After 1120 Dunham Street, Jarvis took them to one other house. It was a ranch home that both Clint and Jennifer quickly rejected for a number of reasons. The house was outside the Mydale school district, the floor plan was awkward, and there was a suspicious smell in the basement that might have been cat urine.
“We really want to find a house in the Mydale school district,” Jennifer reiterated, as Jarvis drove them back to the real estate office. “That was a big factor in our selection of you as our agent. Your office is located in Mydale.”
Jarvis looked in his rearview mirror before responding to Jennifer, who was seated in the back seat of the Lexus with her husband. “And I thought it had something to do with my personal appeal.” The remark could have been interpreted as either routine salesman’s banter, or yet another attempt at flirtation.
Unseen by Jarvis, Clint smirked and shook his head. Jennifer replied: “You’re very charming, Mr. Jarvis, but please don’t forget that we really want a house in Mydale.”
“Duly noted,” Jarvis said. “We won’t be looking at any more houses that don’t have a Mydale mailing address, or that fall outside the Mydale school district.”
Mydale was a bedroom community that had been mostly rural only twenty years ago. Though technically incorporated as a city of 30,000, Mydale was actually a part of the Cincinnati metropolitan area. Despite the development spree of recent years, Mydale had not lost its feel of semirural prosperity; and there remained working farms a few miles beyond its borders.
Located twenty miles northwest of downtown Cincinnati, Mydale was far enough away to maintain its separate identity, but close enough to allow for an easy commute to the larger city, where both Clint and Jennifer worked.
But most of all, Mydale was known for its above-average schools. The town had been fortunate enough to attract a series of industrial parks in the early 1990s, and the tax revenues from the resident businesses allowed the Mydale school district to recruit the best teachers, to offer all the latest and most innovative educational programs.
In the parking lot of Jarvis Realty, Tom Jarvis invited the Hubers to come in for refreshments and additional discussions, even though he must have known that the day had reached its natural conclusion. It was past two o’clock, and they had to pick up Connor.
They had left him at Clint’s parents’ house. As was usually the case, Jennifer’s parents would theoretically have been a babysitting option, but Connor—with the typical candor of a six-year-old—made no secret of the fact that he preferred the company of Grandma and Grandpa Huber over that of his maternal grandparents.
This needled Jennifer a bit: Clint’s father was an older version of Clint—affable, not terribly serious, and vaguely childlike himself. Her own father, meanwhile, had been a partner in a Cincinnati law firm. Hank Riley loved his only grandchild, Jennifer was sure, but he was often stilted and remote when it came time to actually interact with him. Seventy-hour workweeks had absented Hank during much of her own youth. Jennifer’s fifty-seven-year-old mother, Claudia, meanwhile, seemed to be in denial about the very concept of grandmotherhood. Since turning fifty, Claudia had gone on a plastic surgery binge: botox, facelift, and even a mentoplasty on her chin. Jennifer often joked with Clint that breast implants were likely next on the list.
“Another time,” Clint said, shaking hands with Jarvis. “We’ll be in touch, though. Thanks for your time today.”
The realtor shook hands with Clint and then with Jennifer. “You’re welcome. If I can answer any additional questions, or set up any additional showings, let me know.”
“And just to confirm,” Jennifer said, “the Dunham Drive property is still on the market.”
“It is,” Jarvis allowed. “Unless Deborah Vennekamp decides otherwise.”
“I’m sure Mr. Vennekamp will want to have a say, too,” Jennifer replied, proud of herself for not defaulting to the self-consciously feminist position. Moreover, the Richard Vennekamp in that portrait hadn’t looked like the sort of man who allows his wife to make all of the family’s major decisions.
Jarvis smiled enigmatically. “You haven’t met Deborah Vennekamp.”