Page 71 of Too Old for This

Two units are available at Oak Manor. The sales executive, Tom Wallace, shows them to me.

“It’s rare to have two at the same time,” he says. “Especially like this.”

By that, he means they are opposite, at least in terms of location. One is on the top floor, with an enclosed balcony and a view of the surrounding woods. The other is on the ground floor. It comes with a private patio with enough space for a garden.

The square footage is the same, and both are one-bedroom units. I could never afford two at Oak Manor. One has a kitchen that’s a little more updated, but the other has new floors. A toss-up. The only question is where I want to be.

We end up back in Tom’s office, where an assistant brings in coffee.

Decaf for me. I’ve been taking better care of myself, trying to lead a calmer, less stressful life.

The idea of selling my house and moving into a place like this makes me feel relaxed.

Less to take care of, to worry about, to fix or maintain.

“So do you prefer having a garden or being on the top floor?” Tom sits behind his desk, hands steepled together. I don’t know why he reminds me of a vampire, but he does. It’s not because he’s particularly pale, either. His lips are too rosy, though. And his eyes are obnoxiously dramatic.

I imagine myself in each of the units. Where my furniture would go, where I would sit, if the sun would hit in the morning or the afternoon.

I keep coming back to the garden on the first floor.

It would be so nice to sit out there. And it would be a lovely space for Morgan and the baby when they come to town.

The patio is also a second entrance to the unit. Unlike the one on the top floor, which requires an elevator ride and walking through the lobby.

“I’d like to have a garden,” I say. “So the ground-floor unit would probably be best for me.”

“It’s a lovely space. And right there on the corner, you have so much light.” Tom hands me the price sheet. I’ve already seen it.

“Let’s talk about this,” I say.

“This?”

I point to the price of that unit. And the monthly fee. “This.”

“We don’t really negotiate on our prices.”

“Fine, fine,” I say. “But let’s just have a chat anyway.”

Tom leans back in his chair, away from me, and resteeples his hands. “All right.”

“I have been to both Serenity Village and Tranquil Towers. Both also have rooms available on the bottom floor, with a patio.” Must be that time of year, I suppose.

“I’m sure you know their accommodations don’t measure up to ours,” he says.

“Perhaps they don’t. However, my money is the same everywhere.”

He does not break eye contact. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. What I am stating is that I am going to buy a unit at one of these places. I am going to pay a monthly fee. That’s a fact. All I’m doing is simply asking a question: Which one of you wants my money more than the others?”

I say all of this without hesitation, without stuttering, though my heart is doing a pitter-patter.

It’s not the negotiation that bothers me.

Delia taught me everything, I’m using the same method she uses to sell houses.

The difference is that her goal is to get the highest price for a property. Mine is to get the lowest.

What I don’t want is to be laughed at by a man like Tom. I don’t want him to look at me as someone who can’t really afford to live here. Who doesn’t deserve to live here.

It would be nice to live out the rest of my days not caring about Tom or his opinion. Yet that fear stays with me, like something I was born with.

Maybe there’s still time to work on it.

“Have you asked this same question at the other establishments?” Tom says.

“Yes.”

“I see.”

I have no doubt he does. Tom doesn’t say the words bidding war , but he understands that he’s in one. Maybe he wants to fill that room quick, or maybe he is willing to wait for someone who can pay full price.

“If you need to think about it, I can go and—”

“How much?” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“How much will you pay to have that unit and to be here at Oak Manor?”

Now we’re getting somewhere.