me.”
I resisted the urge to blame that on his cap.
I was disappointed to hear the confirmation that they weren’t friendly. If this was the place, I was hoping for warmhearted souls who could be convinced to swap the Sayers collection for something else, thus saving my job, apartment and financial neck plus freeing Karen from her burden of guilt.
“That’s fine. I’ll leave a note for Mr. and Mrs. Adams then. Thank you ever so much.”
Ever so much? Wow, I was really getting into this role-playing thing.
“Don’t you have a card?” he asked. “Usually real estate agents just leave their cards in the mailbox. Brochures too. And information sheets with photos of properties that they have sold in the area. When I think of real estate agents, I think of lots and lots of teeth.”
“Of course, I do have all that kind of promotion,” I said, showing my teeth and pretending to reach into my shoulder bag for my nonexistent cards, brochures and information sheets.
He frowned thoughtfully. “But, of course I always throw that bumpf straight into the recycling bin. Waste of good trees. If I want an agent, I’ll just call one.”
“Exactly, and
I’m
eco-friendly. Plus I think a note would be better. More personal, as this is a very personal quest for my client.”
“On the other hand, a card might be good. I wouldn’t mind getting one in case I decide to sell. Maybe your client would be interested in my house.”
“Indeed,” I said, a bright smile glued to my face. Was he trying to jerk my chain? Whatever, I hoped a steady stream of information would distract him. “The client is obsessed with American Craftsman style. I could never deflect her from that. She has money, the kind of money that nobody says no to, if you get my point.” I could see that his interest was waning. “I think I might not have too much trouble finding someone interested in a unique Victorian like yours.” By unique, I meant marred by a couple of really bad remodels. I wondered who had stripped the gingerbread from the house and what he or she had been thinking. Some folks have no appreciation for history.
He said, “Maybe I should sign you up right now.”
This definitely called for a diversion. No point in going any further down the faux Realtor road. I pointed to the low, neatly manicured boxwood hedge that separated the two properties. “By the way, I am very interested in this greenery. Mine never seems to do well. My, um, husband does all our gardening. Would you mind telling him your secret? It seems so . . . luxurious, yet controlled.”
Kevin was probably at the point of death by boredom by this time, and he perked up immediately and leapt from the car. He managed to insert himself between the nosy neighbor and me and bent over to examine the hedge.
“Remarkable. What’s your secret?” he asked. “Bonemeal?”
Bonemeal? Really? I almost fell off my stiletto heels. Who knew that Kevin had any idea at all about gardening? Where in the world would he have picked up that skill? Was it some special parole program that he’d never mentioned to us? Of course, Uncle Kev was nothing if not mysterious.
Panicking that he wasn’t going to wander down the “garden path” with Kev, I continued my weird flirting offensive and reached out to touch the man’s forearm, a move that Lance and Tiff could pull off, but it just felt wrong to me. No more of that, I told myself.
He said, “I don’t think I have a secret. It’s just a row of boxwood.” But the look in his eyes added, “Why is this weird woman touching me?”
Kev was beaming. “It’s glorious! Do you feed it?”
“Feed it? No, I just trim it.” The neighbor turned to his boxwood with new interest and respect.
Kev leaned toward him. “I bet you talk to it. Makes all the difference.”
Kevin actually seemed to be taking care of the problem, for once. That’s what it took to really thaw this neighbor. He leaned the rake against the bushes and stuck
I resisted the urge to blame that on his cap.
I was disappointed to hear the confirmation that they weren’t friendly. If this was the place, I was hoping for warmhearted souls who could be convinced to swap the Sayers collection for something else, thus saving my job, apartment and financial neck plus freeing Karen from her burden of guilt.
“That’s fine. I’ll leave a note for Mr. and Mrs. Adams then. Thank you ever so much.”
Ever so much? Wow, I was really getting into this role-playing thing.
“Don’t you have a card?” he asked. “Usually real estate agents just leave their cards in the mailbox. Brochures too. And information sheets with photos of properties that they have sold in the area. When I think of real estate agents, I think of lots and lots of teeth.”
“Of course, I do have all that kind of promotion,” I said, showing my teeth and pretending to reach into my shoulder bag for my nonexistent cards, brochures and information sheets.
He frowned thoughtfully. “But, of course I always throw that bumpf straight into the recycling bin. Waste of good trees. If I want an agent, I’ll just call one.”
“Exactly, and
I’m
eco-friendly. Plus I think a note would be better. More personal, as this is a very personal quest for my client.”
“On the other hand, a card might be good. I wouldn’t mind getting one in case I decide to sell. Maybe your client would be interested in my house.”
“Indeed,” I said, a bright smile glued to my face. Was he trying to jerk my chain? Whatever, I hoped a steady stream of information would distract him. “The client is obsessed with American Craftsman style. I could never deflect her from that. She has money, the kind of money that nobody says no to, if you get my point.” I could see that his interest was waning. “I think I might not have too much trouble finding someone interested in a unique Victorian like yours.” By unique, I meant marred by a couple of really bad remodels. I wondered who had stripped the gingerbread from the house and what he or she had been thinking. Some folks have no appreciation for history.
He said, “Maybe I should sign you up right now.”
This definitely called for a diversion. No point in going any further down the faux Realtor road. I pointed to the low, neatly manicured boxwood hedge that separated the two properties. “By the way, I am very interested in this greenery. Mine never seems to do well. My, um, husband does all our gardening. Would you mind telling him your secret? It seems so . . . luxurious, yet controlled.”
Kevin was probably at the point of death by boredom by this time, and he perked up immediately and leapt from the car. He managed to insert himself between the nosy neighbor and me and bent over to examine the hedge.
“Remarkable. What’s your secret?” he asked. “Bonemeal?”
Bonemeal? Really? I almost fell off my stiletto heels. Who knew that Kevin had any idea at all about gardening? Where in the world would he have picked up that skill? Was it some special parole program that he’d never mentioned to us? Of course, Uncle Kev was nothing if not mysterious.
Panicking that he wasn’t going to wander down the “garden path” with Kev, I continued my weird flirting offensive and reached out to touch the man’s forearm, a move that Lance and Tiff could pull off, but it just felt wrong to me. No more of that, I told myself.
He said, “I don’t think I have a secret. It’s just a row of boxwood.” But the look in his eyes added, “Why is this weird woman touching me?”
Kev was beaming. “It’s glorious! Do you feed it?”
“Feed it? No, I just trim it.” The neighbor turned to his boxwood with new interest and respect.
Kev leaned toward him. “I bet you talk to it. Makes all the difference.”
Kevin actually seemed to be taking care of the problem, for once. That’s what it took to really thaw this neighbor. He leaned the rake against the bushes and stuck
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