As Arthur tried to process the staggeringly beautiful museum-like space around him, his phone suddenly erupted in his pocket. He glanced at the caller ID and saw it was his managing broker, Richard, who usually only called for multi-million-dollar commercial closings.
Desperate to buy some time and save himself from immediate embarrassment in front of Marian, Arthur pointed toward the back of the house. “Do you mind if I take this in the garden?” he stammered, stepping quickly through a glass slider onto a hidden, beautifully sculpted rear balcony.
“Arthur! Where are you right now?” Richard’s voice boomed frantically through the speaker. When Arthur confessed he was at 142 Willow Lane, Richard practically screamed, “Are you out of your mind?! Chloe showed me your emails. Arthur, Marian Woodard isn’t just an old lady—”