When Sandra mentioned the price, nearly one hundred thousand more than the cottage, I began to shake my head.
“Before you decide,” she said, “you should know this is a motivated seller. Divorce situation. Needs to close quickly. They’ve already reduced the price twice.”
Despite the attractive terms, I couldn’t quite connect with the property’s contemporary styling and community association restrictions.
“It’s beautiful,” I admitted, “but it doesn’t feel like me.”
Sandra nodded, unsurprised.
“I thought you might say that.”
“The third property is quite different,” she said. “Older. More character. Directly on the water—but not on the main beach. It’s on the sound side in Wrightsville, with a private dock. Needs some updating, but it has good bones.”
As we drove north toward Wrightsville Beach, I found myself growing increasingly comfortable with Sandra’s company.
Unlike the overly solicitous realtors I’d encountered in the past, she presented properties factually, pointing out both advantages and potential concerns without emotional manipulation.
“Your mother mentioned you’re making a fresh start,” she commented as we crossed the bridge to Wrightsville. “Left some difficult family situation behind.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I said, surprised by Helen’s disclosure but not offended.
Sandra nodded thoughtfully.
“I did something similar at fifty-two. Left a thirty-year marriage in Ohio. Moved here knowing no one. Best decision I ever made.”
She glanced at me briefly.
“It’s scary at first—starting over when everyone else seems settled. But there’s something powerful about choosing your own path, especially when you’ve spent decades accommodating others.”
Her simple understanding—someone who’d walked a similar road—eased something tight within my chest.
“Did you ever regret it?” I asked. “The break. The move?”
“Not once,” she replied without hesitation. “Missed certain people? Certainly. Had difficult days? Absolutely. But regret the decision?”
“Never.”
We turned onto a narrow road bordered by live oaks draped with Spanish moss, their ancient branches creating a natural canopy.
At the end of the lane stood a weathered blue cottage, its wide wraparound porch facing a tranquil expanse of water where the Intracoastal Waterway widened into a small sound.
“It’s not oceanfront,” Sandra cautioned as we parked. “The Atlantic is about a half mile that way—easy walking distance. But this…” She gestured toward the glistening water view. “This offers a different kind of peace. Less dramatic than ocean waves, but perhaps more constant.”
The moment I stepped onto the porch, something shifted inside me.
Per continuare a leggere, clicca su ( SUCCESSIVA 》) qui sotto!
