at me and smile.
“We knew she was the one for us,” says Mrs. Goodman. “Right from the start, she just knew what we were looking for.” She looks at William almost with an apology in her expression. “I know you probably think we’re silly old fuddy duddies, wanting our building to go to the right person … it’s only real estate after all. But we’ve spent a large portion of our lives here.”
Mr. Goodman takes her hand and continues the explanation. “All of our children grew up inside these walls. They graduated high school and college and came back here to celebrate with us. Our grandchildren play on this floor when their parents are out for dinner.” He looks at the scuffed surface. “Memories like that are hard to kill.”
“I assure you, we are not interested in killing any memories,” William says. “We want to bring this place back to its former glory. Some of the rooms will need to be changed around and obviously electrical and plumbing will need to be brought up to code, but that should be easy enough.” He steps in closer and puts on a serious expression. “What would be really nice would be to be able to discuss the properties on either side of you and perhaps down the block as well. We could make a really big project, a cohesive one that could bring in some serious investors if we could put them all together.”
The Goodmans share a look before Mr. Goodman responds. “We could put you in touch with most of our neighbors.”
My eyes bulge out. When I mentioned it before they didn’t really answer me or acted distracted.
Mrs. Goodman looks at me. “To be fair, Jennifer did ask us for that information before.”
I nod, keeping my words and my hurt feelings to myself.
“We didn’t want to say anything until we spoke to them first, and then with this Hank person calling us non-stop for weeks …”
“Weeks?” I ask, wondering if their old age has caused them to forget dates.
“Months?” Mrs. Goodman looks at her husband. “Lionel, it’s been months, dear. Remember? That first call was on Sandy’s birthday. That was back in February.”
My ears are ringing. I was still dating Hank in February, still living with him. He was going behind my back in February? I feel sick to my stomach. He was planning to steal all my clients before I found out about him and that twit. What a devious son of a fuck-faced liar he is. He is so lucky he’s not here right now. I’d borrow William’s keys and run him over for sure.
“Do you have the neighbor’s permission for us to contact them?” William asks, either oblivious to my distress or helping us all move past it.
“I don’t think you need their permission,” says Agatha. “We can send you the phone numbers by the email if you want.”
Mr. Goodman smiles. “She uses the email all day long. I still don’t know how to use it.”
“Please. Send it by the email, that would be perfect,” William says, giving no indication at all that he’s noticed their misnomer.
I have to hide my smile. He’s really good with people, not just girls like me, apparently. Seeing him in action is making it hard for me to dwell on what a douche Hank is. I’m so lucky I found William. Please, God, don’t let him screw me over.
“And what do we do about our contract?” Agatha asks.
“We can draw up a new one today and send it over to you by courier if that suits you,” William supplies.
“We’ll be playing handball this afternoon, but if it comes around five we should be home.”
“You play handball?” I ask, kind of shocked.
“Of course, dear,” Agatha says. “You don’t think I wear these clothes to go shopping do you?” She’s smiling.
“I thought you played tennis.”
“No, we prefer handball. More action.” Lionel winks at me. Then he turns his attention to William and holds out his hand. “I like you. We’ll be happy to sign your contract, so long as you have Jennifer on your team.”
William shakes his hand and