Page 15 of The Housekeeper

Chapter Seven

Linda and DeanFrancis lived in Lawrence Park, another well-to-do area of the city, and a good fifteen-minute drive from Rosedale, especially in Saturday afternoon traffic. I pulled my car to a stop on the sunlit street and took a minute to examine the exterior of the large, two-story Georgian-style home. A friend of mine who was their neighbor had recommended me when she heard the Francises were interested in selling. “They’re a little eccentric,” she’d warned.

I took a few deep breaths, applied a fresh coat of lipstick, and fluffed out my hair before exiting the car. There was nothing I could do about the shapeless floral shift covering my matching one-piece bathing suit or the hot pink flip-flops on my feet. Linda Francis had emphasized the need for speed, so I’d decided not to waste precious time going home to change. This might have been a mistake, I was thinking as I rang the bell. Just because clients might be “eccentric” didn’t mean they appreciated that quality in others.

“Eccentric” turned out to be an understatement.

“Mrs. Francis?” I asked, trying not to stare at the short, pigeon-chested woman who answered the door. She wasperhaps a decade older than me and dressed all in black. Her dark hair, interrupted by a wide white streak, had been teased into a tall beehive, a style reminiscent of the Bride of Frankenstein. Bright pink lips were outlined in the same deep shade of red that streaked across her cheekbones, no attempt made to blend anything in, and her eyelids all but drooped with the weight of her heavily applied mascara. Large rhinestone hoops hung from her ears and layers of multicolored crystal beads fell around her neck. There was a ring on every one of her ten pudgy fingers and multiple bracelets surrounded her wrists, like handcuffs.

“Thank you for being so flexible,” she said, ushering me inside the foyer, where her husband was waiting. “This is my husband, Dean.”

Dean Francis was no less a vision. He stood at least six feet, eight inches tall, and was wearing dark green Bermuda shorts, knee-length black socks, black loafers, and a navy blazer. What remained of his hair had been dyed an unfortunate shade of burgundy and combed across the top of his head from one ear to the other, accentuating the sharp, birdlike features of his face.

“Would you like a tour?” he said instead of hello.

Unfortunately, the house proved even more shocking than its owners. The Francises were collectors. You name it, they collected it, although there didn’t seem to be anything of any real value. Stacks of old newspapers and magazines grew up the walls like ivy, creepy old dolls and cheap plastic figurines lined every shelf. Unframed family photographs plastered the walls like wallpaper. The living room was filled with enough old sofas and chairs to furnish several hotel lobbies. The bedrooms were a nightmare of conflicting styles and fabrics.

“Is something wrong?” Linda Francis asked as we settled into the high-backed wooden chairs crowded around the kitchen table at the end of the tour.

I tried not to notice the four sets of salt-and-pepper shakers in the middle of it. “It’s a lot,” I heard myself say.

“We realize our taste isn’t everyone’s,” Dean Francis began.

“But it just takes one person who loves the house,” his wife offered.

“It’s not the house,” I said, picturing each room with a fresh coat of paint and sleek, minimalist furniture. “The house isn’t the problem.”

“What is?” they asked together.

I bit my tongue to keep from sayingYou! You are the problem!“There’s just too much…everything,” I said instead. “I’m sure the house is wonderful. But all anyone will see when they walk in here is…stuff.”

“What do you suggest?” Linda asked, clearly taken aback. “We’ve already…what’s the word you agents use?…decluttered.”

I almost laughed. “You need to do more,” I began, trying to be as diplomatic as I could. “Normally, we suggest decluttering twice as much as you think you should. But in your case, you need to be ruthless,” I continued, warming to my subject. “Get rid of all your old newspapers and magazines, or at least put them away in boxes. Pack up your collections and your family photographs. You might have to rent a storage locker, hire a stager…”

“A stager? Surely that’s not necessary.”

“It’s necessary if you’re serious about selling your house,” I said. “Right now, it’s impossible for prospective buyers to imagine themselves turning your home into theirs, and it’s impossible for me to try selling it in this condition. Trust me, you’d be getting a fraction of what it’s worth. I’d just be wasting everybody’s time. Look,” I said, rising to my feet after several seconds of excruciating silence, careful not to knock anything over. “You’re going to a cottage for a few days. Relax, think about what I’ve said, talk it over with your friends, and decide what you want to do. You can get back to me anytime.”

They won’t get back to me,I thought as I was driving back to Rosedale, berating myself for my lost afternoon. I should neverhave answered the damn phone, I was thinking as I checked the clock on the dashboard, realizing that by the time I got back, I’d have been gone almost two hours. I offered up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever gods might be listening for sending me Elyse Woodley.

—

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” I apologized as soon as I entered the house.

“Nonsense,” Elyse said. “I loved every minute.”

I noticed she’d changed into dry clothes. “Where is everyone?” I looked toward the back of the house. Surely she hadn’t left the kids alone by the pool.

“Well, your sister left soon after you did, your mother is sleeping, your father is resting,” she began, “and the kids are in the home theater, watching cartoons. I hope you don’t mind. They were quite pooped after our swim, and I thought it would be all right.”

“Are you kidding?” I couldn’t believe she was apologizing. “You’re not even supposed to be working.”

She shrugged.

“I’ll certainly pay you for your time.”

She waved aside my offer. “Totally unnecessary. However, I do have a favor to ask.”