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“You will!” Tessa claps her hands and laces her fingers together.
I shake my head, trying to undo my accidental yes. “I haven’t spoken to her since I graduated high school.”
If Dakota hadn’t bolted like a scared pony, I’d have her ask Georgia. They’re friends.
Tessa’s face falls, and now I’m scrambling to undo the disappointment I’ve caused. This girl’s got me ping-ponging back and forth faster than a kid on a sugar high. “But I can ask Zach to get in touch with her and double check.”
“That would be great.” She pushes herself up, and I quickly search for something else to say that will keep her there.
“Why don’t we talk about you’re situation?” I say hurriedly, and she lowers herself back into the chair. “Will you be getting a loan or paying cash? That might make a difference to Georgia.”
Not a lot of locals could pay cash for the place, but more and more people buying in Paradise are from out of town. They pay cash for a home they’ll use for a week or two during the summer, maybe a little more, and that’s it. In the meantime, the demand for vacation homes has been driving up the cost of homes for local buyers, pushing them out of the market entirely. Buyers who want to live in Paradise full time and contribute something more than a short-term influx of cash.
I hope Tessa is the second kind of buyer, though. The kind who will stick around. And not because I think she’s pretty. She seems nice too, despite her lack of appreciation for hunting. But I don’t want to think of her as a vacation home buyer. The only thing they’re good for is a commission check.
“Here’s the thing,” she says, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, then adjusting her glasses. “I just went through a nasty divorce and my ex did a number on my credit.”
I suck my breath through my teeth.
I’ve seen that same look on the faces of too many locals who know they don’t have the money to buy the place they’ve always dreamed of owning.
“I love the cottages and haven’t really thought about other places. I mostly want a place I can hole up in and write during the summer.” There’s a wistfulness in her voice that reminds me of this wind chime made from driftwood I’ve got hanging on my back porch.
Her eyes have glided away from mine, and she looks like she’s in another place and time.
“You don’t write year-round?” I ask.
My eyes are glued to Tessa’s face, and wherever she’s gone, I think I’d like to be there with her.
Her head swivels back to me and she seems to blink herself back to this moment. “I write all the time. Literally. As in, you might end up in a book I write someday.”
She winks, and I want to laugh, but she’s sounding more and more like a vacation home buyer.
“But you couldn’t write in Paradise all the time?” I don’t mean it to sound like an accusation, but you can only work with so many people who only see Paradise’s value as a vacation spot rather than a real town. Doesn’t take long to get a little jaded.
She tips her head in a question. “I guess I could. I’ve never really thought about it. I’ve just always had it in my mind that I’d buy Aunt D’s place, and the resort is only open during the summer.”
I pause, giving us both time to think. Then I throw out the question that will really determine her mettle. “If Georgia doesn’t want to sell—and, like I said, I don’t think she does—would you be interested in a property you could live in full time? Or do you only want one with seasonal access?”
Tessa leans her elbow on the chair arm, rests her chin on her fist. “I haven’t really thought about that.”
“Where do you live now?”
“California, outside of LA.”
Of course, she is. Her bikini lines didn't lie. But I wish she wasn't. Californians own half the resort properties in the county. No one would blame me for telling her nothing is available.
Then I remember her vulnerability yesterday. Not just getting caught naked but putting all her hope in a spring that’s supposed to grant second chances. No one does that who hasn’t exhausted all their other possibilities. Which makes me think that maybe she could stand a few more possibilities to consider.
“It’s cheaper to live here than in California.,” I say, with more than a little hesitation. Californians are as bad as vacation home buyers. The want the lower cost of living that locals enjoy. But they’re able to sell their million-dollar tract homes and pay over asking-price here to get the big house they could never afford in California. Those higher purchase prices, in turn, drive up prices for people who’ve lived here their whole lives.
“Hmmm,” she says thoughtfully. “Sounds like I’ve got some thinking to do, I hadn’t really considered that but … well, I will think about it.”
“Give me today. I’ll have something for you tomorrow afternoon, if you want to drop by again.”
Her eyes warm to the color of a robin’s egg. “I can do better than that. How about I take you to dinner to thank you for helping me with my little… situation yesterday? You can show me what you’ve found then.”
My pulse skips. I shouldn’t like her idea as much as I do. I hope she can’t tell just how much I like it. “Sounds good. Tell me where and when.”
