Page 104 of PSYCHOlogical

Chapter Forty-Six

Val

“It’s only been on the market for three days, and I’ve shown it six times,” the realtor said. “I’d suggest making a prompt decision. During season, homes like this sell quickly.”

My gaze clung to her bronze-colored skin and sun-streaked hair for an instant before turning to Vincent. He, like me, was pale. It was obvious we were far from the place we’d called home for the past few years, but I liked that about southern Florida.

I looked at Vincent. “I like it…” I whispered.

His brows raised. “But?”

I sighed. “Let’s keep looking.”

He nodded, turned to the realtor, and cleared his throat. “We’ll likely make a decision in the next day or so.”

“Enjoy your stay in Clearwater,” she said. “It’s beautiful weather this time of year.”

I couldn’t argue her claim. It was nearly December, and the temperature was in the low 80’s, without a cloud in the sky. Homes notwithstanding, Clearwater, Florida seemed to be exactly what I was after. Shorts all year long. Picturesque beaches. The palm tree lined streets were free of clutter and trash.

In short, the city was exactly what I was hoping to find. The three homes we’d been shown, at least so far, weren’t.

We looked at two more, neither of which had a view of the ocean. It was something Vincent desperately wanted but had proven to be out of our price range for what was currently on the market. Each of the realtors said the same thing.

You just missed one that I think would have been perfect.

Frustrated, but not willing to give up, we searched for a coffeeshop with wi-fi. A few minutes to relax while scouring the internet for any new listings would do both of us good, we thought.

As I provided guidance from the Google Maps GPS service, Vincent ogled the homes that lined the street on his left.

“Perfect,” he said dryly as he passed a home that wasn’t for sale. A block later, he said it again, giving a nod toward another home that wasn’t on the market.

“There’s another,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Perfect.”

“They’re not for sale,” I complained. “None of the good ones are.”

The homes on Vincent’s side of the street all backed up to the Gulf of Mexico. The western horizon would provide picturesque sunsets every night. Forgetting our past would be an easy thing to do while walking along the beach at sunset.

I envisioned opening my own practice, focusing on veterans that needed the assistance of someone who had firsthand information on what was required to survive in the real world. As I daydreamed of such things and gazed blankly at my phone, Vincent slammed on the brakes.

The seatbelt locked, clamping against my shoulder like a vise. At the same time, Vincent’s hand pressed against my chest, bracing me.

“What happened?” I screeched, peering beyond my phone, toward the street ahead.

He shifted the truck into reverse and tilted his head toward his window. “Look.”

An elderly man stood at the edge of a well-manicured lawn with a hammer clenched in his right hand. With his left hand, he steadied a wooden stake. Affixed to the stake, a homemade “For Sale by Owner” sign was stapled.

The head of the hammer came down on top of the stake with the force of a butterfly landing.

Vincent backed the truck beyond the driveway, and then pulled into it and parked. He opened the door and peered over the hood of the truck.

“Sorry to interrupt, but are you selling the place?” Vincent asked.

The man glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

“Selling the place?” Vincent shouted.

“Plannin’ on it,” the man said, not bothering to smile. “Gal at Sotheby’s wants to charge me six percent. Won’t give a military or senior discount. Told her to go pound sand.” He gripped the stake and swung the hammer against it. “I’ll sell this son-of-a-bitch myself.”