The door swung open to the empty Pasadena townhouse. The pair looked into the first floor – oh, so bright and airy, and oh, what potential for either a nautical theme of blues and whites or an earth treatment of greens and browns. And that kitchen with the white-framed cabinets (do you see the glass panes on the top) with an oh-so-convenient laundry closet (front loading, of course) to the right of the French-door refrigerator. And yes, there’s the powder room cleverly concealed to the left of the hall closet.
I know, the real estate agent (what was her name – oh, yes – Mrs. Findlay) said in a rushed and hurried manner that took them across the beige-tiled hallway floor into the simulated wood-floored living room – dining room combination (wasn’t everyone doing that these days) with its pair of sliding glass doors to the back yard.
“And just look at that vista,” Mrs. Findlay said in a manner that had Geraldine Grant expecting a view of Topanga Canyon and the Pacific Ocean, all at once. Mrs. Findlay led Geraldine by the arm around the house, upstairs to the bedrooms (three of ‘em, perfect for Geraldine, her daughter, and her son) – notice those bathrooms on the interiors of the bedroom, it’s what all the best townhouses are doing these days – it was then that Geraldine gave up.
The settlement had given her a juicy lump sum from Richard’s sale of the Westwood house, and it’d be enough to get her into this neighborhood. She’d figure out what to do with the furniture that Tiffany with the twenty-inch waist and the two-digit I.Q. hadn’t grabbed when they were splitting up the furniture. At least Geraldine had gotten Scout the basset hound.
“All right, put in an offer. Four hundred thousand tops and I’ll take it. But not a penny more.”
“But didn’t you see this upstairs patio and the convenient sliding glass door to it?”
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