You don’t have a job either,if Diana’s “restructuring” text means what you think it means.
“Fifty-five,” I say, my voice steadier than it has any right to be.
There’s a pause. The auctioneer leans toward his assistant, listening to the phone bidder’s response.
“Sixty thousand from our phone bidder.”
Something competitive ignites in my chest.Who is this person?Why do they wantmytiny disaster house?
Because somehow—between the second and third glass of champagne—it has becomemine.
“Sixty-five,” I counter, the room now watching with the rapt attention usually reserved for car accidents.
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Seventy thousand from the phone bidder.”
I feel a hand on my arm and turn to find Abby, who has apparently materialized from nowhere.
“Penny, what are you doing?” she hisses. “Youhatecamping!”
“It’s not camping, it’s real estate,” I whisper back with the conviction of the extremely champagne-confident. “An investment.”
“InWashington?”
“Seventy-five thousand,” I call out before I can second-guess myself.
The auctioneer’s assistant listens to the phone, then gives a subtle shake of the head.
“Seventy-five thousand going once…”
My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.
“Going twice…”
The auctioneer pauses dramatically, scanning the room forlast-minute bids. His eyes land on me, and I feel a sudden, bizarre urge to explain myself.
“My love life is under construction,” I blurt out, way too loudly. “Might as well make my house match!”
A ripple of laughter moves through the room. The auctioneer’s lips twitch.
“SOLD! To the woman in the sequin jacket for seventy-five thousand dollars!”
The gavel comes down with acrackthat sounds suspiciously like the universe laughing at me.
The next hourpasses in a blur. There’s paperwork—so muchpaperwork—and a very patient auction coordinator named Marcus who keeps saying things like“non-refundable deposit”and“as-is condition”while I nod like I understand what I’ve just done.
“The renovation package is quite valuable,” Marcus says, sliding another form toward me. “Carver & Sons is one of the most respected contractors in Maple Glen. They’ve agreed to provide labor at cost as part of the donation.”
“Carver & Sons,” I repeat, the name not registering through my champagne haze. “That’s... nice of them.”
“You’ll want to contact them directly to schedule your assessment. The house needs significant work before it’s habitable.”
“Habitable,” I echo. A word that hadn’t occurred to me until this exact moment. “Right.”
Abby hovers nearby, oscillating between horrified fascination and full damage control.
“Can she back out tomorrow when she’s sober?” she asks Marcus.
