I looked at the painting and silently sympathized with the unsuspecting fool. Trust me, buddy, you’re better off finding out now that she isn’t loyal.
Charlotte turned around and faced me. “Wow. You’re really a breath of fresh air, aren’t you?”
“I’m a realist.”
Her hands went to her hips. “Oh really? Tell me something positive about me, then? A realist can see both positive and negative in people. The only thing you’ve seen in me since we met is negative.”
Charlotte was short, even with the heels she had on. And from the close proximity in which we were standing, I had a view straight down her silky blouse. I didn’t think she’d appreciate the positive thoughts I had at the moment. So I turned and walked away. “I’ll be in the kitchen when the first clients arrive.”Even assholes give a compliment now and again when due. And maybe I’d just been too tough on Charlotte. But something about her riled me up. She had an innocence that I had the urge to shatter, and I wasn’t quite sure why. “You did a great job today.” I locked up the front door and put my hand out for Charlotte to walk down the steps before me.
Being her usual pain-in-the-ass self, she couldn’t just take the compliment. Holding a hand to her ear, she smirked. “What was that? I didn’t quite catch it. You’ll have to repeat yourself.”
“Wiseass.” We walked toward the car together. I opened the passenger door and waited until she got in before closing it.
Backing out of the long driveway, I asked, “How did you know all that stuff about Carolyn Applegate anyway?” The first client hadn’t been initially sold on the interior design of the house, but after Charlotte name-dropped a dozen celebrities who’d recently had their homes redone by the same designer, the woman seemed to view the place through rosier glasses. That little soft sell she’d done might’ve changed the entire outcome of today’s visit.
Charlotte was unusual, that was for damn sure, but I had to admit my grandmother’s instincts were usually right. She hadn’t gotten to where she is today by accident. Iris reads people well, and it was starting to look like her read on Charlotte wasn’t totally off base. Perhaps I’d let my feelings for another beautiful blonde taint my initial judgment somewhat.
“Google,” she said. “I put in the name of the current owners and found them listed as clients on the designer’s website. Then I stalked through some of their other clients. When I’d mentioned the designer had also done Christie Brinkley’s place a few miles away, Mrs. Wooten’s eyes lit up. So I called up the website and showed her that the photos from Christie’s house had a similar fabric on the couch throw pillows.”
“Well, it worked. You changed her initial view of the house. And with the second couple, pretending to like their little monster worked like a charm.”
She frowned. “I wasn’t pretending. The little boy was adorable.”
“He was yelling the entire time.”
“He was three.”
“Whatever. I’m glad you could shut him up.”
She shook her head. “You’re going to make one unlucky woman a miserable husband and impatient father someday.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Oh? Are you nicer to women you date?”
“No, I just don’t plan on getting married or having children.” My knuckles turned white from the death grip I held the steering wheel in.
Charlotte was quiet, but a quick side-glance at the expression on her face told me that I’d hit upon a topic she planned to analyze for the entire car ride home. I needed to nip that shit in the bud, so I turned the focus back to business. “I’ll need you to send a follow-up email from me to both couples. Thank them for coming out to view the property and secure a time that we can speak on the phone in the next week.”
“Okay.”
“Also, call down to Bridgestone Properties in Florida. Ask for Neil Capshaw. Tell him you’re my new assistant and ask the status of the Wootens’ Boca property they’re selling. We refer a lot of business to their agency, so they’ll be happy to share information. If the Wootens have a buyer for that, they might be more inclined to purchase the Bridgehampton summer home sooner, rather than later.”
She’d taken out her phone and started to type notes into it. “Okay. Follow-up emails to buyers. Call Capshaw. Got it.”
“There’s also an appointment on my calendar for tomorrow that I need moved from four o’clock. See if you can push it back to four thirty.”
“Okay. Who is the four o’clock with tomorrow?”
“Iris.”
Charlotte looked up from her typing in her phone. “You want me to call Iris—your own grandmother—to change an appointment?”
“Yes. You’re my assistant. That’s what assistants do. They make appointments, change appointments, and even cancel appointments on occasion. Did you not get the memo on that being part of your job function?”