Page 188 of Love Bites

After inhaling his way through the house, he’d declared that he would pass on the place. When I pressed, he shrugged and just said, “Too big.”

A thorough sniffing of the second house inspired a “too small” from him.

Now, as I parked the Bronco in front of the last house I’d opted to show him today, I could tell by the vertical wrinkles lining his forehead that he was already thinking up another enlightening two-word reason why he didn’t like this home.

“How old is this one?” he asked while tailing me up the sidewalk to the front door.

I checked the listing paperwork. “Early 1900s.” I punched in the code to unlock the lockbox and pulled out the key, expecting him to tell me to forget it, but he didn’t. I held the door for him to enter.

“You first,” he said and waited for me to lead.

This was the third time he’d insisted I enter a house before him. I couldn’t figure out if he was being a gentleman or if this was another of his strange tics.

I stepped inside a well-lit foyer, lined with hardwood flooring. Stained-glass windows in the interior walls shed pink and blue-tinged light into a wide hall from rooms to the left and right. Arched thresholds to adjoining rooms added to the open feel, and a staircase anchored the opposite end.

I beat him to the first sniff. Pine-sol and Lemon Pledge filled the air.

Doc inhaled and grunted.

I couldn’t tell if it was a good grunt or bad grunt, being that I was rusty on my Caveman vernacular.

He tapped one of the stained-glass windows. “I like this.”

I coughed in surprise.

We sniffed our way through a carpeted living room with sage-colored walls to the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, glass-paned cabinets, and can lighting gave a modern but cozy feel to the room. Whoever had had this place before put some money into it.

While the dining room was small, French doors leading to a well-manicured backyard encased by a split-rail fence gave a false impression of more space.

The downstairs bathroom had a polished granite sink top, a black toilet, a heated stone floor, and a mosaic of the sun tiled into the shower wall.

I paused at the base of the stairs. “You want to continue?”

“Sure.” He smiled for the first time since we’d left his office. The transformation made me do a double-take.

There were three rooms upstairs—an office, a small bathroom with a shower instead of a tub, and a master bedroom. I stood inside the doorway of the latter, waiting for Doc to finish his inhalation of the bathroom.

I heard him come up behind me. “This is just perfect, don’t you think?” I asked. A coined phrase I learned in a one-day seminar about using positive voice inflections to acquire a sale.

In actuality, the house was an ideal bachelor pad. Doc could even set up a computer at home and skip the three-mile commute to the office if he wanted.

“The toilet has a new shut-off valve,” he said.

To which I couldn’t think of a single response, so I just nodded.

He sniffed. “Do you smell that?”

I smelled something flowery, probably carpet freshener—a nice touch by the real estate agent. I’d have to remember that. “Smells like gardenias.”

Doc gasped, coughed, and then wheezed.

I turned toward him. His face had a pale, blanched tone that made his dark brown eyes seem larger. “Are you okay?”

He leaned over, nearly retching now, his neck tendons showing.

I grabbed his shoulder, not sure if I should smack him on the back or poke a hole in his windpipe with a pen. “What is it? Are you allergic to gardenias?”

His whole body began to shudder. He broke free of my grasp and raced out of the room. I heard him clomp down the stairs, then the front door banged shut. Through the window, I watched him lean against my Bronco and wipe at his mouth.

---