The Mural
The real estate market in Palo Alto is unrelenting. Families empty their entire savings, their 401k, some lucky ones, their inheritances, anything to penetrate the illustrious Stanford school district. I had grown accustomed to the equally lofty expectations from sellers who knew they literally held the golden ticket for potential buyers.
I had fawned over their uninspired faux-Tuscan kitchens and nodded along during their garden tours, inspired by the Provence region of France-
Why yes, these half-dozen potted lavenders really do help transport potential buyers
-all the while running calculations on what discount pendants I could source from Home Depot in time to coordinate the 3-D renderings critical for marketing. Conversations and recommendations had fused into an expertly crafted nonchalance regardless of a seller’s quirks, nothing upset my system in those days. How naive I was.
“How can you ask me to cover my children’s names?! My babies?!”
The woman’s tears poured over her cheeks and her voice cracked through the sobs. I stood on the opposite side of a nursery as the seller wailed, the stress of moving during her second pregnancy’s third trimester had boiled over. Eyes wide, my gaze volleyed between the wailing woman and the custom mural. What should I do? Hug her, offer my apologies? I had met the woman less than an hour ago. My colleagues were in another section of the house with her husband, they and Mr. Seller blithely unaware of the hormonally charged meltdown.
“Okay, I can tell this a lot to process right now,” I slipped into my calmest reassuring tone, the sort of voice you would use around a spooked animal, “why don’t we take a moment and come back to this-”
“I just don’t understand! I paid a lot of money for this, and it’s so beautiful! Why would you want to just paint over it?” the woman asked in a ragged voice. She sniffled and wiped her face roughly, trying to steel herself.
“You’re right, it is beautiful, and I can see how much this means to you. I think what we need to keep in mind is, first, you’ve already bought your new home. Both your children will make new memories there. So, even though there are still some of your belongings here, this is no longer your home.
Second, it will be hard for a buyer to imagine their life in this house with your children’s names still painted on the wall. So, my job is to remind you our goal is, first and foremost, selling this house. People have to dream about their lives here to do that.”
The seller crossed her arms, difficult to do given this stage of her pregnancy. “Well, that may be so, but I’m still not comfortable with just plastering these walls with boring grey paint.”
I was planning on a pale lichen green but this wasn’t the time.
“That’s why I want us to take a little break for now. Let’s go through the rest of the house for now, alright?”
Nodding mutely, the woman turned and scurried away. I had enough wherewithal to wait a minute or so, she and I both needed time to collect ourselves. Over my left shoulder, a willow tree’s drooping limbs fluttered in the invisible breeze, a pale kaleidoscope of sage and seafoam parting to reveal two names in gold filigree. Sunlight beamed through the powder blue sky, charming glints of bright spots showing the minute veins in the willow’s leaves. Corner to corner, the wall was a picturesque tableau of woodland creatures basking in a warm spring day. I wondered how many hours it had taken to paint, imagined the joy in the seller’s face when the room was revealed, the serenity she felt placing her child in the nearby crib, and what it must have sounded like when I had flippantly assumed she was ready to leave it behind.
I rejoined the tour, and nothing was said about the mural further. It was the looming shadow casting aspersions over my expertise and the selling process as a whole. My colleague asked a few questions on the ride back to our office, but didn’t probe further after I sighed heavily and shook my head. Over the next few days I fell back into routine, coordinating the next visit with vendors and prepping a schedule to ready the listing.
Predictably, on my return visit, as I queued painters and gardeners, directing traffic and prepping for our deadlines, Mrs. Seller returned. I heard a sunny voice greeting the flooring guy, inquiring as to my location. Gritting my teeth, I painted a congenial smile across my face and paced to the kitchen. A brief polite conversation later, she said, “I just wanted to see how it was all going and I wondered if we could discuss the nursery again.”
Yikes.
“Certainly, have you given any more thought to potentially-”
“I have,” she said, cutting me off before I could repeat my blasphemous suggestions, “and I really think it’s best we don’t paint over the mural. Let me show you.” She beckoned me to follow her into the nursery, as if I hadn’t broached its threshold before. The following minutes were a painstaking recap of how she had commissioned a local artist, very prestigious of course, the time spent on deciding the right sentiment to evoke, the way her baby had slapped its hands against the little chipmunk peeking out behind the trunk with delight.
“So I think it’s best we leave it. This neighborhood is perfect for a new family. Parents will love this sort of detail, don't you agree?”
I had planned for this, Palo Alto real estate necessitated contingency plans. “You’re right, this is an ideal neighborhood for a family. What if we just covered the names, and left the mural intact?”
If looks could kill, I would have exploded in a torrent of flames. “I don’t feel like we are understanding each other,” she said in a dangerously saccharine voice.
Double yikes.
Twenty minutes and multiple failed attempts at common sense recommendations later, the seller left, no closer to acquiescing than our first meeting. I was stuck between the obvious correct answer and a stubborn defiance of reality. After waving goodbye to the last tradesman, I locked up the empty house and decided it was high time for a long lunch. Cross-legged in the restaurant's patio chair while jotting notes into the binder I created for each listing, I mused on what next step to take.
My boss had caught me in the hallway the day before,
“Mr. Seller said his wife was crying after the initial visit. Did you tell her to paint over a custom art piece?”
Breathing deeply, I answered, “Not exactly. I recommended updating the nursery so it didn’t have Mrs. Seller’s children's names painted on the wall for the showings.”
“Ah, well, just remember, our sellers have to feel we have their best interest in mind. So, don’t upset them but we need to find a solution,” he stated before walking briskly away.
“Who is we?” I muttered to myself.
As I popped another bite of tuna poke into my mouth, a shop across the parking lot caught my eye. The sign read ‘Elysian Photography’, the windows dotted with smiling faces, brides captivating their husband’s face, children dashing about in a field of flowers.
Sometimes it really is that simple.
Two weeks later, Mrs. Seller pulled into the driveway, this time sporting a resolute grimace. I greeted her warmly, pointing out the newly planted hydrangeas flanking the front door, how next to the marigolds they really drove home the cozy cottage aesthetic. I showed her the bathroom tile, glazed white and glossy, helping the petite bathroom fill with sunlight.
Then it was time for the nursery. As we faced the willow tree I said, “I can’t imagine how emotional this must be for you, having to leave this behind.”
Mrs. Seller nodded tersely, still as on edge as an alley cat. I swallowed hard, and picked up the large gift bag from the corner.
“So, I thought, maybe you shouldn’t have to leave it behind.” I offered the fuschia parcel to her. Eyebrow raised, she dug a hand inside with suspicion. Pulling the contents free, her expression morphed from disdain to wide eyed shock.
“Oh my, oh that’s, oh this is,” she stammered as the tears began falling once more. A 30” x 40” pale wooden frame shook in her hands, the mural captured within gleaming under its glass. Mrs. Seller sobbed, exclaiming how she could hang it in the nursery at their new home, dropping the empty bag to the floor as she gripped me in a crushing hug.
“Thank you, thank you so much!” she shrieked. After I wriggled free, I handed her the second bag. “Since our in-house photographer took so many shots, I made you a couple mugs too. I figured you could have some smaller reminders.”
Another banshee wail, another devastating bear hug, and Mrs. Seller practically skipped to her car a half hour later. She never stopped by the house again, content to take her memories with her. I had the mural covered and the room staged as an office-slash-nursery for the listings. The house sold for seventy thousand over asking.
Lauryn Fox is a former theatre kid and forever emo adult. A lover of obstinate animals and all things artistic, she believes creativity is intrinsic to humanity. Like most artists, she hopes on day her literary aspirations catch up to her self-doubt.
