The cream-colored Lexus RX SUV pulled around the corner and headed down the tree-lined street. A nasty, mid-summer storm had swept through the area the previous night and littered the streets with leaves and fallen tree branches. Carolyn was anxious as she waited for a slow-moving landscaping truck to navigate around a larger branch strewn across the winding lane. As soon as it passed, she pulled around and headed up the street.

She had an appointment for a potential buyer on her Melody Lane listing. It had been five months since she got the listing and she knew the seller wasn’t the type to extend their agreement. She had to get this one sold. And she had a showing later that day.

She pulled into the drive of the “spacious updated ranch” and opened the door to her car and stepped out. The car had been a gift to herself. She needed it if she were to impress her clients and potential clients she had told herself, but she was barely earning enough to justify the lease payments. The for sign on the lawn had blown over. She strode across the grass and stood it back up again. “For Sale,” the sign read “Griffin and Warner Realty.” Her name, Carolyn Hooke wasn’t on it, as personal signage was a reserved perk of the highest producers in the office.

She surveyed the outside of the home: nothing major had hit the house, no major branches on the roof. It might take an hour of quick work to clean it up, she estimated. Dressed in clean khakis and an untucked white blouse, she held off on cleaning anything just yet. She punched in the code for the small keysafe attached to the door handle, retrieved the key and braced herself for what she might find inside. She opened the door and glanced around. Nothing out of the ordinary. It was unfurnished; the owners had moved out and left nothing, save a couch in the living room and a table and chairs in the kitchen. She went to the kitchen and saw the blinking clock light. It made her nervous. It meant that the power had been interrupted the previous night and that could only mean trouble. She glanced at her watch and re-set the clock to 9:09. She turned and headed for the basement door and peeked inside. A faint musty odor, she noticed and nervously reached for the light, snapping it on. She crept down the stairs and glanced around. Her suspicions were confirmed: a small pool of water near the utility closet had meant that the sump pump had failed the night before when the power went out in the storm. She walked over and realized it was working again, but the rug along the closet had become soaked. It would have to be removed, lest the clients were to think the house were prone to flooding. It would likely kill the deal. She glanced at her watch again, she figured she could probably get this cleaned up within an hour and, with the outside another hour, she’d still be able to show the property today. And this was the perfect potential buyer: from out of town, they’d see a few homes, and make a decision quickly.

She quickly ran back upstairs and began searching for cleaning supplies. Nothing. They’d taken it all. “Damn it!” she said to herself. I’ve got to run out and that’ll only add to the time. Gathering herself, she thought of solutions. Her head filled with possibilities: she could haul out the carpet herself, over to the store, mop up the area and air it out, then get started on the lawn, race home, change and be back in time to show the house.

Heading back downstairs, her white tennis shoes padding along the stairs, she was still very much in shape: her juice-and-smoothie-filled diet kept her figure trim and able to hustle throughout her day. She prided herself that she could still fit into her wedding dress from years ago.

Today was no day for dresses, however. She gathered her auburn hair into a bun and literally rolled up the sleeves to her white blouse, knelt down and began pulling up the wet carpet. Fortunately, it was only about four feet wide and ran about fifteen feet down a walkway between the wall and the closet. Unfortunately, it was soaked and smelly. After about twenty minutes, she had it off the tiled floor and rolled into a log, ready to be carried up the stairs. It took just about all her might to drag it to the base of the stairs and get it upright. She tilted it towards the stairs and it came crashing to the floor, knocking her backwards in the process. There was no way she’d be able to get it up the stairs, she realized. Not by herself, at least. Her hands covered in musty dirt, she wandered, defeated back upstairs to wash them. Standing in the kitchen, staring out the window, she pondered how she’d be able to get that thing out.

Her answer walked right through her line of sight.

He checked his watch. 36:29. Over six minutes a mile he thought to himself. He walked slowly down the sidewalk with his hands on his hips, head back, sweaty, exhausted. It had been over a month since he missed qualifying for the state meet. And he was angry at himself. He’d started out so promising, always among the fastest kids, he went out for cross country when he began high school three years ago. It wasn’t like he was going to make it at any other sport: at his weight, he’d be little more than a tackling dummy on the football team and he was nowhere skilled enough to make even the soccer team, except maybe to fill the water bottles for the starters. But in his three years on the cross country and track teams, he’d shown very little beyond his promise. A “mid-pack” runner, barely able to keep up with the top runners even on his team, let alone able to score points. In his defense, he had grown six inches since he began high school and was now at five-foot-nine, enduring awkwardness every inch of the way. First the legs grow, then the arms, then the feet. Nothing fits and nothing makes sense. He was fit as his long legs stretching out from his shorts would attest. As he stood on the sidewalk, wiping his curly mop of dark brown hair he thought to himself: what am I going to do for work this summer?”

His answer called to him from across the lawn next door.

“Excuse me?” called the voice. He looked around trying to place it. A woman stood in the doorway of the house next to his. He didn’t recognize her. It wasn’t the previous owner, they’d left several months ago. Maybe it was the new neighbor.

She braced herself. Be assertive. You need this done, don’t give him a chance to refuse. She stepped out of the doorway and crossed the lawn.

“Excuse me, I need your help for a moment,” she began, “I have something heavy that I can’t lift,” careful not to tell him what it was exactly lest he refuse.

“Ah, ok, sure.”

“Thank you,” she smiled. “It’ll only take a second,” not letting him get away. Plus, he was already in his workout clothes, ready for work.

She led him back to the house, he followed. So simple, she thought to herself. A little assertive, and you get what you need.

“Hi, I’m Carolyn,” she said, extending her hand, smiling broadly.

“Oh, hello,” he said, taken back by a woman introducing herself by her actual name and not a “Mrs” something.

She continued “and what’s your name?”

“Oh, ah, Caleb.”

“Hi Caleb,” thanks for helping me. I just have a little something to haul up the stairs and it’s a bit too heavy for me, “but probably not for you,” she added, smiling.

She led him through the front door, and down the stairs to the basement. Amazingly simple she thought to herself, priding herself on her problem-solving.

“If you could grab one end, I’ll take the other and we could get this out to the garage.”

He headed for the base of the stairs, lifted the rolled-up carpet, and it immediately slipped from his hands.

“Sorry, it’s a bit wet,” she squatted low and pulled one end. He took his cue and quickly grabbed the other end and began backing towards the stairs. The load was wet, smelly and hard to maneuver up the stairs. The wet roll brushed against them as they inched it out the back door and into the garage, dropping it in a thud on the far side of the floor.

“Great work,” she said brushing her hands off, “you’re a big help.”

He stood quietly staring at her.

What she hadn’t realized was that the carpet had pulled her shirt open, down two buttons, leaving her bra visible.

“Thank you so much,” she continued over his awkward silence, “say, you wouldn’t be able to give me a little more help now, would you? It won’t take long, but I’d be happy to pay you for your time.”

He was quiet for a moment, before thinking that she was speaking to him “oh, um, yeah, sure.”

“Great, just a bit of cleanup. I’m an real estate agent, and I’m showing this home today and want it to look nice …” she went on. But he heard maybe every other word. His thoughts were on the glimpse of the bra he’d just seen. Not that he hadn’t seen a bra, or more for that matter, but never had those he’d seen ever been communicating with him.

“… a rake?” she asked. He looked around, nothing in the garage. “I’ll get one,” he quickly recovered himself. He began to walk towards the side door that led outside. “Great, and mop also, thanks!” she said before he left. “Um, ok, I’ll be right back,” as he ran out the door.

She watched him jog back to his house, thinking to herself how fit he was. Fit, yes, but awkward, yikes.

As she returned to the bathroom to wash her hands, she saw her image in the mirror. “Oh, my …” she realized why he was at a loss for words. The blouse was now unbuttoned halfway, revealing her décolletage. No wonder he was so quiet. She laughed. Poor kid. Probably gave him a little too much for his young eyes. Ha. She buttoned up two buttons, but then realized, he might notice the change too soon. Plus, he’s helpful, might just want to keep him working for a bit. She unbuttoned one and threw her shoulders back. There, that’s the look, not too much, not too little. She straightened her hair just as he heard him coming back through the garage. His attention sent a glow to her face.

Caleb reappeared with a rake and a mop and she told him to begin raking up any of the mess of the storm outside: rake up as much as you can, clear the drive, etc. As she spoke to him, she noticed him quietly listening to her. He stood maybe an inch taller, so he nodded and tried to not stare at her too much. She took the mop and headed back downstairs to mop up the small pool of water. As she did, she realized what a big help Caleb had been to her: just in time he appeared the solution to her problems. If she could get this listing sold, she’d finally have something to claim.

Aside from two apartment rentals and a condo sale, she hadn’t sold a home yet this year. It wasn’t her full-time work, she thought, but it wasn’t anything very successful either. Not that it mattered. She was married to Ted, her husband and father to her two children, Elissa 10 and Trip 9. They lived in a beautiful house in Armour Shores, not far from the lake, thanks to her husband’s successful career as a fund manager. His career path oozed success: fresh off his MBA, two years as an analyst on the sell side, two years of fixed-income sales, then to a fund as a buy-side analyst before he met Carolyn followed by a steady rise as assistant fund manager and now running two small funds by himself. The steady rise gave steady rise to their living situation.

Just three years ago, Carolyn noticed a for sale sign in front of a pretty landscaped colonial on her way to yoga class. By the end of the day she was smitten, and by the end of the week, after using every charm in her arsenal to get her husband interested too. Her skill at navigating that deal gave her the idea that she could fill her career void with a career in real estate. Her children were in school and since she’d given up her job at the birth of her second, her day didn’t feel complete without a list of accomplishments. A few phone calls and interviews, followed by an easy test, and she was now an agent at Griffin and Warner’s Armour Shores West Office. She worked her way from the 109th-ranked agent in the office to the 75th in commission sales her first year (two sales) and was now ranked 55th. Good, but never good enough to fear that next review. Those reviews came quick and were usually brief. “Keeps us all on our toes,” her managing broker liked to say. A little fear was good for all of us, was the message.

As she finished her mop job in the basement, she opened the windows to let the basement air out, lest anyone suspect any water issues on this home. It had been about an hour since she and Caleb began cleaning and she was tired. She looked out the window and watched Caleb. He’d rake up an area, gather the leaves and twigs and deposit them into a paper landscaping bag. How industrious, she thought, he got those bags on his own. As she watched, she was impressed by his pace. It didn’t look like he was tired at all. Youth … wasted on the young. She decided to join him to help. As she walked out to help him bin the leaves, she reflexively checked her look in the glass of the front door.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Um, sure, I’m just bagging up the rest.”

She reached down and grabbed an armload of leaves and dumped them into the bag. He kept raking, and she kept bagging, together they finished in less than half the time had she been working alone. As she bent down, she snuck a glance at Caleb’s legs. Long, tan, sinewy. He was still wearing his running shorts and she got an eyeful up to his mid-thigh.

“Are you a runner? she asked the obvious question.

“Um, yeah, I run,” he stammered, catching himself. “I’m on cross country.”

“Oh, really, where, what school?” hoping to hear some college.

“At the high school, Armour Shores.” he replied to her slight disappointment.

“Ah, I see.”

She thought to herself, what should I pay him? We didn’t even discuss pay. What’s the minimum wage these days anyway? Oh, I don’t want to come across as cheap, he’s done such good work. Then she thought, I’ll give him a little treat.

She turned, and let one button go loose on her shirt, then turned and scooped up another armful. Slowly, hoping he’d take notice.

It didn’t take long. He’d been watching her as he raked. This woman. How old was she? She didn’t give many clues. She’s definitely out of college. Can’t tell if she lives around here. He didn’t even take notice of her ring finger. Not that he’d know where to look. In his world rings were all the same. Definitely younger than his mother, he thought. And definitely hotter than anyone’s mother. As he raked a pile to her feet, he saw her button came loose again. He looked away quickly, so as not to ruin the moment. He drew another pile to her, and checked again. Yep. Nice.

They finished up the raking: three large bags, filled. He gathered up the bags and pulled them to the curb. As he did, he figured he might have done this all for free because he never agreed on any pay. But that was fine, he figured, because he never got a free show during any of his volunteer work.

Carolyn wiped her hands clean on her khakis and reached into her car for her purse. She pulled out two twenties, it was about two hours’ work she figured. Plus, in short notice. She thought about buttoning her shirt, but decided against. That’ll be his tip, she figured.

“Caleb” she called him over, “I’ve got something for you.”

He approached her car, she turned, holding out the cash, smiling. “Thank you so much for your help, I really appreciate it.” He tried to not look, but he took the cash and smiled, quietly responded “thank you.” She smiled as well, noticing he made no eye contact. And in a flash, she turned and headed for the house. His tip mentally etched in his mind.

Later that day, the out of town couple toured the house. They liked what they saw and wanted to make an offer.

The next day, only 20 days before her listing agreement was set to expire on that house, the seller agreed. The house was sold. Her commission, less all expenses and fees, came out to a little more than $4000.

“Four thousand,” she thought. “Less forty dollars and a loose button.”