“We won’t let anyone in the back rooms, no tours.” Carrie paused. “Is she okay?”
“With all the men in the place hovering over her, I think she’ll pull through.”
I believe that selling your own house is somewhat akin to removing your own appendix. Sure, you can do it if you have the training and the nerve, but it’s hard to make the perfect incision when you can’t really see your own stomach. See where I’m going with this?
My house is perfect except those days when I am overwhelmed by a crisis in confidence. A mere twenty-four hours before we had the unfortunate accident at Prophecy Estates I needed to over improve everything in my home and made another emergency call to Stacey, my best and fastest stager. Because everyone know we want our house to look perfect for strangers.
“I know you took out some of the books.” I wasn’t too sure how Stacey’s black and white checked swing coat combined with the sunny yellow and orange print blouse with au courant ruffles was flattering, but it was the latest thing. I would look like a poorly designed hot air balloon in that get- up. But I did envy her shoes: she wore bright yellow patent leather platforms. Awesome.
“But you need to take out the rest. Leave the art books, those match the sofa,” she continued dispassionately.
“I shipped up a van load of books already.” I blocked the remaining books from her view.
“You need more color,” she counseled, gazing at the preponderance of built in shelves that lined the living room (and the bedroom, although I didn’t point that out). “All these empty boxes, shapes, squares: not good.”
“I bought the house because of those shelves,” I pointed out.
“And they won’t do you any good selling the place, none are big enough for a flat panel TV.” She was both professional and severe. She knew what I inflicted on my own clients and I could tell by her expression she was thrilled to make me eat my own words.
“Where are you moving?” She finally asked.
“Claim Jump, it’s in the foothills, just above Auburn.”
She nodded. “Wasn’t there some sort of odd murder there? And a fire?”
I shrugged. “Nothing really happens up there, those were just quirks.”
She rolled her eyes and marched up to my bedroom to complain about the comforter spread. “Really Allison?” She cried. “Red? In the bedroom?”
“I was planning to change that,” I called up, knowing I’d probably do nothing of the kind. The very thought of another trip to Bed, Bath and Beyond exhausted me. I shoved a cookie into my mouth and glared at my empty living room.
I bought my house at the bottom of the market, although it didn’t look like the bottom at the time because the only way to identify the bottom is during the bounce back up. But I was lucky; I found something affordable and perfect. I stomp through hundreds of homes a year, and I always come away with the renewed conviction that mine was always the best. Until now. Now I had a contender in Claim Jump. I could feel how disappointed my house was with me. Shuffling it off to another owner without a backwards glance. Maybe I should throw a party for the house, would that make it feel better?
I made up for my lack of enthusiasm and dispirited agreement with every one of Stacey’s suggestions, with a flurry of cleaning Sunday morning, right up to twelve-thirty.
“What are you doing?” Carrie slammed the front door behind her.
“Scrubbing the tile with this grout whitening stuff I found at Bed, Bath and Beyond,” I called out. I was still dressed in an old Chico State sweatshirt and stained yoga pants, the product of an abortive attempt to be healthy that occurred sometime in the distant past.
“Scrubbing the grout? This from the woman for whom housekeeping is little more than tossing a dish cloth up into the corners of the ceiling and calling it spring cleaning?”
I noticed she did not immediately join me in the shower to view my beautiful tiles nor did she offer to help scrub. I had an extra toothbrush.
“This is different.” My voice reverberated against the bath tiles. I worked on the next three inches of grout. Who knew this could get so grimy? It must be Ben’s fault; his job was dirtier than mine.
“How is it different?” She demanded. Her voice was closer.
“This time I’m not living in the house, I’m selling the house. It has to look like a model home, un-touched by human hands, un-trod by human feet.” I vigorously scrubbed the next four inches.
“That didn’t seem to phase you when you and Ben bought Lucky Master’s house.” She leaned in the doorway, one foot casually crossed over the other.
“Ben bought it.” I took great pains to make that distinction. “And of course the condition of the house didn’t matter, that’s not what matters at all.”
She waited a beat, giving me the opportunity to hear what just came out of my own mouth, but I was on to her. “I’m an exception. The average buyer always focuses on the trivial, the unimportant. So I need to organize the closets and scrub the grout.”
“I don’t think scrubbing the tiles at 12:30 in the afternoon when the open house is slated for 1:00 is the best way to avoid the inevitable. And what are you wearing?”
I brushed my hair with the back of my hand, and three strands caught on my rubber glove and pulled painfully.
“You do not get it,” I snapped.
“The only time you clean is when you want to avoid something,” she pointed out. She righted herself. “I’ll get the cookies and sodas. You get cleaned up. And try to look your usual lovely, calm sales self.”
Sometimes I hate my best friend.
Chapter 8
Carrie was scheduled to be the open house shill from 1:00 to 2:00 PM; she had a date with Patrick at 2:30, and since she seemed thoroughly recovered from yesterday’s drama, I wasn’t too worried about her. My friends, Joan and Norton (a former client and long story) promised to stop by at 2:00 and spend, at the very least, a half an hour declaring their love for everything Craftsman. Ben was due in at 3:30 on his way back from his mother’s house in San Francisco. He was instructed to limit his comments to vague generally complimentary remarks and was not allowed to inspect or speculate on plumbing or site lines. I don’t want experts at this juncture, just good vibes.
Carrie stepped past me and inspected the grout. “Very nice. What’s next? Hand crocheted shower curtain, toilet paper cozies?”
“I was going to hand tie a new carpet for the hall,” I countered.
She nodded as if I made complete sense. “How are you doing?”
I sighed. The house glowed in the early afternoon sun. Shafts of light illuminated the front hall and then escaped to show off the burnished wood of the empty shelves in the living room. My kitchen was pristine, of course. The bathrooms were decorated with the best of Crate and Barrel. Fragrant jars of potpourri replaced my usual pile of Mary Kay make up.
“I like my house.” I cast around.
She nodded. “I do too. But you can move on you know. It’s okay.” Her tone was one of a Hospice volunteer telling their elderly charge that’s is okay, the family members can take case of themselves, you can move on now. Walk towards the light.
I didn’t respond, but I smiled weakly.
“Go,” she shooed me to my bedroom. “Change, I’ll take care of the initial crowds.”
On cue, two of my neighbors pushed open the door and yoo-hooed.
“Got ‘em.” Carried assured me. She straightened her slender shoulders and marched down the stairs to greet people I only can identify through the distinctive tone of their leaf blower.
“We saw the sign and thought we’d just check the place out. Wow, how lovely is this?”
“You are so right, it’s fabulous. Have you seen the bathrooms? You must check out the tile grout in the guest bathroom.” Carrie dripped with Valley-girl tones and enthusiasm for the terribly trivial, an act she has perfected over the years of helping me during open homes. There are two kinds of people who stop by an open house – buyers and lookers. Neighb
ors are just lookers, they want to see the inside of a house they have been driving past for seven years. They want to be assured that their house is better. And they want to know the relative value of their own property. I like to get rid of them as quickly as possible to make room for the actual buyers. Carrie knows that.
“It is totally surreal how perfectly clean and white it is.” She grabbed the man’s hand, his name is Steve, and pulled him upstairs. “I have never seen anything like it, have you seen anything like it?”
I dressed as quickly as I could. I heard them banging up the stairs with Carrie in the lead babbling about tile, William Morris and cats.
Carrie’s squeals of appreciation echoed off those clean, clean tiles and down the stairs.
I yanked on slacks and a red sweater and lost minutes hunting for the last jacket I attached my New Century nametag to and finally emerged.
I almost collided with Doris, the wife of Steve, the leaf blower.
“Oh, excuse me.” She pounded down the stair steps and headed to the door. “Steve, are you coming?” Her voice had a panicky edge to it.
“Those are really clean tiles.” Steve was still in the bathroom. Carrie emerged and delivered a triumphant wave.
“Honey,” Doris called. “We should be going.”
Steve reluctantly exited the bathroom. “We could do that in our bath,” he announced to no one in particular. He slowly descended the stairs. Doris grabbed his arm and hurried him out without another word. Carrie followed brushing her hands with satisfaction.
“Thanks.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Another couple from down the street, I recognized their car, strolled through the front door at exactly 1:00. They admired the wood paneling as well as the inlaid wood patterns in the entryway floor, but they barely said hello to me. I couldn’t help contrast this River’s Bend reception to what I experienced during an open house I held in Claim Jump. Even though I still suffered through Claim Jump (many of them members of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men) neighbors investigating the famous Masters place, at least they were friendly and engaged. They often offered up new gossip and local lore in exchange for evaluating the toilets laundry chute. The River’s Bend neighbors were silent, even grim as they marched purposefully through the rooms, opening every closet, peering inside every kitchen drawer, doing the math in their heads – how much, how much.
In contrast, as the members of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men inspected the cupboards, they generously shared reports on the cupboard contents of a half dozen homes around Claim Jump.
Carrie waited until the couple from down the street climbed up the stairs to open up all the drawers in my bedroom.
“Well,” she announced loudly. “ I must run.” She acted like a cross between a Long Beach socialite and major philanthropist. “I have a charity ball to organize. I love this place, I’ll bring my husband back this afternoon, will you still be here?”
“Till four,” I raised my voice so it would travel to the second floor.
The neighbors stirred and finally abandoned the master bedroom. As they came down the stairs, Carrie busied herself in the kitchen loudly commenting on how the caterer would love the abundance of counter space.
I nodded happily to the neighbors but they said nothing to me. Okay, fine.
I pulled out a bottle of Prophesy Estates Sauvignon Blanc and opened it.
Joan was late for her 2:00, so I called grandma, but she was out and there was no answering machine. Prue firmly believes that the caller will call back if the situation is all that earth shattering. I was constantly annoyed by her stubbornness, but she was right. Ultimately, new technology passes by her stubborn resistance like the Yuba flowing around a boulder. She avoided the answering machine phase and now had progressed to her own cell phone. A gift from me. This new gift was ostensibly to be taken everywhere so we could always be in touch. It was a perfect solution when A. she remembered to charge it and B. actually took it with her. Because C. she does not want to lose it. So D. it was often abandoned in the kitchen drawer. I left a message on that cell reminding her that I’d be up next weekend to hold an open house for Penny’s property.
A visitor knocked on the door at exactly two oh five, excellent. I was expecting Joan and Norton, but I didn’t recognize the car outside. Great, a potential buyer! But it wasn’t a buyer. It was Mark.
He walked right in.
“Mark.” I stood up from the couch and strolled casually towards the front door intending to keep him in the hall and not allow him anywhere near my precious living room.
He gave me a lopsided grin that was a little disturbing since his face seemed lop-sided. But I could tell from his expression that he still fancied himself a ladies man. Lucky, lucky me. I was tempted to call Ben, but he was still in San Francisco.
“How did you find me?” I asked.
“You advertise, remember?” He stepped towards me and I instinctively stepped back.
It wasn’t the first time I regretted the public nature of my business.
“Where is your friend?” I meant the simpering girl attached to his hip at the winery opening.
“Oh Beth? She disappeared last night. Won’t take my calls.” He approached two more steps. Mother, may I? No, you may not.
I raised my eyebrows and tangoed backwards five feet.
“Too bad about the kid. You know, I always have great ideas for investments. Except for this one, who knows what that accident will do to the potential? I told Cassandra so, but I don’t think she was listening.”
“Mark, what do you want?” I stopped in the center of the living room. He stopped on the steps leading to the sunken area.
“I thought we could be friends,” he held out his hand, the fine slender fingers beckoned to me.
“Only because of the company I keep,” I said sarcastically. “At least do me the courtesy of being honest.”
“Okay, you do run with some pretty interesting sharks, I’m impressed.”
I waited, my arms crossed defensively under my breasts. All I could think of was, really? He really came by because he thought I’d surrender my contact list so he could interest my friends in one of his current schemes? Had he always been like this?
“You could be part of my next business plan too,” he offered ingeniously. He stepped down into the living room pit and approached me like a great white, although not as charming. “Allison, we go way back. Tell me you don’t think of me even once in a while.”
“Every time I order a trash out, I think of you,” I replied, happy at how steady my voice held.
He halted his approach and frowned.
“You wouldn’t know the reference, but trust me, it’s apt.”
He opened his mouth but his brain wasn’t working as fast as mine and there was a second lag between his next thought and what came out of his mouth. I used to be fascinated by those lips, by his persona. Not anymore.
Before he could adequately form a witty response, Joan burst in for her shift with her beau Norton in tow. My friend is tiny but mighty. Her regular job is teaching composition to reluctant freshman at the local university. She loves the teaching and hates the university politics. She has helped me out on more than one occasion, open house shill is just one of the many favors she does for me.
“Have you seen the exterior landscaping?” She called out as she slammed the door behind her. “Just perfect. Honey, I don’t think they’re asking enough for this property!”
I heard Norton murmur assent, and the two marched into the living room. I grinned at Joan.
“Sorry Mark, I have to take care of these people. Hello!” I veered to the coffee table, scooped up my phone and edged by Mark.
Joan was dressed up for her role as weekend Marin County Matron. She wore crisp cotton pants in dark grey and a light green sweater that brought out the green in her eyes and contrasted with her short red hair. She looked great, and more importantly, she could be mistaken as someone who could afford my ho
use.
“Welcome, thank you for coming by.” I did not look backwards. Mark could find his own way out: he probably had a few skills. I greeted Joan and Norton like the strangers they were suppose to be portraying. I listened for any movement as I led Joan and Norton upstairs to the bedrooms.
They dutifully and vocally admired my clean tile, the view from the second bedroom window and finally the bedroom. I didn’t relax my loud patter until the front door slammed and I heard the sound of a very expensive motor start up.
“Thank you.” I sank onto the edge of my bed. I looked at my phone. I would not put it past him to take what he wanted, a phone full of my contacts.
“Who was that?” Joan asked. She walked to the window and peered between the blinds. “It looks like he’s gone.”
I took a deep breath, there were a few things Joan did not know about me. “My ex fiancé.” I said.
“Well, aren’t you the one with an interesting past?”
“I have an interesting past.” Norton protested. He was tall, slender, and, I had to admit, rather elegant. He was a professional musician, and at times somewhat spacy. Joan adored him.
“Of course you do dear.” Joan absently patted his hand, and then proceeded to grill me.
“But you win,” she pointed out when I concluded. “You are now running away with the delectable and wealthy Ben Stone.”
“Rock Solid Service,” I put in.
“Rock Solid Service,” she agreed. “You don’t need to look so glum. This is a great move for you. And that ring!”
“Do you really think so?” I whined. It was only 2:30 and my shills and my horrible ex-fiancé were the only people who had talked to me. Good thing I knew enough to hire friends.
“It will be an adventure, something different to hold your constantly wandering attention. I’ll come and see you. In fact I have time next weekend. Why don’t I come up and see your new place?”
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out Page 9