Page 94 of The Cul-de-Sac War

He buried his head in his hands.

Well, the way he saw it, he had two choices. Make the bank meeting and risk the real possibility that his deranged neighbor might auction off his home, or cancel the bank meeting, forfeit his microscopic chance of winning this Barter bid, and spend the next six months watching McBride and Sons tackle the renovation that would’ve launched his career.

He had to sacrifice something here.

He dropped his hands from his head when he realized what he had that could turn these events around.

Neighbors.

There was more than one kind in the world.

Mrs. Lewis.

Chip made his way outside. People were milling around, and several looked up at him expectantly, a few lifting their chickens as though they were raising handfuls of hundred-dollar bills. Chip held up his hands.

“Sorry. There was a miscommunication. I am not selling—or bartering—this house.”

While most faces fell and people who hadn’t heard his first announcement started to depart, one man trailed him as he walked across the yard.

“Having a case of seller’s doubt?” he said in a voice that made Chip almost certain he sold used cars for a living. “I don’t blame you. I haven’t seen much here that I would take in exchange for a promising home such as yours either.”

“I’m not moving,” Chip said firmly, navigating around a family who was starting to break down their tent. “And even if I was, chickens aren’t the kind of thing I trade in.”

“Of course not,” the man replied, keeping step beside him as they moved onto the congested street. “Chickens are too easy to find. Why, even I could get you five hundred chicks no problem.”

He paused, the question in his eyes.

Chip waited for an RV to complete a painful three-point turn. “I’m not interested.”

“Of course you’re not,” the man continued without skipping a beat. “That’s precisely my point.”

The RV moved on, and Chip started walking again.

“No,” he said, “what someone like you needs is a trade of equal value. Now, let’s take that house for instance. I know that in these tumultuous economic times, it wouldn’t be easy to get the kind of value you’re looking for. Realtor fees. People coming in and out, invading your personal space for showings. House inspections”—he raised a hand to the side of his face and leaned in, lowering his voice—“and we both know you’d be in a lot of trouble there.” He straightened. “Months and months of nothing but debt piling up at your doorstep as you wring your hands, waiting, begging, pleading for the tides to change. And you deserve more.”

“I don’t want more. I want my house.”

“But tell me now, have you ever considered”—he held his hands out, practically purring—“a houseboat?”

So Chip was wrong. It wasn’t used cars. It was houseboats.

“I’ve got three now, gently used, but with a unique flair. Right now I have an outstanding 1971 Nautaline with your name on it. A newly painted upper sun deck, loads of room in the galley and upper helm. They patched the hole last year. It should float again just fine—”

Chip stopped abruptly at Mrs. Lewis’s front door. He turned. “Please go.”

The man stopped midsentence. Put up his hands as he backed away. “Listen. I’m just trying to get you a good deal. Have I mentioned the Nautaline comes with a seventy-five-inch flat screen?”

Chip’s eyes narrowed.

“I’ll just leave you my card.”

The man slipped a business card on the step between them, then raised his hands as though caught by the police as he moved backward. “Call me.”

Chip turned and rang the doorbell.

The door swung open immediately.

Mrs. Lewis tightened her robe around her, her hair in rollers.