Good Faith by Jane Smiley

Perkins, here, is a rat terrier,” said David Pollock, “and Doris Day is a simple but elegant bichon frise. Scrunch together, girls.” He got in beside the dogs, who moved together for a moment until the spotted one arranged herself in his lap. He stroked her ears. “Marlin is a female too, but she just looked so much like
him
that we couldn’t resist.”
    David John slipped into the driver’s seat and we swooped away, down Highway 12 at eighty miles an hour and around the curve into Hardy Well Road. Felicity had her hand on the dash, but she looked cheerful and sassy in her shorts and shirt. It was eight miles to Deacon. Riding with these guys was like taking a spaceship.
    The listing—103 Main Street, Deacon—looked even gloomier than I had remembered. Knowing the owners wouldn’t do it, I had set up a yard maintenance schedule, but they were only cutting the grass every two weeks and recently there had been a lot of rain. The few flowers in the beds were awash in weeds. Dandelions bloomed all over the front yard. But John and Pollock were undaunted. “Yards are the easiest thing!” John exclaimed. “Oh, my God! We’ll have that yard tricked out in a week or two.”
    “Of course, the best thing is that we aren’t selling our place in the city. This is our first second home! Can you believe it? The start of a lifetime of weekending, two venues, Friday drives from the city, talking about the weather all the time, breakfast Saturday morning! My God, we’ll be right out of
The New York Times Magazine
. The sunlight coming in here and just sort of angling across the butcher-block table.”
    We walked through every room. The two men, I noticed, spoke extravagantly, but they scrutinized the place very carefully and didn’t miss any of the dry rot or the deferred maintenance or the structural wear and tear I knew was there—the place had been on the market for almost a year. David Pollock even reached up suddenly, when we were surveying the backyard from the back porch, and pulled off a piece of siding. I didn’t stop him. What was underneath was better than what was on top, and he saw it and liked it. The house was listed for $89,900, a kitchen and two large rooms down, four bedrooms, a bath, and a sleeping porch up. They offered $81,000, closing as soon as possible. That was at least $4,800 to me, listing agent, buyer’s agent, and broker, for a very short afternoon’s work, and I was sure the seller would take it because the property was starting to deteriorate.
    After they signed the papers and left me the number of their hotel, I walked them to their Toronado. David John said, “We always work with the listing agent.”
    “And we have so many friends,” added David Pollock.
    “With so much money!” exclaimed David John, with a laugh. They got into the car, arranged the dogs, slammed the doors, and laid rubber as they turned into the road.
    “Oh, Joey,” said Felicity, “I have had so much fun this afternoon!”
    In the end, I kept the Sloans waiting for an hour and a half.

         
    CHAPTER
    5
    B OBBY CONTINUED to play it safe at home, so I was the one who walked the Burnses through Gottfried Nuelle’s pride and joy for a final inspection. When they arrived at the house, where I had been busily making sure that Gottfried didn’t show up, I was surprised that they seemed utterly unfamiliar to me, perfect strangers. It was odd, because they had been on my mind. Although I hadn’t been paying much attention at the time, I had come to know that Burns and Bobby were friends, that the couple had gone out with the Baldwins to Mercados, that Felicity intended to cultivate Linda Burns. It was hard to tell why.
    What I noticed now about Marcus Burns was that he was very neat, almost formal. Even though the weather was hot, he was wearing a light blue shirt, a navy blue tie, and a sport coat. The shirt collar had a starchy sheen and lay smoothly against his neck. The cuffs emerged a half inch