Filfthy(10)
“She is.” Taylor nods, taking a seat on the sofa across from us.
“I don’t hear from her much anymore, not since Irvin passed.” Rue clutches her chest. At seventy-five, she’s yet to have been married, but she’s reached the point in her life when widowhood is afflicting her friends left and right. “We miss her so. I wish she’d come back and visit. Tell her we miss her, will you?”
“Of course.” Taylor’s ocean-blue gaze moves to mine, and he straightens the knot of his skinny black tie. “Shall we get down to business?”
“Yes.” I clap my hands together and take the spot beside Rue, anxious to get this party started.
“Taylor, you’ve never met my great niece, have you?” Rue places her hand on my knee.
“We met outside,” I say.
“Good, because you two are going to be working very closely together this summer,” Rue says. I detect a smidge of excitement in her tone that implies something else entirely. She’s going to be sorely mistaken when I inform her Taylor isn’t exactly my type. Not even close. I would never. “Delilah will be your main point of contact. If you have a showing, you call her. She’ll get the house in order and relay the message to me. If you want to set up an open house, work with her. I only want to hear from you if there’s an offer. A good offer.”
“Understood.” Taylor is still honed in on me. “Delilah, I’ll need your number.”
I rattle off the ten digits, and he sends me a text to confirm.
“So what next?” Rue asks.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll take a look around. Make some notes. Then I’ll head back to the office and run comps. Should have a list price for you in the next day or so. After that, you’ll sign the contract, and we’ll have ourselves a live listing.” The tone of his voice escalates, and he claps two very manicured hands together, rubbing his palms.
He seems way too excited about this, but I suppose that’s a good thing. The man clearly lives and breathes real estate, and that’s exactly the kind of person who should be selling Rue’s McMansion.
“By all means.” Rue rises, waving her arm to invite him to take a look around. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. I’ve got a bonsai that needs trimming. Delilah, would you mind showing Taylor around?”
Rue scampers off, her hips swaying with each quick step. The woman clearly doesn’t know the definition of slow down, and she never has. Ever since striking it rich with some thigh-shaper invention in the eighties, all she’s done is work, work, work and go, go, go. She couldn’t stand still if she tried.
“I guess we’ll start in the foyer and make our way around . . .” I lead Taylor out of the living room, glancing through the dining room window on my way and spotting Zane shooting hoops in his driveway with a couple of other guys.
Guess he’s not the only one incapable of relaxing for a hot minute. Taylor stops beside me, following my gaze.
“Did you know Zane de la Cruz lives next door?” I ask Taylor as I point.
“I did.”
“Do you know him personally?” I ask because they’re the same age and Gainesville isn’t that huge of a city. If it’s anything like Rixton Falls, everyone knows everyone. “Are you friends?”
“I don’t know him personally, no.” Taylor waves me off and struts off like he’s too bothered to continue on with this conversation. “Everyone knows everyone here. I know of him. He knows of me. But personal friends? Hardly.”
His chuckle is stuffy and proper, like he’s entertained by the fact that I would assume they were friends.
Letting it go, I lead him down a hall that takes us to my aunt’s room and begin the tour, taking him through the guest suites and the formal dining room. I watch his reaction when I show him Aunt Rue’s gift-wrapping room, and then I take him to the built-in oversized cabinet where she keeps her collection of porcelain dolls and Baccarat crystal.
Stepping to the back patio, Taylor takes the steps and walks the length of the exterior, speaking lightly into his phone and making notes. I follow, keeping a few paces back, and when we reach the side of the house, I spot Zane and his friends once again.
He stops, resting his basketball beneath his arm, smiles, and waves.
He’s friendly, that asshole.
“Did Taylor leave already?” Aunt Rue is holding the bouquet of daffodils under one arm as she rifles through the cabinets below the kitchen sink. She produces a small vase, smiling sweetly. “He’s so thoughtful to have brought flowers. He’s a good boy, that Taylor. Comes from good stock.”