Write = Get Reviews Forum Rosemarie Lane

Rosemarie Lane (1982)     A few minutes before eight, on a Tuesday morning, realtors stood around talking: "I hate these early morning sales meetings." "Damn, I forgot the address of my new listing."  “Did you know, Bob is having an affair with—?” and, "Shut up, here they come."   Bob, the office manager, came into the room with a fast pacing shuffle.  Audrey, the office queen, followed close behind. Interrupting the chatter, he loudly said, "Good morning everyone," and seated himself at the head of a long conference table.   Sales agents took their seats. The room quieted.   After clearing his throat, Bob said, "Before we get started, I'd like to introduce a new agent.”  He glanced around the room.  With his eyes focused on Irene, he called out, “Irene would you please stand.”   She got up from her seat and waved her hand in a greeting.   Agents clapped. Irene blushed. The meeting began.   Starting at Bob’s left, working around the table each agent gave a weekly report on their new listings and sales.    When it was time for Lilly to report, she stood and portrayed a house that looked like a dump into a "House Beautiful.”    Laughter filled the room. Lilly mumbled something under her breath and stormed out of the meeting and went back to her office.   “You were rude laughing at her like that.  Her listings sell.” Bob retorted.   What’s so funny?  Irene thought. Lilly was successful. Wasn’t her picture plastered all over shopping carts?   “I want to be just like her,” Irene said to herself. She thought, but how?  Lifting her chin, she pushed for an answer:  guts, tenacity, tenacity, and guts.   The room soon stilled. The meeting resumed.   When Betty, the relocation agent, asked who wanted to have an open house Sunday on Rosemarie Lane, Irene held up her hand. "I'll do it."   "Good.  See me after the meeting," Betty replied.   An hour later Irene knocked on the door of Betty's office.   "Come in. Have a seat."   Irene sat and fiddled with an earring.    "I just wanted to ask you a few questions."  Betty smiled and folded her hands on top of her desk. "Will this be your first open house?"   "No. I sat open houses when I worked for Spectrum Realtors."   "I hear Spectrum has a good training program for new agents."   "Yes, they do. Matt, the man in charge of training at Spectrum, hangs out at the real estate school and recruits new agents. So, I went to Spectrum. I needed training. Now I'm ready to move on. Besides, I’m starting to run out of money.”   "Well, in that case," Betty rose from her chair and extended her hand.  "Good luck.  I hope you sell Rosemarie Lane."   #   Sunday afternoon.   “God, I need to sell this house,” Irene mumbled as she drove to Rosemarie Lane.   After stepping down an open house yard stake into the ground, she took a key out of a lock-box and went inside.  Walking from room to room, Irene flipped on the lights. In the kitchen, on the top of the bar, she laid down flyers with information on the home, next to the brochures, a guest book and a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies.  Then she pulled out a stool, sat and flipped through the June edition of a "Better Homes and Garden" magazine as she waited for a buyer.  Waited, waited and waited.     Two-thirty and still nobody had come through. Restless, tense and tired of waiting she slid off the stool and went outside for a breath of fresh air.  Observing the open house sign, she thought, maybe I should have tied red balloons on it.   She reached up, rubbed the back of her neck, rolled her head from side to side, and arched her back, then turned and ambled back to the house.     To pass the time Irene wandered from room to room and back again, each time noting a selling point here and selling point there.  She kept mental notes, roomy closets, nice window coverings, and new fixtures in the bathrooms. She leaned over, with her long brunette hair sweeping the floor she looked under a bed, "Nope.  No buyer there." She laughed, stood, and then with her hands, she straightened her short black skirt.     Finally, five minutes more, and then, three o'clock. But just as Irene began to gather her open flyers, a man around thirty-five, with ruffled brown hair rushed in,  " "I was riding my bike, saw your sign," he said slightly out of breath.  "Am I too late?"   "Not at all," she said. "Here, let me give you a flyer on the home and one of my business cards."   He looked at it and said, "I'm Donald." Then as a bonus, Irene threw him a sexy smile. And, yes, he caught it.   He glanced over the flyer.  He jiggled it. "I’ll take a look at the house."   "Go ahead. But first, would you mind signing my guestbook?"   "Sure, but only if you promise not to bug me." He laughed as he signed in.   With a flyer in hand, Donald meandered around the house, opening and closing closet doors and turning on faucets in bathrooms.   In the kitchen, he checked the burners on the stove, and then he jerked his thumb towards the refrigerator. "Does the fridge stay?"   "Not usually.  However, if you include it in your offer, the seller might leave it.”  Irene smiled and then asked,  “What do you think of the home?”   “I like it.” He answered as he reached for a cookie. “This is good,” he said with his mouth full. “You make ‘em?”   “Yes, glad you like it.  But, would you consider making an offer?”   "Maybe.  Give me a couple of days to think about it.  First I need to check on some financing."   "Don't wait too long."   "I won't.” He grabbed a couple more cookies. Moving away from the bar, he said,  “It must be time for you to close up. I've got your card; I'll get back to you."  He looked at the card in his hand.  "Irene Mathis." He smiled and left.   She closed up the house and drove back to the office.   #   One week later, Irene sat at the desk in her cubical, contemplating. Should I call him?  I know he said he'd call. Looking at his name and phone number in her quest book, Irene reached for the phone, and then pulled back her hand.  Maybe I shouldn't. Taking a deep breath, she picked up the handset and dialed his number.   "Hello," a man answered.   "I’d like to speak to Donald Evans."   "Speaking."   "Hi, this is Irene Mathis. You came through the open house I was holding on Rosemarie Lane last Sunday.  I just wanted to follow up."   "Oh, yeah, I remember, the house with the cookies.”   “That's me,” she said as she doodled on a phone pad.   “I bought a home."   "You did?  What did you buy?"   "I bought Rosemarie Lane. I called a real estate friend of mine.  She wrote it up.  The seller jumped at it. I'm sure glad I stopped to look at that open house.”   “Oh, I didn’t know,” she said softly.  “I’m sorry to have bothered you. I hope you'll be pleased with your new home."   Irene hung up the phone, swiveled her chair, and faced the wall of her cubical.  Her heart sank.  “I needed to sell Rosemarie Lane.”