“It’s at 2:30 on Friday. But it’s fine. Just have your house and food completely ready, and come in your Shabbos clothing”

Neil Starr was a guy worth pleasing. He was a well-connected businessman, and he had a spacious home he was thinking of selling. I wanted to be his realtor.

But Neil Starr was also impossible to pin down. Every time I managed to get him on the phone — and even that was a challenge — he reiterated how much he wanted to meet. And then he’d promptly nix every possible meeting time I offered.

Finally, on our fourth call, he said, “You know what? I should have an opening at 2:30 on Friday afternoon. Swing by then, and we can talk.”

It was the dead of winter; candle lighting was at 4:38. But I’d make it work. I called Malky, a new employee I was training. “We finally have a time for our listing appointment with Neil!” I crowed.

“Amazing! When?”

“Well, that’s the thing — it’s at 2:30 on Friday. But it’s fine. Just have your house and food completely ready, and come in your Shabbos clothing.”

“Seriously? You come to a meeting in your Shabbos clothing?”

“Totally.”

Malky was dubious; she lived 20 minutes from Neil’s house, so the meeting would be tight. Since I lived only five minutes away, I told her she could leave when she had to, and I’d take care of the rest.

That Friday, I raced around, peeling, cooking, cleaning. At 2:20 my food was warming in the oven, I was in Shabbos clothing, and the house sparkled. I headed out.