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No, thank you.
I bought this place to have something that is only mine. Where the people don’t give a shit about who I am, and where I don’t have to worry about waking up to bed bug bites or getting chlamydia from the toilet seat.
“Well then, explain this,” she says, holding up her phone so I can see a confirmation email.
I take a small step forward and bend forward to look at the email.
Why do I even give a shit?
I have no idea.
I should just close the door. She’s intruding, and I don’t have to explain anything more to her. But instead, something tells me that this woman wouldn’t be standing on my front porch in a storm if she didn’t think she was in the right place.
My vision roams over the confirmation email just long enough for me to see the name of the vacation rental “property management” company.
There it is.
Bingo.
It all makes sense now.
I lean back up again and look over to the woman still standing on my porch with her luggage at her sides.
“The luxury premier property management company that you thought you booked with, is a scam company. They’re actually famous around here for that reason. They don’t manage a single property, nor are they a real business. They just have a scam website where they take photos of houses on the beach of popular destinations and then wait for unsuspecting vacationers to “book” a house and take all their money.”
Her face falls instantly. And though I didn’t think she could look any worse for wear, I watch her complexion turn a sickly gray as the blood drains from her face when she realizes what this means.
She or her “agent” just got ripped off, and now she has nowhere to stay.
If she hadn’t come in all hot and heavy, convinced that I’m the intruder in this situation, I might feel a little bad for the fact that she just got taken advantage of and paid a premium price for a beach house that she won’t be staying in.
Does it give me some satisfaction that I’m vindicated?
Yep, it sure does.
Does that make me an asshole?
Probably.
Though I can’t say that I’m happy she has nowhere to go. And unless she has friends or family around here, which I doubt she does, then she’s in a really bad position.
“A scam website? How do you know,” she asks.
She pulls her phone away from me and starts to scan the email with her own eyes trying to see where I figured it out.
“They're one of the prominent scam websites for this area. My neighbor's house has been “rented” out three times in the last few years, but my neighbor lives here full time, and she and her late husband have owned that place for almost twenty years.”
“Oh my God…” she says, rubbing her palm against her forehead. “What am I going to do?”
She says to herself, staring back at her phone and then turning her head to look back over her shoulder towards the beach and the angry ocean that’s thrashing against the shore.
Being out in this weather isn’t an option.
“Do you know anyone around here?” I ask, though I feel I already know the answer.
“No, I don’t know anyone,” she sighs in defeat, looking back down at her phone as if it might come up with an answer for her. “And the airport is shut down. There are no flights going in or out. It’s packed with passengers.”
“All of the hotels are booked solid with stranded vacationers, too,” I tell her.
