Hate Notes

I pulled up to the light at the corner fifteen minutes early. Charlotte was already there, standing out in front of the building. Since the light was red, it gave me some time to observe her from a distance. She looked at her watch and then glanced around at the sidewalk before walking to a nearby empty water bottle lying at the curb. She picked it up, then looked around some more.

What the hell was she doing? Looking for bottles on the streets of Manhattan to return for a five-cent deposit? This woman was definitely out there. Who had time for this crap? I watched as she walked over to something else, bent to collect it, then walked a few feet away and did it again. What the . . .

The light turned green, so I proceeded to turn right and pull down the one-way street in front of our building. Charlotte took a cautious step back, then bent down to see who it was. The woman was collecting germ-infested treasure from a New York City street and was worried that the Mercedes S560 pulling up might be trouble. I rolled down my tinted window. “You ready?”

“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.

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?”

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?”

“But she’s your grandmother. Not every relationship should be treated like business, even when it’s business you’re discussing. Shouldn’t you call yourself?”

“Why?”

Charlotte shook her head and exhaled. “Never mind.”

Luckily for me, we drove in silence for a little while after that. Traffic was light, and we managed to make it to the expressway without Little Miss Sunshine telling me how to do my job. I was about to merge onto 495 when Charlotte crossed and uncrossed her legs in the passenger’s seat, and my eyes drifted from the road for a fraction of a second. It couldn’t have been longer than that. Yet the next thing I knew, Charlotte was screaming and grabbing for something to hold on to.

“Watch out!”

Instinctively, I jammed on the brakes before I’d even had an opportunity to figure out what the hell I was watching out for. Everything that happened after that came in slow motion.

I looked up.

A furry little creature scurried across the road in front of us.

My car came to a screeching halt, and I got a look at what I’d nearly hit.

A squirrel.

A damn squirrel.

She’d scared the crap out of me because a rodent had crossed the road.

Unbelievable. I was just about to give her a piece of my mind when a huge bang stopped me. Startled, it took me a minute to realize what had happened.

Someone had hit us from behind.