wanting to make sure this isn’t some sort of joke.” There was rustling in the background. “I got several cattle here that I could trade, but I don’t want to haul them out if this isn’t legitimate. You mind confirming before I load up?”
Load up. Cattle.
“Um.” Chip typed in his address. Sure enough, a result popped up clear as day on his screen.
Bingo.
He sat back. Stared.
Unbelievable.
“Sir?”
“Right. Um, no, this isn’t legitimate. And if you talk to anyone else, please tell them.”
He hung up, and his phone drifted down from his ear as he took it all in.
There, on the screen, under the Housing Swap tab, was the headline “Livestock Trade for House in Need of Massive Renovation.”
Massive. He took offense at that.
He scanned the ad:
Will Trade House for Livestock
Single man in over his head with financial burden and no marital prospects has decided to give up suburbia for hermit living. Wants: livestock for his hobby farm. Willing to trade: decrepit house in otherwise nice Abingdon, VA neighborhood. Great neighbors. All offers considered. Note: Please bring at least one example animal from livestock offered for demonstration and inspection on offer. Will be considering offers until midnight, April 15.
She had included his phone number.
Simultaneously, his phone started to ring and knocking resumed.
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