June 14th was the voicemail. June 16th I listed the lake house for sale.
The agent I chose was named Delia Morgan, fifty-five, local, practical, no nonsense, with a tan like old leather and a habit of tapping property descriptions with her pen when she wanted you to stop romanticizing a transaction. She came recommended by Earl and by one of the women from church whose sister had sold a cabin nearby.
We met at the house. I let her in with my own original key because I had hired a locksmith the week before and changed the lock back myself.
She walked through room by room, taking notes, asking the right questions, opening windows, checking storage, standing on the porch for a long minute to look at the water.
“It’ll move fast,” she said. “If you want it to.”
“The market’s that hot?”
“Lake Oconee in June? Widow-owned custom property with a dock and western exposure?” She looked at me over the top of her sunglasses. “Yes, ma’am. It’s that hot.”
“What do I list it at?”
She named a number.
I named a lower one.
She frowned. “You can get more than that.”
“I know.”
“You want a fast sale?”
“I want the right sale.”
She studied me for a moment and decided not to ask the question sitting in her mouth.
We listed it at three hundred forty thousand.
Nine days later I had three offers.
One from an investor who wanted to “maximize lakefront potential,” which is a phrase that ought to get a person smacked.
One from a couple out of Macon who wanted to turn it into an Airbnb.
And one from a retired couple from Savannah who sat at my kitchen table during the showing and told Delia, not knowing I was listening from the screened porch, that they wanted a place where all their grandchildren could come for Christmas and where maybe, if God allowed it, their children might remember to sit still together for a few days each year.
That was the offer I accepted.
Three hundred sixty-one thousand dollars.
