Selling Forever Read online

  Brutally illustrated by their first date. Cara recalled the look on Richard's handsome face, the face now relaxed and smiling in sleep. It had grown darker as person after person interrupted them. That, even more than his apartment, needed fixing.

  She shifted and his arm tightened around her. “Cara.” He nuzzled her chin, his shadowed chin gently scratching her delicate skin.

  "Help me out with the auction, Richard.” It was the perfect solution. She could walk him through the process, show him how to cope, make it fun rather than painful. They'd laugh and...

  There was silence. Did he not hear her? “Richard—"

  "Am I being an ass again, Cara?” He released a short bark of laughter. “Or did you, after everything that happened last night, ask me to do the auction?"

  "The auction.” Cara pulled back her words, resisting the automatic spin into a selling spiel. She didn't want to be the saleswoman with him. To deliver the perfect pitch. To manipulate Richard into agreeing with her.

  She wanted to be natural, unplanned, spontaneous.

  "Cara."

  Should she say? No. What about?

  Sugar, without the sales talk, the training, what did she have? How would a normal woman convince a man to do what she wanted? “It's for the best, for us.” Didn't sound like her.

  "For us?” Richard snorted. “I don't believe you, Cara.” He sat up quickly, uncaring that she bounced away from him. “Is that what last night, this, what we're doing here, is all about?” Big arms spread out.

  What this. He meant. “You think?"

  "What do I think? What should I think?"

  "That I care for you.” She did, with all her heart, could he not feel that?

  "That you care about what I can do for you more like. I'm simply a check signer for you, aren't I?"

  "Never.” That he could think that, of her, of himself. Heat flared in her face, rising to sting her eyes.

  "Sure I am. I'm your prospect, your mark, your oh-so-gullible target.” His voice rose. “You can't do anything without selling something. That's what you are, Cara. A saleswoman."

  "No.” She wasn't. She was trying not to be. Selling was what she did, not who she was. Didn't he understand that?

  Cara reached for him. He slipped away out of bed, tugging on his dress pants, not worrying about his underwear.

  "Then what's with the auction? You know I don't want to do it. Why are you pressing so hard?"

  His back to her, Cara searched for her own clothes. Why was she pressing so hard? Because, unless he learned how to handle the media, he wouldn't be able to handle their relationship.

  She found her bra tangled in the sheets, her skirt on the floor.

  Despite him being an ass, yet again, she wanted their relationship to work.

  "What's in it for you, Cara?"

  "Nothing.” Nothing really. Well, technically, yes, she'd get the reduction in desk fees but that would go toward reducing Wendy's down payment. So could she honestly say there was nothing?

  She shook out the wrinkles in her suit top, found across the room, and slipped it on, avoiding his eyes.

  Cara could only do that for so long. When she turned, he was watching her. “There is,” Richard confirmed. She was never good at lying. “There's something, isn't there? You're getting something if I participate."

  "I wouldn't have pursued it if it wasn't in your best interest,” Cara defended herself. Useless words. She could see by his granite hard chin that he wasn't listening. “You can't hide from the press. You need to do this."

  "No, I don't need to do anything. You need me to do this. You."

  He was right. She needed him to do this. To avoid more painful public outings like last night.

  "Answer the question, Cara.” Richard's hands were clenched on his hips. “How does my being in the auction help you?"

  "The press.” The real reason.

  "No, not the press, there's more. Why me? Why now?"

  Why, why, why, there'd always be another why. She should tell him everything, put it all out there. He couldn't be angrier with her than he was right now. “The Realty is offering a reward for the agent whose handyman earns the top bid."

  Wrong. His face, if possible, went harder. “A quarter of a million dollar bid from Venture Magazine would do that, wouldn't it? Make me the top handyman."

  Cara didn't reply. He knew it would.

  Richard cursed under his breath. “Is it money? Is that what you're selling me out for?"

  Selling him out? She would never. “It's not about—"

  "Is it money, Cara?” he repeated, walking through the living room, Cara tagging along after him.

  "Not for me.” He glanced back and she winced at the disgust on his lips. Disgust at her. Just last night, his face had been soft and warm with what could have been the beginning of love. “Richard, it wasn't for me. Believe me."

  "Believe you? When were you going to tell me all this?"

  She wasn't. Because she hadn't thought it that important. All the money was going to Wendy.

  "You weren't, were you?"

  There was quiet as they stood there, not directly looking at each other. Even the saleswoman in Cara couldn't think of anything that would make a difference, would change the expression on his face.

  "I'm...” Richard opened the door, took one step into the hallway then stopped. “No, this is my place. You're leaving."

  "Richard."

  "No, no explanations. Go.” His voice was flat, dead.

  Cara hesitated. Was there a point in staying? He wasn't hearing her; he wasn't hearing anything right now. But she wasn't giving up. What they had, have...

  Time, he needed time.

  After Richard calmed down, then she'd explain. She'd explain that it was all a big misunderstanding. She'd ask for forgiveness and they'd piece back together what they could of their relationship.

  But when she saw the headline smattered across the front page of the paper waiting outside his apartment door, she knew there'd be nothing left to salvage.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Step Five

  Answering Objections: Responding to the resistance prospects have toward a new solution. Successful presentations have more objections than unsuccessful presentations.

  "You want another piece of pie, Richie?” His mother hovered over him with a full spatula.

  "Sure.” He held out his plate, not having the heart to turn her down. The first pie he requested had too little cinnamon. This second pie, the pastry wasn't as light as it should be. As a certain real estate agent's pastry was.

  His mom slid the pie over then gave him an impromptu hug. “Isn't this fun? You being home? Us spending time together? Talking?"

  More like her talking. His head was buzzing, full of the intimate details of half the town's population. Information he didn't need to know.

  "We talk,” he shrugged off her emotion, embarrassed. After that incident with Cara and seeing the blaring headlines, Richard packed up for the week and headed home. He thought it would ground him, reset everything to zero.

  Instead, something was missing.

  Someone was missing.

  "No need to look so sad, Richie.” His mom sat down beside him, patting his arm. “I understand how it is in your line of work. You can't make it home as often as I'd like, that's the sacrifice a mother has to make. Even last night."

  "I had to work.” It was an excuse. He couldn't sleep and didn't want to think of...

  "Keeping the country safe, yes.” Tight gray curls bobbed.

  Keeping ... “Huh?” He put down his fork, waiting to make space before eating more.

  "You know.” His mom made the face she always did before she spilled a secret she had sworn to keep.

  "I don't know.” Richard had no clue. But he was about to find out.

  "The...” her voice lowered to a whisper, “spy business.” Then she looked around again to ensure that no one had infiltrated her cozy kitchen.

  The
spy business? Oh, lord. “Mom, I was writing code.” Funneling his frustration into product development.

  "Exactly.” She looked pleased with herself.

  "Computer code."

  "Of course. Don't talk down to your mother, Richie. I'm not completely out of it. I've seen James Bond. I know you use all those fancy gadgets."

  James Bond. A spy. That explained why yesterday Mr. Constance at the hardware store hustled to get him his screwdriver. He'd never seen the old man move so quickly in his life.

  "I'm not a spy.” He had to fix this before it spread past the town limits.

  "Of course you aren't,” his mother said loudly and winked at him.

  Should he? Richard opened his mouth to argue. Then he thought—had logical explanations ever swayed his mom's opinions in the past? No. And he closed it again.

  "Mary down at the Shop'n Go gets the city papers.” His mom reached under the perennial stack of stuff on the kitchen table and unfolded a well worn paper. “She thought I'd like to see this.” Richard didn't have to look at the front page to know which one it was. New Home for Reclusive Billionaire? In big, bold type. “Was I. This is the nicest photo you've ever had taken, dear. Even Susie at the barbershop agrees."

  Too bad he was standing next to ... Richard grunted and stuffed his mouth with tough crust, coughing at the dryness.

  "You look happy.” His mom hummed a bit, the way she did when she was nervous. “Smiling. You're handsome when you smile, like your father. You should do it more often."

  So he smiled for her, cheeks full of apple pie.

  She laughed and slapped his shoulder lightly. “You are a real fool, Richie Thompson."

  He certainly was. Richard glanced at the blonde hair and white teeth. What he would give for her to sell him something. That said it all.

  Then his mom got down to her true business. “Cara Jones,” she read. “She seems like a nice girl, your real estate agent."

  Not his real estate agent. A real estate agent. Richard prudently said nothing. His mom was fishing and he wasn't giving her anything.

  Didn't matter. His mom, like Cara, could carry a conversation by herself. “Is Cara?"

  His girlfriend? The possible love of his life? A once-in-a-lifetime woman?

  "A business associate?"

  Richard clenched his fork, thinking that sticking it in his eye looked more and more appealing. “She's not a spy."

  "Richie.” His mother's eyes grew big. “You never know.” She glanced around her again. “Is she?” Back to the whispering. “Your cover?"

  For the press, yes, yes she was. “Mom."

  "That's okay. I understand. Must be tough being a salesperson, even...” Hushed. “If she isn't, really.” Then louder. “Always having to sell people stuff."

  He moved a piece of apple around his plate. “She's good at it.” Too good.

  "Oh.” Her lined face brightened. “She only sells to people she likes, then."

  "What do you mean?” And how was that better? Selling to loved ones. Or pretending to love them in order to sell to them.

  "If she's good then she'll have more than enough business. Your Cara Jones, I do like her, son, such a good girl.” She could tell all that from a newspaper photo? “She can pick and choose.” His mom picked up a speck of crust and put it back on his plate.

  Pick and choose, and she chose him. A flicker of hope lit within Richard before he remembered. “The market is slow right now."

  "The market's never slow, not if she's good. Marcie, the best real estate agent here in town, says she can't keep up. Only yesterday she sold a house to that single woman, the one who's...” Her voice dropped. “Pregnant. We don't know who the father is, though she's spending a lot of time with that Kenneth boy down at the firehouse. Trudy Dwyer, on the other hand.” Her slightly hooked nose wrinkled up. “She's not as good an agent, mixes up her paperwork. Ended up selling a funeral home to old Mrs. Nottingham, now that is a mess. The old lady thinks it's a sign from God. She phoned her relatives and is holed up in her home, even as we speak, waiting to die. Now Trudy's phone never rings."

  Like Cara's. “At the restaurant.” He tapped the paper, careful not to smudge up the photo. “Her phone didn't ring.” Only one emergency call for help from her assistant.

  "Of course, it didn't.” He was beamed at, his mother having an answer for everything. “She was on a date with my baby boy."

  Right. Richard took a swig of his mother's lemonade, puckering at the sourness. Making lemonade, one area his mom shone in.

  "When I called her."

  "What!” He pushed his seat back, the wooden legs scraping against the linoleum. Please let him not have heard his interfering mom correctly.

  "Her number's listed in the article,” she said defensively. “And you don't talk to me. How's a mother supposed to know what's going on?"

  Oh Lord. Richard sat back down, propped his elbows on the table and covered his face.

  "Anyway.” She ignored his distress. “I called and it went directly to voicemail. She phoned me right back, straight away, like she was pleased to hear from me."

  Implying that he wasn't always pleased to hear from his mom.

  "And we had a lovely chat. Except every thirty seconds, there was a pause and I thought there was something wrong with the phone. You know that fancy spy phone you gave me doesn't always work quite right."

  Because she didn't know how to use it and no, it wasn't a spy phone, he bought it at Wal-Mart.

  "But Cara laughed, she has a wonderful laugh, son."

  A wonderful, wonderful laugh that haunted his dreams at night and a perky little butt that filled his palms perfectly and...

  "And said that her system can't always handle all the incoming calls. She's been trying to fix it for years. Once, even the Mayor, she knows the Mayor, Richie."

  "I know the Mayor.” His mind swirled. For a real estate agent to have trouble with her phone system, that was a lot of calls.

  "You do?” His mom peered at him in admiration. “You never said. Did you ask him why he wears that dreadful purple tie?” One of his mom's pet peeves.

  "I didn't have the chance.” How could he bring that up in polite conversation? And what did this have to do with Cara?

  "Don't worry, Cara is going to ask him tonight.” She was seeing the Mayor tonight? The good looking, well-spoken widower Mayor? “She'll tell me tomorrow."

  Tomorrow, this was getting worse and worse. “Cara's a busy woman, Mom. She might not call.” Him. Ever again.

  "Oh.” Apron-clad shoulders shrugged. “She'll call. She calls me every day. Shirley says—"

  "Every day?” And ... “You talk to Shirley?"

  "Of course.” His mom had the nerve to look wounded. “I'm your mother, Richie. That reminds me, that nice friend of yours, Fred, called."

  Not Fred, the newspaper reporter. Please Lord, no.

  "He's one of the nicest people you've met in the last few years."

  She had been talking to him for years?

  "Always has time for me."

  He would.

  "Don't worry, he doesn't think you're a spy."

  Richard groaned, “How do you know that?"

  "Oh, I asked him and he said that no, you're some sort of business person. That was a clever cover, Richie."

  "Thank you,” his mouth said as his brain played catch up.

  "Fred wanted to know if you were going to buy a house. I told him how would I know? I'm only your mother. But I told him that I talked to Cara and she didn't think..."

  Richard started to laugh, laughing so hard tears rolled down his cheeks. Here he was, worrying about keeping the media and the general public out of his personal business, when his own mother, the small town gossip queen, broadcasted his private affairs to the four corners of the earth via the unlimited calling plan he himself paid for. It was too much.

  "Are you all right, Richie?” His mom smiled at him curiously.

  He wiped his eyes and kissed her forehe
ad. “I love you, Mom."

  "Of course you do.” But she looked pleased.

  * * * *

  The next night, Richard hunched over his laptop, a luxury he had at home, away from the posture perfect Shirley, and tried to concentrate on coding.

  Difficult to do. He could hear his mom giggling like a schoolgirl in the next room.

  Who was she talking to? Was it Cara making her laugh like that? Another one of those funny real estate stories? Like the time she got stuck in an attic crawlspace and they had to call the fire department to get her out?

  Or was Cara sharing witticisms from the Mayor, from their dinner together? Richard scowled at the screen. With a couple taps of the mouse, her photo filled the screen, white teeth gleaming. A sense of satisfaction fell over him.

  Then he brought up a photo of the Mayor, laying them side by side, and that satisfaction evaporated. An attractive couple, the man a little too good-looking. Even his hair was perfect. Calm and controlled.

  Richard ran his hand over his own mop. Had he combed it today? He couldn't remember, but if he wanted a shot at dating Cara, he should start.

  He did want to date Cara. He didn't care if she was a gold digging hussy, only after his money, as long as she took the rest of him, too.

  Though he suspected she wasn't. Not Cara. Not the woman who walked away from selling his millionaire assistant a house just because Shirley didn't want to move. Not the woman that held a young woman's hand through her first sale and humored an old lady digging for gossip.

  But if he was wrong and she was a gold digger. Fine. He could deal with that. He'd hand over all his cash and when Cara burned through that, he'd go out and make more.

  After all, he touched the display, outlining her cute little nose and stubborn chin, she was so pretty, so charming, so intelligent, he didn't have much else to give her, to convince her to be with him.

  He'd do the auction too, sacrificing more of himself to the press as a peace offering, a way to spend more time with her. He'd talk to the reporters. Be all nicey-nice. Hell, he'd pose naked if that's what she wanted him to do.

  Naked.

  Memories of Cara naked before him swirled through his mind. Richard squirmed in his chair, his blue jeans suddenly too tight.