“Can you look at a web site for me?” I wrote down the URL on the back of my card and handed it to Raul. “I’m trying to figure out who is in the background of the video.”
“For you, Allison, sure.” He tucked the card in his stripped shirt pocket without losing eye contact with the girls. Brick rolled his eyes, down shifted and the two continued on their way to an afternoon at the river. I would have loved to go with them.
“Come on, I have to be back this afternoon, let’s eat.” Ben pulled me down the street to a new Mexican place. We felt it was our job to sample every new restaurant in town, just to be informed.
I admit, my biggest fear, the only possible turn off when I first met Ben, was that it did not look as if he had a viable future – or in straight girl terms – a plan. All I saw was a handyman who worked only when he wanted, and only because he needed to meet the rent on his single-wide trailer. Ben has since surprised me. For example, Ben bought our new house, with cash. And Ben will write the check for the furniture. It turns out that instead of keeping him, he is keeping me.
“I don’t know how I feel about being a kept woman.” I ordered the wet burrito.
“You bring more than your income to the table,” he said seriously. He took my hand and pulled so I had to lean on the table, well, my breasts hit the table.
“I want you, not your income. Know that.”
I gazed into his blue eyes. I did know that.
“Now tell me why I did not know my new partner in Prophesy Estates was your ex fiancé.”
Once I explained a little, just a little, of my past including admitting that I had no clue at all what Mark’s interest was in Cassandra or her winery was, I turned the tables on him.
“What happened between you and Cassandra?” We ate and each nursed a second Laganitas, it was a good a time as any to ask.
“When O’Reilly rejected her, she had a total break down, of course they were still young, when we had the energy to make every moment larger than life. But honestly, there must have been more than either Peter or Cassandra was admitting. Anyway, Cassandra is one of those sensitive artists types my mother collects, so Mom sent me to help Cassandra.”
“Kind of like sending you off to repair a leaky pipe.”
He grinned at that and toasted me with the last of his beer. “That’s not too far from the truth. Cassandra was like a project. Plus I knew how calloused Peter could be, we go back.”
“You were down at Stanford at the time.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I drove up to the City a couple of weekends, that was all. She needed an adult to care for her, not a kid like me. She’s not strong like you.”
Strong like me.
I remember arriving at Prue’s house at the end of the afternoon of my own abortive nuptials. I will never forget the color of the light that afternoon. It was liquid gold, one of the reasons our state is called the golden state. The light flooded Marsh Avenue, the dark green leaves shimmered in a light wind. It was beautiful. It was heartbreaking.
Carrie and I settled in my grandmother’s huge, and more importantly, empty house. My grandfather had just passed away and Prue had put a halt to putting up students and artists and any number of undesirable people (in my mother’s eyes) but fascinating (in my opinion) people. So the place was a temporary haven. I didn’t even question how Carrie came to possess a key to the house. I obediently climbed the curved stairs to my room. Carrie stripped me down and rolled me into the old sweats I kept at Grandma’s for emergencies.
I slept through the night and through the rest of the day.
By the time I woke, Prue was home and pow-wowing with Carrie. Their plan was to give me something better to do with my time. Something I would be good at and could focus on twenty-four/seven.
Real estate.
And they were right, god they were right, and it worked. Work is better than booze for forgetting. I moved to Sonoma County, I joined up with Prudential. I gathered trophies, kudos and cash. Another plus was my mother didn’t speak to me for a year. This reprieve allowed me to concentrate on my entrance exams for my license and for good measure, the broker’s exam. I never regretted the professional decision. I was single minded and I had no outside life and so could cater to the most difficult clients because well, what else did I have to do but take their calls and rush over to handle a running toilet, a funny bump under the carpet, a leaf blower at midnight? Whatever it was, I was there. I was the Diva of Real Estate. Inez Gomez snatched me up and made me a star of the office. I even temporarily eclipsed Rosemary and Katherine for about fifteen minutes.
And through it all it was Carrie who was the rock. It was Carrie who forced me back into polite society. For years I stood as her date for various charity events on the excuse that I was helping, but really trolling for business.
I will never be able to pay her back.
But then again, she says she’ll never be able to pay me back. Which is true, considering the trouble I’ve gotten her into.
Mindful of the gift of my career, I waved good-bye to Ben and focused on my work.
First on my list was to check on Scott Lewis who was still remodeling his new house on Gold Way. He and Sarah lived in the back of the house as they renovated the front parlor and dining room. Once finished, they planned to switch and live in the front of the house while re-modeling the kitchen and downstairs bath. It was a fairly typical approach, by the time the house was remodeled, the family had slept in every room of their home.
Renovation can take a very long time in Claim Jump, especially since Ben had apparently hired away all the sub-contractors who had any sense of time management. Sarah and Scott would have to wait their turn.
“We’re almost finished with our house,” I assured Sarah before I left.
“We’ll be fine.” She didn’t even waver when I presented her with the listing forms she had to sign. She dutifully initialed and signed everything.
“Do you think we’re asking enough? It’s a really nice house. The bathroom tile was replaced in 1978. It was a good year for tile.”
I just looked at her.
“Okay, I was just asking.”
Carrie called a second later. “They keep texting me.”
“About what?”
“Pick something! I thought the shower would make them happy, but no, now it’s a new thing every couple of hours. They are worse than my parents.”
“Really?” I walked back down the hill from Grove Street to Main Street keeping an eye out for Debbie.
“No, not really. But, honestly. Then on top of that, Patrick calls every four hours. I mean I’m glad he’s calling again, but it’s almost like they are checking to make sure I’m still around. No one has anything constructive to offer.”
I nodded. “Maybe they want you safe, or to make sure you’re okay?”
“Why would you say that?”
“I don’t know, it just seems that maybe it’s not that they don’t trust you, it seems more like, are you okay? How about now? How about now? That kind of worry.”
I was hoping my interpretation would make her feel better, but I was worried myself. The Furies never married or adopted children or found a life partner or anything that would be considered the norm in our part of the state. Were they paranoid odd balls that would ruin Carrie’s life? It was worth considering now before it was too late.
She sighed. “Maybe they care too much? Is that possible?”
“Look, they are who they are, a little daft maybe, but you’ll be able to deal with them just like Patrick helped you deal with your parents. Did you ask Patrick about it?”
“No,” she admitted. “I wanted to deal with his sisters on my own terms.”
“It’s not working,” I suggested.
“And Patrick’s security people are driving me crazy. I’m totally smothered and I’m going to scream.” She did, right in my ear.
“Come up any time. But I was planning to come down and wait on you hand and foot on this, your last wee
kend of freedom, since you won’t let me throw a bachelorette party.”
“I cannot imagine the trouble we’d get into during a party of your making. I’ll come up there, maybe in Claim Jump no one will care who I am or what I am.” She drew in a shuddering sigh as if she had already lived through the experience. I’m not that bad of an influence, I don’t think.
“Do you need help with your open houses?”
“That is an excellent excuse, so of course.” With her help I could keep both houses open this weekend. It would give us both something to do.
Joan called next. It was an embarrassment of riches. “Sorry I missed you last week. Can I make it up to you?”
“I need people for open houses.”
“Perfect, I’ll be there. How is your friend Carrie doing?”
“She feels overwhelmed and doesn’t know what to do with a sterling silver samovar.”
“No one ever does.”
I know a girl is supposed to lose weight before the big day, but Carrie wasn’t working with much of a margin to begin with. I hoped the camera really does add ten pounds; she could use it.
“I’m fine,” she preemptively dismissed any sympathetic remarks. She wore her favorite faded jeans that hung on low on her narrow hips, she was bra-less under a Day of Caring 2005 tee shirt.
“You dressed just for me.”
She slid off her shoes. “You may have noticed that I’ve spent the last six months over dressed. This is part of my break. We aren’t seeing anyone are we?”
“Did you bring something to wear for the open house?”
“Of course.”
A motorcycle revved past, why were those things so damn
loud? Maybe I could run for City Council and work to ban all motorcycles from the downtown area. I’m sure no one would notice it was essentially self-serving.
“Show me what you’ve done to the place.” Carrie marched past me into the center of the house; she was so light her bare feet barely made a sound on the hardwood.
“It must be nice.” Carrie paused under the purple and red Murano glass chandelier, the only decoration I saved from the original Lucky Masters collection. “To start fresh with your husband.”
“I suppose it was an unconscious agreement that we have our own place: not his, not mine.”
“All the magazines recommend a fresh start in your own place.”
She followed me to the kitchen and great room. “We will live on the compound. Patrick has his own small house, it’s about five bedrooms. The Furies live together in the converted barn, and his parents live in the main house which is about 19,000 feet or so, bit larger than Emily’s,” she added. “I’ve gotten lost in it twice.”
“Do you want that?” I led her upstairs to our three bedrooms to Patrick’s five and his parent’s 35 or something like that.
“Live in the bachelor pad?” She drew in her breath. The master bedroom and sitting room stretched across the back of the house, roughly the same size as the kitchen and great room. The guest bedrooms mirrored the two front parlors and overlooked Main street. From Carrie’s room we watched Summer dash from the theater and wave wildly to someone down the street.
“I don’t think so, but what do I tell Patrick?”
“Just what I said. Just what you said. You tell him that you need a place that is US not you, not me, us,” I said as if I came to that decision with no sleepless nights or any angst.
“You don’t know how great it is to be left alone,” Carrie sighed.
“How is Cassandra?” Summer must have seen who she wanted because she retreated back into the theater building. We trooped back downstairs. Carrie didn’t ask about the widow’s walk and I was still reluctant to venture up there, sage smoke aside.
Carrie stepped out to the front porch. The light was low and yellow, illuminating the false fronts of the buildings lining Main Street. “She’s not good, she slipped back into a coma. Made the paper this time. Trish Gault is better, but apparently not up for interviews, at least I haven’t heard anything.”
A whole motorcycle cavalcade roared up Main Street drowning out the rest of Carrie’s conversation.
“Won’t Patrick miss you?”
“I’ll be fine, as long as I take Patrick’s calls.” She pulled out her phone. “And Kathleen’s texts and Claire’s texts, and their emails and instant messages. She waved her phone. Who decided this was an easier way to live?”
“It’s easier, just not better.”
“He’s gone down to the city every day for the last two weeks. Some times he stays over night.”
It smacked of an affair, but I knew Patrick at least well enough to know that wasn’t true. “Isn’t he on the board of directors of something down there?”
“He’s on the board of a mental hospital, I don’t know the name.”
“Odd philanthropic choice.”
Carrie moved back inside and headed to the kitchen. She pulled out a bottle of white from the wine refrigerator. “The family has supported the hospital for years, it’s just one of the things they do.” She opened the bottle while I hunted down the glasses. I keep moving them, looking for the optimal wine glass storage spot.
“I’m working hard to focus on what is really important, I don’t want to fight over the trivial.”
The doorbell rang and I reflexively glanced at my watch. Joan had only called half hour ago, who could this be? Yeah, like there isn’t a long list of possible visitors. I certainly wouldn’t be lonely here.
“This is fabulous!” Joan greeted me with an enthusiastic hug.
“Did you call from your car?”
“Of course, I knew you wouldn’t turn me away. Do you still have that troublesome listing up here? I’ll take that one tomorrow.” She dragged her wheeled orange suitcase over the threshold and parked it by the door. “I read that this town has the highest per capita bookstore rate in the state. Show them all to me now!” Joan marched through the front rooms with an approving nod and zeroed in on Carrie. “The runaway bride!”
“Just taking a break bride.” Carrie found a third wine glass and handed it to Joan.
“Norton and I will never marry, too much work.” Joan accepted the glass of wine and downed it. “You forgot to mention how terrible late afternoon traffic is. I left at 1:30 for God’s Sake!”
“It’s all over now,” I assured her. “We will shop for books in the morning, take care of the open houses in the afternoon and we have Saturday night in hopping, exciting Claim Jump, just know that everything closes by nine o’clock, so we’ll have to be pretty efficient.”
My phone buzzed. The Furies wanted to know if Cassandra’s accident would affect the wedding next week. A minute later Ben texted that everything will be okay, the wedding guests would not have to know anything about Cassandra or the accident. Chris Connor was still searching for a way to investigate Prophesy Estates but had not been able to locate Beth. I didn’t know her last name either so I suggested Chris contact O’Reilly directly and sent over his information.
We decided to eat at seven. As I locked my front door (city habits), I noticed the lights were still on in the library.
“Check this out,” I gestured to Carrie and Joan. “These two kids are putting together a used book store/ lending library. It’s mostly for the children who still attend the elementary school down the street.” I pointed to the side street a block up from the house.
“Don’t you have a county library?” Joan asked skeptically.
“How charming.” Carrie responded immediately.
“We do, it was moved across the freeway to the modern part of town, which was great, wonderful, but the kids can’t get there safely by foot, so Scott and Sarah decided to provide books for elementary students here at the old library.”
We marched up the short way to the historic building. Both Scott and Sarah were in attendance and as I knew they would, Joan and Carrie were enchanted by the building. Scott and Sarah recognized and greeted Carrie; Carrie had helped S
arah with her grandparents last spring. She and Scott chatted while Joan and Sarah fell deep into conversation. I was left out of both conversations, but I didn’t mind. I listened with half my attention, there was something nagging at me, something I had observed but couldn’t recall now that I needed to dredge it up. Something about Melissa staying at my Grandmother’s house? Did I initial every page on the sales form so my own escrow would go smoothly? Was Patricia even up to the task of running another escrow? She was distracted, and disturbingly vague, off her game. I wandered off to the floor to ceiling bookshelves to see if there were any books I hadn’t read.
“I’m thinking of writing a book for children.” Sarah said it loudly, with more than a little hubris.
“That’s harder than it looks,” Joan cautioned.
My phone buzzed. A text from Marcia, Marcia, Marcia: the grout in the master bath looks like it needs replacing.
“Does not.” I texted back.
“It must be, that’s why I thought of it.” Sarah’s voice was eager and terribly sincere because Sarah was essentially terribly eager and extremely sincere. “You have no idea! The kids bring in these books to trade, books their parents bought at Safeway or Grocery Outlet, and they are horrible! Bad plots, bad characters and poorly written. One series features vegetables quoting scripture, I mean, honestly a monkey could write better books than some of the books we have piled in the back.” Sarah chattered on about children, style, syntax. I tried to see her through Joan’s eyes - a blue eyed, naturally flaxen hair dreamer, who had never once stepped out of the boundaries of her hometown. And I may add, had only a high school diploma to her name. Joan must hear this kind of thing all the time. To her credit she did not immediately roll her eyes at Sarah’s ideas, although I was considering doing so.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out Page 18