“Oh. Yes.” She looked right, then left, and held up her pointer finger before wandering halfway down the block. “One second.” My eyes followed as she walked to a garbage can and tossed in the crap she’d collected. Great. Not only does she clean city streets at the ass-crack of dawn but her ass in that skirt looks fantastic as she’s doing it.
She opened the passenger door and hopped in. “Good morning.”
Chipper, too. Perfect.
I pointed to the glove compartment. “There are wipes in there.”
Her little nose wrinkled in confusion.
Whispers: Interactive StoriesMake your own choices and decide what happens next!
I sighed. “To clean off your hands.”
That devilish smirk was back. Charlotte held up her hands, palms toward me, and waved them in front of my face, taunting. “Are you a germaphobe?”
“Just wipe them off.” This was going to be one long-ass day.
I pulled away from the curb and started toward the tunnel as she cleaned her hands. Neither of us said another word until we were out of the city and in line to pay the toll on the other side of Manhattan. “Don’t you have one of those passes?” she asked, looking at the large sign overhead that read CASH ONLY.
“An E-ZPass. Yes. But last time I used it was in my other car, and I forgot it there.”
“Is your other car a work van or something?”
“No. It’s a Range Rover.”
“Why do you need two cars?”
“Why do you ask so many questions?”
“Geez. You don’t have to be so rude. I was just trying to make conversation.” She stared out the window.
The truth was, the Rover had been Allison’s. But I wasn’t opening that can of worms with this woman. There were two cars ahead of us in line, so I reached into my pocket to grab a twenty and realized I’d tossed my wallet into the glove compartment. “Could you take my wallet out of the glove compartment for me?”
She continued to stare out the window. “How about using ‘please’ in that sentence?”
Frustrated, and faced with only one car between me and the toll collector, I leaned over and grabbed my wallet myself. That position, unfortunately, also gave me a spectacular view of Charlotte’s tanned, toned, shapely legs. I slammed the glove compartment door shut.
Once we were through the toll and onto the Long Island Expressway, I decided to test how well our new assistant followed directions.
“How many bedrooms and baths does the property we’re showing today have?”
“Five bedrooms and seven baths. Although I have no idea why anyone would need seven bathrooms.”
“Pool construction?”
“Gunite. Heated. In the shape of a mountain lake with imported Italian tumbled-marble decking and a waterfall.”
She’d done her homework . . . although . . . I’d lofted some softballs her way.
“Square footage?”
“It’s 4,752 for the main house. An additional 650 for the pool house, which is also heated.”
“Number of fireplaces?”
“Four inside, one outside. The interior are all gas, outside is wood burning.”
“Appliances?”
“Viking, Gaggenau, and Sub-Zero. There’s actually a separate Pro Series Sub-Zero refrigerator and freezer in the main kitchen and another combined unit in the pool house. And, in case you were wondering, the three refrigerators, combined, cost more than a new Prius. I checked.”
Hmmm. I wanted her to get one wrong, so I slipped in a question that wasn’t in the prospectus. “And the interior decorating was done by who?”
“Carolyn Applegate of Applegate and Mason Interiors.”
I had the strangest battle being waged inside of me. Even though I’d wanted to trip her up so she’d get one wrong, a part of me also inwardly fist-pumped that she’d gotten it right.
“And ‘whom’ . . . ,” she mumbled, her voice trailing off.
“Pardon?”
“You said, ‘And the interior decorating was done by who?’ It would be ‘whom.’”
I had to pretend to cough to hide my smile. “Fine. I’m glad you’ve done your homework.”
We arrived at the Bridgehampton estate an hour before the first showing. The caterers were busy setting up. I needed to make a few phone calls and answer some emails, so I told Charlotte to tour the property to get herself acquainted with it. Half an hour later, I found her in the great room studying a painting.
I walked up behind her. “The owner is an artist. None of the paintings are part of the sale.”
“Yes. I read that. She’s pretty amazing. Did you know she goes around to nursing homes and listens to stories of how people met their spouses and then paints the image that she sees from hearing their love story? I wonder if this is one of them. It’s so romantic.”
The piece depicted a couple on a date in a restaurant, but the woman seemed to be looking at a different man, one sitting at a table across from her, and sneaking a smile. “What part is romantic? The part where the woman is eyeing a different guy than the one picking up the bill, or the part where the poor schlep she’s checking out doesn’t yet realize she’ll be doing the same thing to him in a few months?”