Besides, this kind of task was right up her alley. How many times had she been told she had an obsessive eye for detail?

Three hours after her initial arrival at the house, she ran through her mental checklist. Decluttering was the fun part. Evan had the owner’s permission to tuck away distracting personal items such as family photos and knickknacks. The flowers she had purchased—at a deli in the city instead of a florist in East Hampton so she could pocket the extra cash she’d been given—were split between two vases in the living and dining rooms. The area rug she had brought as instructed from Evan’s office was in place in the front hallway to conceal the wear and tear on the floorboards. She even had the cinnamon rolls ready to go in a pie pan in the refrigerator. Evan could arrive tomorrow at noon and do nothing but turn on the oven. A hint of Barefoot Contessa, courtesy of Pillsbury.

Of course, none of these superficial touches should actually matter. This house, by $3 million South Fork standards, was a dump. Terra-cotta kitchen tiles, laminate countertops, dingy, dated wallpaper. The real draw of the house was the lot—two full acres on a dead-end road. Whoever bought this place would tear the house down and start all over. But in the Hamptons, even a teardown was supposed to be staged.

She had nearly completed her inspection when she spotted the problem. The windows!

“Hamptons buyers want a light, bright, airy home, not a man cave,” Evan had told her.

She quickened her pace with each additional shade pulled. All she could see outside was darkness. Standing alone in the isolated living room, backlit in front of all those windows, was giving her the heebie-jeebies.

She took one final look around the house. It was perfect. She sent a quick message to her boss: The place is all set. I did it tonight to make sure I didn’t run into a time crunch tomorrow morning. Thanks again for trusting me, Evan. Hope you and the kids are having the best time!

She returned the key to the lock box hidden on the back deck and locked the sliding glass kitchen door. The front door would lock automatically behind her. As she made her way to leave, Hope felt a surge of pride. She had found this job entirely on her own—no help from Lindsay or anyone else from Hopewell. And she was actually good at it. Maybe if people got to know her as Evan’s assistant—instead of “poor Hope”—she could eventually find work as an interior decorator, or maybe one of those professional organizers who streamlines a house from top to bottom. She could find clients through Yelp and Instagram and get paid in cash. Lord knew there was plenty of money to be had in the Hamptons.