Madam of the House

"Kid," Monty had told her, a halfsmoked Cuban cigar dangling between his teeththe permanent accessory accompanied all of Monty's words of wisdom"the best piece of advice I can give you is thispersonal availability is the key to making sales. When you get a call from a potential buyer, drop everything."CeciliaKatz, known in southeastern Pennsylvania real estate circles as The Madam of the MillionDollar Deal, had come to realize that everything in life could somehow relate back to the tenets imparted to her by her late mentor, Montgomery Frye. Monty Frye was a firm believer that real estate equaled life. That if you didn't put your whole heart and soul into a sale, you weren't worth the paper your license was printed on. That if you weren't willing to forsake all else to meet a client for a showing, you may as well be selling timeshares in the Poconos. So when the muffled strains of "Viva Las Vegas" echoed through the silence of St. John's Episcopal Church, distracting Monty's mourners from one of the most uninspired eulogies Cecilia had ever sat through, she didn't hesitate to answer her cell phone. She dug through her purse, finding it wedged between a halfeaten PowerBar and an electronic lockbox she needed to put on the door of a house she'd just been contracted to sell. "This is Cecilia," she whispered into the phone. The elderly woman beside her gave her an acid look. "Hang on." Cecilia hunkered into a crouch, working her way to the far end of the pew while, at the pulpit, a puffyeyed golf buddy extolled the virtues of Monty's tee shot. She hurried up the side aisle of the church, through the vestibule and out the red, arched front door into a blinding October morning. "Okay. What's up?" She lit her first cigarette of the day, sucking the smoke deep into her lungs. Her exhale doubled as a sigh of relief. "Marcia Hagstrom wants to look at the Grove place again." The voice of Jake Eamon, her assistant, cut in and out over the crappy connection. Jake was manning her phone at BelkinFrye Real Estate while Cecilia and most of the other agents from the office attended the funeral for her unfortunate mentor, who had dropped dead of a heart attack during negotiations on an eightbedroom, sixandahalfbath estate home on the Main Line. Cecilia hadn't been shocked at the news, but she had been saddened by it. Monty had been her chaperone into the world of real estate, her adviser, her friend andwhen she'd finally hit her strideher stiffest competition. He was now, of course, stiffer than ever. Still, she felt absolutely no guilt over the fact that she'd left in the middle of the service to take a call. Monty would have done the sameespecially these days, when sales were hard to come by. "You're kidding me," Cecilia said, dragging on the cigarette. "She wants to look at itagain?" "Says she's bringing her husband, but they need to do it right away. Maybe she's really serious this time." Yeah,thought Cecilia,and maybe when I get home I'll find George Clooney waiting for me in the bedroom in a tuxedo, with a bottle of Cristal and a dozen roses. She crushed out the cigarette beneath the toe of her ridiculously expensive black patentleather pump. "All right. Let's hope the third time's a charm. Tell them I'll meet them at the house in" she checked her watch "twentyfive minutes." She headed for the Carmona Red Porsche Cayenne her husband had surprised her with two years ago, when times were better. Much better. Now Ben was gone, and when she looked at the pricey SUV, all she could see were the seventeen payments she still owed. She slid onto the black leather of the driver's seat andBirdsell, Donna is the author of 'Madam of the House ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780373881369 and ISBN 0373881363.