Connie, whose family had lived in Woodstock for generations, earned her license to sell real estate when her two daughters became adolescents and her estranged husband an impoverished drunk. She had always been devoted to the town’s famous art colony and worked in its gallery, but real estate paid her real money. The office stood across the street from the gallery so she could almost work in both places at once. What’s more, her A-frame house stood behind the office so from her desk she could watch her daughters come and go.
Everyone in Woodstock knew and trusted Connie Logan. Throughout the Catskills, her necklaces and loomed goods were highly prized. She managed fund raisers for the art colony, the public schools, and the summer theater, in which she had participated since high school. But despite this, and despite her unmatched knowledge of the environs, showing real estate to strangers intimidated her. When her daughters weren’t busy and the realty was, she often asked them to answer inquiries and make appointments. A handful of minor celebrities lived in the area and Connie knew most of them well enough for an occasional visit. But nobody of Matthew King’s stature had stayed in Woodstock during her lifetime: Nobody who’d won Emmys and an Oscar; nobody whose TV show and romantic comedies she and her daughter Tara watched most evenings.
In March a representative had visited and Connie had shown him beautiful overlooks and other areas to photograph that were not included in the selling packet. A week later Matthew King himself telephoned. This flustered Connie so much, she said, “One second,” her voice quavering. Luckily, by knocking on the window, she caught Brooke’s attention as she dropped her bicycle and books on the ground—home from school. An overhead bell sounded when Brooke opened the back door and asked her mother if she needed help.
In a croaky voice her mother said, “laryngitis. Matthew King’s on the phone.” She pointed at it. “He’s interested in buying Windfall Farms. This is too big to lose.”
Nodding as in, leave it to me, Brooke took the phone and cleared her throat of any fake laryngitis. “So sorry to make you wait. My older girl is grounded and was trying to sneak out. What can I tell you about Windfall Farms? It’s perfect for a high-profile couple with two small children. You have photographs? Great. Describe them and I can tell you how accurate they are.”
Connie shook her head and whispered. “Be professional.”
“Ah, just kidding, of course. The property is twenty acres: three of meadow with wild flowers; ten of virgin forest—that means nobody’s tampered with it…”
Connie rolled her eyes. But Brooke twirled away from her mother. “Of course you’re familiar with virgin forests. It’s just that words go in and out of usage so fast in this business. Anyway, do you have photographs of the rolling hills? Two waterfalls? Both of which are bitchin’, big-time thrills…First-hand knowledge, because when I was a child, the man who owned Windfall Farms didn’t care if I dived from the highest ledges. And let me tell you: Jeez-us shits! You will not believe the rush!”
Connie tried to grab the phone back. But Brooke held up a hand. “May I run through a description even though you have it? No doubt you’re pressed for time, but talking through the selling points is what being a real real estate agent is all about…Thank you, I’ll run through them fast for formality’s sake: Two ponds, one with ducks, a rambling little stream, a mile-long private lane leading to Route 212…”
Connie trusted Brooke and Tara to do practically everything because they were so much smarter than she. But Brooke was always provocative and Connie wasn’t accustomed yet to how at fourteen, everything Brooke said and did was either a tease or an all-out burlesque.
“Mr. King, are you very sure? You insist?...Well, if you’re going to get all insistent and persistent about it, I won’t be obstinate, Matthew. However, if you change your mind, feel free to say: ‘It’s Mr. King to you, Connie.’ Because in any case, I am and always will be one hundred percent Connie in mind, spirit, and—excuse me again, Matthew; it’s usually so quiet here…”
Brooke cupped her hand over the phone. “What?”
Connie shook her head. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“He’s laughing, Connie. He likes me.”
“Wrap it up.”
“Ah-hum.” Brooke returned to the phone a little breathless. “Ahem. My neighbor’s dog got loose. How many photographs do you have of the house itself?…Isn’t it glorious? Three wings, not counting the main section: kitchen, sunroom, mudroom, foyer or forer?—entrance area, thank you. Living room, dining room, et cetera. There are three bedrooms in each wing, one master bedroom and two normal ones. Known as the ‘farmhouse,’ it has fire places, a library on the second floor, and bathrooms galore…” Brooke lowered her voice. “Forget I said, ‘galore.’ It has…”
“Eight and a half baths,” Matthew said.
“Do you know what ‘half’ means?”
Connie mimed tearing her hair out.
He laughed. “I do, Connie. I’ve bought houses with half-baths before. We’re flying into New York next week. I’d like to look over the place on Wednesday afternoon, if that’s all right. Usually, I like to build a separate office for myself, free from distraction. I was thinking along the forest edge, away from the house and garage. But Sasha insists on inspecting the house first. All right if she and a crew show up Tuesday afternoon?”
“A crew? That’s what, four rowers and a coxswain? Now there’s an odd word, coxswain.”
He laughed again and said, “Sasha has three assistants. So there will be four women but no rowers. My wife’s opinion counts more than mine.”
“Why is that?” Brooke asked. “I mean, how does it work?”
Connie yanked Brooke’s shiny dark hair and hissed. “You’re so rude!”
“Sorry, Matthew, one more second here, I’m afraid.”
She held the phone away. “I’m almost finished. He says I’m refreshing, okay?”
“Sorry, Matthew. I was kidding when I asked how that works; I hope you didn’t take offense…Exactly, you were joking; I was joking…” She giggled. “Half-joking? Half-joking’s my favorite kind.” Connie squirmed. “No,” Brooke said. “My pleasure, Matthew. All mine. No, no, no—thank you.”
When Brooke hung up, Connie stamped her feet. “Damn it, Brooke, do you know how much this deal is worth?”
“No...but it’s good to go, Connie. He and his wife Sasha arrive next week. They’re staying at Ethan Sloane’s in Beacon. You have his mobile number but he’s emailing two more.”
