I know, but a gal can dream, right?”
“Tell me about your home in Boston,” I ventured.
“Big stuffy old place in Sudbury,” said Ben. “Terrible commute. The house is full of the kids’ crap.”
“It’s a charming Victorian,” said Betty. “It has four bedrooms, but now that the children are gone, it does feel large. Then again, the boys come home for holidays.” My palms grew sweaty with the realization that I was trapped on Highway 183 with a couple on the verge of divorce.
“We’re looking for a change,” said Ben. “That’s why I took the transfer. A new leaf.”
“I’m a little nervous,” confessed Betty. “I’ve heard some Texans are … a bit gauche. Kind of nouveau riche. Big hair, right? But you’re a nice girl. So that’s a start!”
“I think I’m getting a better idea of what you’re looking for,” I said, deciding to show them homes way out of their budget so at least they could see the problem for themselves.
When I started out in real estate, I used to take people’s budgets seriously, showing clients only homes they could comfortably afford. But as the years passed, I realized that people were leaving me for Realtors who showed them their dream homes and then either figured out the financing or let them decide they had to look at less expensive homes. Clients wanted to dream. They didn’t seem to care if you respected their bank account.
“How about we start in Clarksville? That’s a beautiful historic area adjacent to downtown,” I said.
“Clarksville,” mused Ben. “I think I’ve heard of that one.”
“It has a nice ring to it,” said Betty. “Very classy.”
“Clarksville has a long, storied history,” I said, “and yet is one of the sleeker, more hip places to live in the city.”
Both Hendrixes leaned in, listening with rapt interest as I began talking about the former plantation of Governor Elisha M. Pease, historic Nau’s drugstore with the working soda fountain, and Jeffrey’s restaurant, which was rumored to be George W. Bush’s favorite. I wondered which Hendrix had had the affair. While Ben seemed a likely candidate—the sleek stuff sounded like it was parroted from some youthful secretary’s Facebook page—there was something squirrelly about Betty, all her talk of fireplaces and snuggling cats.
“Let’s pop into a local breakfast spot,” I suggested, thinking of Lucinda’s, an Austin institution, which was scheduled to be demolished soon to make room for a Marriott. “You can get the feel of downtown Austin, and I can call my
“Well,” said Ben, putting his glasses back on and folding his hands in his lap, “I want to walk or, worst case, ride a bus to work. I’ve been driving for thirty years, and I’m sick of my car.”
“Okay,” I said. Betty had told me her husband worked in finance and that his new office was on Third and Congress.
“Furthermore,” said Ben, “I’d like to try ethnic restaurants. I want to walk to various ethnic restaurants from my home.”
“No problem,” I said encouragingly. After all, the P. F. Chang’s in the Arboretum mall was—technically—ethnic, and you couldn’t throw a rock in Austin without hitting a burrito.
“I love the capitol building,” added Betty. “I’ve seen pictures. Let’s have a view of that, wouldn’t it be neat? And I’d like to walk to a park.”
“There’s Zilker Park,” I said. “Barton Springs is a great place to swim.”
“Okay, let’s be able to walk to the park, whatever,” said Ben. “And maybe something sleek, something modern, you know?”
I thought of the folder in his hand, which was filled with photos of sprawling limestone homes decorated with cowhide furniture.
“And at least two fireplaces,” said Betty. “A nice big garden, maybe a cozy extra bedroom for my sewing? A turret or a widow’s walk would be over the top, I know, but a gal can dream, right?”
“Tell me about your home in Boston,” I ventured.
“Big stuffy old place in Sudbury,” said Ben. “Terrible commute. The house is full of the kids’ crap.”
“It’s a charming Victorian,” said Betty. “It has four bedrooms, but now that the children are gone, it does feel large. Then again, the boys come home for holidays.” My palms grew sweaty with the realization that I was trapped on Highway 183 with a couple on the verge of divorce.
“We’re looking for a change,” said Ben. “That’s why I took the transfer. A new leaf.”
“I’m a little nervous,” confessed Betty. “I’ve heard some Texans are … a bit gauche. Kind of nouveau riche. Big hair, right? But you’re a nice girl. So that’s a start!”
“I think I’m getting a better idea of what you’re looking for,” I said, deciding to show them homes way out of their budget so at least they could see the problem for themselves.
When I started out in real estate, I used to take people’s budgets seriously, showing clients only homes they could comfortably afford. But as the years passed, I realized that people were leaving me for Realtors who showed them their dream homes and then either figured out the financing or let them decide they had to look at less expensive homes. Clients wanted to dream. They didn’t seem to care if you respected their bank account.
“How about we start in Clarksville? That’s a beautiful historic area adjacent to downtown,” I said.
“Clarksville,” mused Ben. “I think I’ve heard of that one.”
“It has a nice ring to it,” said Betty. “Very classy.”
“Clarksville has a long, storied history,” I said, “and yet is one of the sleeker, more hip places to live in the city.”
Both Hendrixes leaned in, listening with rapt interest as I began talking about the former plantation of Governor Elisha M. Pease, historic Nau’s drugstore with the working soda fountain, and Jeffrey’s restaurant, which was rumored to be George W. Bush’s favorite. I wondered which Hendrix had had the affair. While Ben seemed a likely candidate—the sleek stuff sounded like it was parroted from some youthful secretary’s Facebook page—there was something squirrelly about Betty, all her talk of fireplaces and snuggling cats.
“Let’s pop into a local breakfast spot,” I suggested, thinking of Lucinda’s, an Austin institution, which was scheduled to be demolished soon to make room for a Marriott. “You can get the feel of downtown Austin, and I can call my
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