every unfortunate aspect of the little house on the bluff. It was a view that encompassed the length of Puget Sound, from the uneven teeth of the snowcapped Cascades to the dimpled blue peak of Mount Baker. The Sound was at its liveliest, as though every schooner and ferryboat, every barge and pleasure boat, put out to sea just for her viewing pleasure.
The girls were out on the deck, eating cookies. Grace pantomimed “five minutes” and headed for the stairs. The two bedrooms at the top of the landing were poky and nondescript. But the master bedroom commanded the same view as the living room downstairs.
Standing in this place, Grace felt a painful tightness around the heart. It was the sense of wanting something she could not possibly have.
She was about to leave when she became aware of a murmuring voice.
“But I thought the shipper wouldn’t schedule me until the house sold,” said a woman’s tense voice. “I can’t possibly be ready before then.” A pause. “I understand, but—” Another pause. “And what’s the charge for that? I see. Well, it’s not in my budget. I don’t know…”
Grace waited until she heard the bleep of the phone, followed by a shaky sigh she could relate to. Then she approached the woman, whose lower right leg was in a walking cast. She was an older lady whose pleasant face was trembling and swollen with unshed tears of frustration.
“I couldn’t help overhearing,” said Grace. “Sounds as though your shipper is trying to move up the date on you.”
The woman nodded glumly. “Yes. It’s horrible. I had an offer on the house, but the loan fell through, so it’s back on the market again. Now the shipper wants to stick to the original schedule or charge me a huge extra fee.” She shook her head. “You know, I can design and launch a Web site, but dealing with a moving company is totally beyond me. My name’s Marcia Dunmire,” she said. “I’m a digital engineer.”
“Grace Bennett. I’m a Navy wife.”
“Oh. Then you’ve done this a few times before.”
“I don’t mean to be nosy, but maybe I can help. Do you have a copy of your contract?”
“Right here.” The pinched expression eased from Marcia’s face. “I’d be grateful if you’d look it over. I’ve never used a moving company before, ever.” She handed Grace a carbonless copy that looked very familiar.
“Some shippers move dates around if they have space in a truck that’s ready to go. And unfortunately, some agents try to tag you with extra charges and kill fees.” Grace glanced over the information. The estimated weight was grossly inflated—40,000 pounds. In reality, the contents of this house amounted to no more than 20,000 pounds. The inequity didn’t surprise Grace but set her teeth on edge.
Paging through the boilerplate sections of the contract, she found what she was looking for. “You’re okay,” she said. “They can’t charge you for rescheduling so long as you ship within sixty days. I’ve been a relocation ombudsman for the Navy for years. I could make a call for you, if you like.”
Marcia handed her the phone. “Be my guest. I’d love some help.”
Grace hit Redial. She and Marcia moved aside as a young couple came to the master bedroom. Like Grace, they were instantly drawn to the view from the wide front window. Go away, she wanted to tell them. This is my house. The clarity—and the absurdity—of the thought startled her.
“Yes,” she said when she finally got past the receptionist. “Terry, is it? Hi, Terry. It’s Grace Bennett of…Executive Relocators.” She tossed out the name from a well of fantasy inside her, claimed Marcia as a client and plunged in. It took no effort at all. When Grace discussed business, a certain confidence came over her. She stood up straighter, spoke with authority.
“Thanks for the info, Terry,” she said. “Then I guess I’m confused. According to Mrs. Dunmire’s contract, she has sixty days to reschedule. Yes, yes, of course.” From the corner of her eye, she saw the girls come in. When they spotted her with contract in hand, phone to her ear and the older lady watching with hands clasped in hope, they rolled their eyes and went somewhere else. They were used to seeing their mother in ombudsman mode.
“Let me check with my client on that, Terry.” She pressed the mute button on the phone. “He says you didn’t say you’d ship within sixty days.”
She sniffed. “I didn’t get a chance to say anything. But the extra time would solve the problem. I’m sure of it.”
Grace went back to Terry. “I’m a little concerned about this weight discrepancy here, too, so maybe you should send another agent out to redo the estimate.” She honestly liked doing this—sticking up for people. Whatever floats your boat, as Steve would say.
A few minutes later, she hung up the phone. “Well,” she said, “that should help some.”
Marcia rolled her walker toward the door. “You have no idea. Good Lord, I’m a babe in the woods. Since my husband died I’m finding new areas of incompetence every day.”
“No,” said Grace. “You’re finding new challenges. And new ways to shine.”
“You’re very wise for such a young woman.”
“Bless you for thinking I’m young,” said Grace, remembering the dumpy housewife in the mirror. “And wise. Actually, I know there’s no comparison to being widowed, but every time my husband goes to sea, I find myself having to deal with things on my own. Moving seems to be my specialty.”
“Are you really an executive relocator?”
“No, I just said that on the spot, to sound more official. I’ve done it unofficially for years.”
“You’re very good at it. You should charge for your services.”
“So I’ve been told. But my clients are all Navy families. I work pro bono. Sometimes I think about doing this professionally, though. But…”
“It’s a great idea, especially for this area. Boeing, Microsoft, Starbucks, Amazon…It’s the land of the high-profile multinational company.”
The notion teased at Grace, but she pushed it away. “Do you need help on the stairs?”
“No, thanks,” Marcia said. “I keep another walker downstairs. Blasted ankle. I broke it playing volleyball.”
Grace spotted her daughters out on the lawn, pacing. “I’d better be going. The natives are getting restless.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“It was my pleasure. I love your house.”
“Do you? We bought it in the sixties when it was all we could afford. I just couldn’t deal with updating it only to put it on the market. Are you planning to buy a house?”
“Some day,” Grace admitted. “But it’s a long way from the wish to the deed. Steve and I always said that when we were stationed in a place we liked well enough, we’d talk about buying a house.” Although most Navy families did buy homes, Grace and Steve had agreed long ago that a permanent home and mortgage didn’t fit their way of life. But for a while now, she’d been having second thoughts about that decision.
