Maybe I am, but I could never afford a smartphone until now. Actually, I still can’t, but I’m forking out extra money so I look legit to my clients. Plus, okay, the mapping application is pretty awesome.
A text comes in a moment later, shaking my phone.
Wynonna: U there, Reba?
Ivy: I am. And remember, I’m Ivy now!!
Wynonna: O god, whatever.
Wynonna: I don’t have time for this crap.
Well, she’d better make time. Ivy’s my real name now; I had it changed legally. Reba sounded like a redneck cliche, and when my teacher at my realtor classes suggested that I go by a less ‘polarizingly southern’ name, I jumped at the chance. I’ve been Ivy to everyone else for the last two years, but to my sister, I guess I’ll always be Reba Lee Smithfield.
Wynonna: I have a flat. Gonna B late getting home.
Ivy: Are you ok?
Wynonna: Rim’s bent I think. We got the money for that?
I wince. We don’t. We don’t even have the money for the insurance for Wynonna’s little 1992 Civic, but I’m trying to make it work. I type slowly, since my fingers feel too big and clumsy for the tiny smartphone screen.
Ivy: I’ll figure it out. Are you pulled over somewhere safe?
Wynonna: I’m fine. A friend is coming to pick me up, but the car’s on the side of the highway. You want me to wait for a tow truck?
Ivy: No, those cost too much. I’ll leave work and see if I can change the spare for you. Maybe it’s not as bad as we think.
Wynonna: Ok! Just text me when u get there. I’m sorry :(
Ivy: Don’t be sorry! The tires were old. We knew they would go soon. I’ll handle it.
Wynonna: K! Don’t work 2 late! Friend is taking me 2 a used bookstore so I can see if any of my college texts are there. Maybe I can get them cheap.
Ivy: Smart thinking!! XO
Wynonna: XO to u 2
I put the phone down and resist the urge to bury my head in my hands. Car repairs—the last thing I can think about right now. Wynonna needs her car to go to college, and I need to finish scraping together some money for her tuition. If it’s just a flat tire, we can eat ramen for a week or two and scrape by. If it’s more than that . . . well, I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. I’m just glad my little sister wasn’t hurt.
Of course, this means I really need to get some leads. Shoot. I might take a clipboard to the mall and pretend to do a survey, all so I can pass out some cards. It’s desperate, but heck, I am desperate at this point, and the Jacks keep stealing all my good leads. After that, I might stop by the library and the gym and pin a few cards to corkboards. Something will pay off eventually, if I just put enough work into it.
Well, no time like the present to get started.
I gather my things, stuffing my folders and then my laptop into my shoulder-bag. No rest for the wicked, and I’m going to put in a long night tonight trying to drum up leads. I might even try Facebook ads and Craigslist, if that’s what it takes. All I need to do is sell one house in the next thirty days and I can pay for Wynonna’s tuition. If I get someone in escrow, I can ask for an advance until payday. I have options. I just need to get someone in the door. I’m sure I can seal the deal if that happens.
I rush out the back of the office and into the lobby—only to see Winky Jack heading back in. He’s got a coffee in hand and his sunglasses on. I smile at him as I pass by.
He stops and points at me. “Ivy!”
I halt, but inwardly I’m torn between snarling at him and just wishing I could race out the door. Instead, I keep a warm smile on my face and try to pretend that someone just stuck gum to the back of his expensive suit. “Hi Jack, how did the open house go?”
“Fantastic. Got one or two couples that are very interested.” One of his cheeks twitches, and I realize he’s probably winking at me from behind his sunglasses. Oy. “It was a great lead. Thanks for sending it in my direction.”
But I didn’t, I want to snap. You stole it. “Of course.”
He sips his coffee, ignoring the fact that I was trying to leave. “You said you had some comps, right? Mind emailing me those?”
“Sure.” I gesture at the door. It’s getting harder to smile by the second, but somehow I manage. “Listen, I have to go—”
At that moment, a man pushes open the glass double doors and walks into the lobby. He’s wearing a dirty trucker cap, an equally dirty t-shirt, jeans, and workboots. He’s got an enormous, bushy beard covering most of his face and glances around with a hint of a scowl on his face.
The receptionist gives him a blank look, and then her lips twitch with a smirk. She glances over at me and Jack as if to say can you believe this guy, then over at the client. “Can I help you, sir?”
He saunters forward with a cocky swagger, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Wanted to talk to someone about a house.” He’s got a thick Texas accent that tells me he’s from a small town and not a big city. They drawl more out east and west. I know, because it took me thirteen CDs of self-guided voice coaching to try to ditch my own accent.
The receptionist looks over at me and Jack.
Jack takes another sip of his coffee. “Looks like this one’s yours, Ivy.”
I’m torn. On one hand, I need sales. On the other hand, this guy doesn’t look like he has two nickels to rub together. That’s why he’s ‘mine’. Jack can’t be bothered unless it’s a million dollar sale. I smother the stab of resentment I feel. “I do need to go . . .”
But Jack’s already turning and walking away. That . . . jerk. Grr. It’s not the client’s fault for having bad timing, though. It’d be rude for me to take my frustrations out on him. So I look over at the man with the beard and give him a smile, offering my hand. All right then, I said I wanted a sale, and fate is providing. “Hi there. I’m Ivy Smithfield . . .”