Chapter 20 #2
“It’s... still under consideration,” Clementine replies with admirable composure.
I have to make a significant effort to maintain a professional smile.
Susan Drummond, who apparently possesses a supernatural inability to detect tension, continues enthusiastically.
“And you, Cameron? Are you handling the sale of the manor?”
“I could manage the valuation if Clementine decided to sell,” I clarify.
“But you’re also... the legendary couple, right? The villagers told us you’re reenacting Brodie and Mairenn’s story.”
We’re reenacting it now.
That’s the newest level of interpretation the village has reached.
“That’s one way to see it,” I say carefully.
For the first time since the tour began, Robert Drummond smiles.
It’s subtle.
But it’s there.
“Tell me something,” Susan says, turning toward both of us with the expression of someone finally asking the real question of the day. “If this cottage belonged to you, what would you do with it?”
It’s exactly the kind of question I ask clients myself.
A projection question.
I know precisely what she’s trying to accomplish.
I open my mouth.
But Clementine answers first.
“I’d keep the fireplace going all winter. I’d renovate the kitchen—it has good orientation and excellent morning light. And the front garden, with that little wall... you could plant herbs there. Rosemary. Thyme.”
She stops.
As if she’s suddenly realized something.
And so have I.
Listening to her talk, I realize how badly I want her to imagine her future that way at the manor.
Because if she can imagine it, maybe she stays.
Susan Drummond’s eyes shine.
“That’s exactly what we’d want,” she says softly, as though Clementine has just validated something important.
Robert stands, hands in his pockets, and studies the garden through the window.
There’s something in his posture that tells me he’s making a decision.
“Could we discuss terms?” he finally asks.
I smile.
That’s the sentence.
The one that means a sale is possible.
“Absolutely.”
As the couple moves into the dining room, I exchange a glance with Clementine.
She looks happy.
And I’m at least as happy as she is.
Negotiations continue for another twenty minutes.
Robert Drummond is precise and methodical.
He asks the right questions in exactly the right order.
His wife interrupts three times to announce that “it’s already decided.”
Technically, that’s supposed to be my closing line.
But I’m happy to let her keep it.
The Drummonds leave with my contact information, a list of questions about property boundaries, and the unmistakable look of two people who will spend the evening convincing each other they’ve found the perfect place even though both have already decided to buy it.
Susan pauses one last time before getting into the car.
“Thank you for the tour. And thank you to both of you. It’s rare to see people so... rooted in a place.”
The car disappears down the lane.
The sun has shifted.
The air feels cooler.
The rosebush in front of the cottage casts a short shadow across the stone path.
I search for something light to say.
A comment about the showing.
The Drummonds.
Susan’s question.
Anything that will turn this moment back into a professional debrief and give me control of the situation again.
“You should have let me answer first,” I finally say. “It was my showing.”
Clementine picks up her bags.
“You looked hesitant.”
“I wasn’t hesitant. I was building my answer.”
“Same thing.”
I can’t really argue.
She’s right.
Which is particularly irritating.
“They’re going to call back, though,” I say.
“I know. Robert Drummond was convinced before we even reached the kitchen. His wife was convinced before she walked through the front door.”
She’s right.
Again.
It’s an exhausting dynamic.
I watch her for a moment.
She adjusts her grip on the bags.
She doesn’t look unsettled.
Or maybe she looks exactly as unsettled as I do and I no longer know the difference.
“The thyme and rosemary in the garden,” I say. “You answered without thinking.”
“It was the first thing that came to mind. It’s what you’d do with any south-facing garden.”
“You’d?”
She looks at me and raises an eyebrow.
“‘What you’d do.’ That’s what you said.”
“A general you, if you prefer.”
“Of course.”
She holds my gaze for two seconds too long, then picks up her bags with a decisive movement.
The gesture of someone deliberately choosing not to continue a conversation.
“Congratulations on the sale, Cameron.”
She heads toward the manor.
She doesn’t look back.
I remain standing in front of the cottage, watching her walk away.
I have one fundamental rule in life:
Never ask a question if you don’t want to hear the answer.
I’ve followed it faithfully for years.
It has saved me from countless uncomfortable situations and at least two major professional mistakes.
But right now, I want to run after Clementine and ask her a hundred questions whose answers terrify me.
I want to know whether she could ever imagine staying.
Under what circumstances.
Whether she’s only pretending with me or whether it’s possible she feels something more.
And if she does...
Would she be willing to give me a chance?