“It’s only been on the market for three days, and I’ve shown it six times,” the realtor said. “I’d suggest making a prompt decision. During season, homes like this sell quickly.”

My gaze clung to her bronze-colored skin and sun-streaked hair for an instant before turning to Vincent. He, like me, was pale. It was obvious we were far from the place we’d called home for the past few years, but I liked that about southern Florida.

I looked at Vincent. “I like it…” I whispered.

His brows raised. “But?”

I sighed. “Let’s keep looking.”

He nodded, turned to the realtor, and cleared his throat. “We’ll likely make a decision in the next day or so.”

“Enjoy your stay in Clearwater,” she said. “It’s beautiful weather this time of year.”

I couldn’t argue her claim. It was nearly December, and the temperature was in the low 80’s, without a cloud in the sky. Homes notwithstanding, Clearwater, Florida seemed to be exactly what I was after. Shorts all year long. Picturesque beaches. The palm tree lined streets were free of clutter and trash.

In short, the city was exactly what I was hoping to find. The three homes we’d been shown, at least so far, weren’t.

We looked at two more, neither of which had a view of the ocean. It was something Vincent desperately wanted but had proven to be out of our price range for what was currently on the market. Each of the realtors said the same thing.

You just missed one that I think would have been perfect.

Frustrated, but not willing to give up, we searched for a coffeeshop with wi-fi. A few minutes to relax while scouring the internet for any new listings would do both of us good, we thought.

As I provided guidance from the Google Maps GPS service, Vincent ogled the homes that lined the street on his left.

“Perfect,” he said dryly as he passed a home that wasn’t for sale. A block later, he said it again, giving a nod toward another home that wasn’t on the market.

“There’s another,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Perfect.”

“They’re not for sale,” I complained. “None of the good ones are.”

The homes on Vincent’s side of the street all backed up to the Gulf of Mexico. The western horizon would provide picturesque sunsets every night. Forgetting our past would be an easy thing to do while walking along the beach at sunset.

I envisioned opening my own practice, focusing on veterans that needed the assistance of someone who had firsthand information on what was required to survive in the real world. As I daydreamed of such things and gazed blankly at my phone, Vincent slammed on the brakes.

The seatbelt locked, clamping against my shoulder like a vise. At the same time, Vincent’s hand pressed against my chest, bracing me.

“What happened?” I screeched, peering beyond my phone, toward the street ahead.

He shifted the truck into reverse and tilted his head toward his window. “Look.”

An elderly man stood at the edge of a well-manicured lawn with a hammer clenched in his right hand. With his left hand, he steadied a wooden stake. Affixed to the stake, a homemade “For Sale by Owner” sign was stapled.

The head of the hammer came down on top of the stake with the force of a butterfly landing.

Vincent backed the truck beyond the driveway, and then pulled into it and parked. He opened the door and peered over the hood of the truck.

“Sorry to interrupt, but are you selling the place?” Vincent asked.

The man glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

“Selling the place?” Vincent shouted.

“Plannin’ on it,” the man said, not bothering to smile. “Gal at Sotheby’s wants to charge me six percent. Won’t give a military or senior discount. Told her to go pound sand.” He gripped the stake and swung the hammer against it. “I’ll sell this son-of-a-bitch myself.”

“You’re a veteran?” Vincent asked.

The old man hit the stake again before turning around. “3^rd Battalion, 5^th Marines,” he said proudly. “Cut my teeth at the Battle of Inchon. Korea, 1950. Was seventeen at the time.”

I rolled down the window and waved. The man smiled and waved in return. Beyond him, a tiny beachfront home with white siding, light blue trim, and a porch barely big enough to stand on was positioned in the center of a grossly oversized lot. The home’s lengthy driveway was made of brick and lined with palm trees.

I got out of the truck and gazed the length of the lawn. Beyond the home, the ocean glistened the afternoon sun’s reflection. Out of place in the neighborhood that was filled with more modern offerings twice its size, the modest home was perfect in my eyes.

“Let me give you a hand,” Vincent said. “I’m a bit too young for Inchon, but I served a day or two in the beloved Corps.”

The old man shot Vincent a look of disbelief.

A few feet shy of where the old man stood, Vincent paused and rolled up his sleeve. The old man’s eyes shot to the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor tattoo on Vincent’s bicep. After a quick inspection, he extended his hand, offering Vincent the hammer.

“Veteran of war?” the old man asked.

“Half a dozen tours in Iraq, and a few more than that in Afghanistan. War’s all I’ve ever known.” Vincent hammered the stake into the ground, checked it, and peered toward the house. “Just drove down from Quantico. We’re looking to move somewhere peaceful. I’d like to put that life behind me and begin a new one.”

The old man waved his weathered hand toward the home. “I built this when I got home. 1953.”

Vincent offered his hand. “Vincent Briggs.”

“Herb Kramer,” the old man said. “Friends call me Mickey.”

Vincent gestured to me. “This is Valerie. Her friends call her Val.”

Mickey shuffled to where I stood and offered his weathered hand. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Val.”

He was adorable. Three inches shorter than me, and weighing all of a hundred and thirty pounds, his sun-spotted scalp was visible through his thin white crewcut.

Mickey studied me for a moment, smiling the entire time. “Remind me of Marge. She did her hair like that. Was brown, too, when it wasn’t white. She passed year before last, in June.” He looked at Vincent. “If you’re looking to move somewhere peaceful, it don’t get any more peaceful than this.”

“Mind if we have a look?” Vincent asked.

Mickey looked at me and winked. “I’d be insulted if you didn’t.”

The home was little less than 1,000 square feet, with two bedrooms and one bathroom. It was much smaller than what we hoped for and in desperate need of being updated, despite its perfect condition. The one car garage was undersized, and far too small to park Vincent’s truck in.

The bedrooms were small, neither being large enough for our king size bed.

Everything about the home, kitchen included, was just like Mickey.

Small.

We stepped through the sliding doors and onto the back deck. Beyond the tall palms and tropical shrubs that bordered the property, the Gulf of Mexico went on for as far as the eye could see.

“Where are you going, Mickey?” Vincent asked, peering toward the ocean as he spoke. “When you sell this place?”

“Frank Farmer moved over off of 13^th, to the retirement village,” Mickey said, as if we knew where he spoke of. “Said he loves it there. They’ve got cards on Friday. Said they let him play poker.”

Vincent grinned. “Sounds like a good time.”

“So says Frank,” Mickey said with a smile.

“What’s it going to take to buy this place?” Vincent asked.

Mickey tapped his fingertip against the edge of the whitewashed handrail. “This one?”

Vincent nodded.

“Four hundred and fifty if you want to bicker. Four twenty-five if you’re paying cash. Somewhere in between if you’re looking to finance and want to wait past the new year to close. I priced it for a quick sale.”

My heart raced. It may have been small, but it was in the perfect location and priced at half of what we’d looked at so far. Granted, it was half the home, but it was exactly what we both wanted.

Vincent looked at me.

I nodded eagerly and mouthed the words, I love it.

“We’ll take it,” Vincent said.

Mickey gripped the handrail with each hand, gazed out at the ocean for a moment, and then met Vincent’s gaze. “Which of those categories do you fall into?”

“We’d be the category that pays cash.”

Mickey grinned. “Care to stay for dinner? Haven’t had a dinner guest since Frank went to the village.”

“We’d love to,” Vincent responded.

We enjoyed dinner together, staying long enough to watch the sunset from the back deck. When the night ended, we shook Herb “Mickey” Kramer’s hand, and bid farewell.

Two days later, the three of us began our new lives.