Page 72 of Best Offer Wins
$1,250,000
Welcome to the most charming home in desirable Grovemont! This classic 1940s Colonial was meticulously renovated and expanded in 2019 to include a chef’s kitchen with custom cabinets, Carrara marble countertops, and Thermador appliances, and a primary suite to rival any five-star hotel. A spacious rear deck with a built-in gas grill is your summer entertaining dream. Complete with a cozy, wood-burning fireplace, white-oak floors throughout the main and upper levels, and a professionally landscaped backyard. The unfinished basement, with full-height ceilings and a separate entrance, awaits your personal touch. The ideal au pair suite?Extra play space for the kids? A luxe home office? The possibilities are endless. This is the one—just 20 minutes from downtown DC!
When I see the lead photo, a current of adrenaline crackles through me. It’s the day of the dinner-party disaster, preserved in time—the house in its most flawless state, ready for its closeup. The crisp white paint. The glossy black shutters and front door. The window boxes, lush and overflowing. The shockingly green grass. A perfect, sunny scene that feels like it happened in another life.
I click through the rest of the slideshow, forty-eight shots in all. There are several of the kitchen, its creamy marble countertops seeming to stretch on forever thanks to the camera’s wide-angle lens. The fireplace glows in the living room, lit just for the photos. Penny’s room—staged with a few highly curated toys, and the tulle-skirted dress she wore at dinner hanging on the closet door—looks like a coral jewel box. They’ve captured every part of the magical owner’s suite: The huge, sun-filled bedroom. The double bathroom vanities. The soaking tub. The obscenely beautiful closet. They’ve saved the backyard for last. The camera was focused on the flagstone patio, the flawless lawn just beyond it. But my eye still travels to the tire swing, barely visible in the upper righthand corner of the shot.
Flipping through these, I can practically hear the frantic phone calls going out to agents all over town, and the slamming of front doors as couples just like me and Ian drop whatever they’re doing to make a mad run for Grovemont. It’ll take an hour tops for the place to be absolutely mobbed. But all of those people will be wasting their time. Because only the best offer wins—and finally, that offer will be mine.
I email the listing to Derrick, then follow up with a text:The house is online. Just sent it to you. Ian and I are standing by to sign theoffer. As discussed, $1.3 million. No contingencies. We can close on the sellers’ timeline.
He writes back:Super. Paperwork coming your way now.
“Ian!” I yell over my shoulder. “The listing’s live. Derrick’s sending the contract.”
“Cool,” he calls from the bedroom. “I’ll hang out here till it shows up.”
As if he has a choice. Ian’s been dancing around like a toothless circus bear the last couple days—waking up early to brew the French press, taking the Prius to the car wash, doing our grocery shopping for the first time probably in over a year, bringing home flowersandcupcakes.
My phone vibrates on the desk. It’s Derrick.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Margo, just a small hiccup.” He’s trying to hide that he’s nervous. “I called their agent to let her know we’re planning to submit. But she says they’re not taking offers until Monday at the earliest. The sellers want to wait till after the weekend, so they can review all the contracts that come in at the same time.”
“Did you tell her who your clients are?” I ask, voice low so Ian doesn’t overhear.
“No, I just said you love the house and you’re planning to come in at your best and final number.”
I glance over my shoulder again to make sure Ian is still in the bedroom. “This after-the-weekend business doesn’t apply to us. Like I told you, we know the sellers, and I’ve worked out an arrangement with them.”
“Yeah, I know you said that. But she seemed pretty adamant.”
Annoyance shoots through me. “I don’t care how she seemed, Derrick. We’re making an offertoday.”
“All right,” he says. “You’re the boss. Back to you soon.”
The paperwork hits my inbox seconds later. Ian and I pass my laptop back and forth on the couch, taking turns digitally initialing andsigning it in all the required places, like we’ve done eleven times before. By now, the act of promising to fork over our life savings feels almost mundane.
Once we finish, Ian turns to me. “We did it!” he says, in the affected everything-is-fine voice he’s been using. “Fingers crossed, right?” Then he leans in for a kiss.
I recoil. “Maybe when they accept.”
He blinks a couple times, then awkwardly stands. “Okay, well, I have to get going.”
“Yep,” I say, “me, too.”
I’m leaning against one of the massive columns in The Bexley’s cavernous lobby. The most important moment of my life is unfolding and here I am, acting like it’s just another workday, just another meeting with clients.
Hotel guests rush around me, roller bags rumbling behind them across the black marble floors. I refresh my email and text messages for the millionth time while I wait for Jordana and Taylor—they’re Ubering together from the office, I came straight from the apartment. Still no updates from Derrick.
The magnitude of the morning didn’t fully hit until I locked the apartment door behind me.Holy shit, I thought,the next time I walk through here, this will all be over.My whole body felt instantly lighter. Even now, I feel like I could float all the way up to the giant chandelier suspended from the vaulted ceiling. It may have taken almost nineteen months. My marriage may have barely survived. But my escape is officially under way. I am about to start my dream life at last.
Just before eleven, Jordana and Taylor breeze through the doors, sunlight streaming in behind them. I check my messages one more time—still nothing, but it always takes a while to hear back about these things—then hurry over to meet them.
We find our clients at a round, pink-marble-topped table in the Rivière dining room. It’s too early for the lunch rush, so we mostly have the place to ourselves. Oliver, CEO of Mythos Group, is still in town from Amsterdam, his chin-length, white-blond hair slicked behind his ears. He’s flanked by Charles, The Bexley’s graying general manager, and Chef Xander, who somehow, despite his Michelin star, is one of the thinnest people I’ve ever seen. Serina is here, too. She gives me a wave.
Once Jordana, Taylor, and I take our seats, a server appears with champagne. Oliver thanks her—the deepness of his voice always startles me.
