Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 05 - A 380 Degree View

by Catharine Bramkamp

  “What do you plan to do with the place?” She finally asked. Not an idle question. The editor of the paper had called yesterday and asked the same question.

  “I don’t quite know yet,” Scott admitted. The front door finally gave. A burst of cold air, colder than the outdoor temperature, smacked him in the face. Okay, not very cozy. But maybe he could find another place to live, some place that was cozy. He gazed up at the building facade and made his decision. It was the second most adult decision he had made in his life.

  “Do you know someone who could help me find a house?”

  Her face brightened either from a desire to perform honest help or from calculation, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t read people very well, not like his father could.

  “I do. Allison Little is up visiting her grandmother. I just saw her last night. You saw her too. She was sitting with a bunch of guys. She can help you.”

  He had to admit he hadn’t really focused on anyone else but the girl playing Dorothy.

  “But if she’s visiting.”

  “Allison is like a local, and she’ll know where to place you. Here.” Summer pulled out her phone and found the number. He entered the number into his phone.

  “How early does this Allison start her day?” He asked. The prefix was from the Bay Area.

  “Santa Claus.” Summer turned away to head back down to Main Street.

  “What?”

  “Lucky Masters looks like Santa Claus.”

  Sarah Miller was restless. She felt that her Friday night performance wasn’t her best. Those high notes were killing her. She knew she’d hear about it Monday, either in line at Safeway, or at the Brotherhood meeting, or from a casual comment dropped by Melissa who worked full time for Hospice and called every day to see if she could help now, how about now? How about this afternoon?

  No, Sara said every day. Melissa could not help, she did not need to stop by. Hospice was not needed. Her grandparents were just fine.

  Sarah was determined to do better tonight.

  Chapter Four

  Where was Ben Stone? He had performed well over the last month, he held my hand, whispered he loved me, reiterated that we needed to find a house to move in together. He sent flowers, and then more flowers. He was doing as much as he could because I was the one who kept him at arm’s length. I’m the one who is not coping.

  “You’re still grieving.” Carrie observed the next morning.

  “Am not. It’s no big deal, right? Happens all the time, right?”

  Prue finished her first cup of coffee. “I lost one early, but got pregnant the next month, with your uncle.” Prue had a bad night, I heard her rise more than once and knock around her bedroom as though she wanted to make as much noise as she could. So we all knew she had been up and uncomfortable, thank you for sharing.

  Carrie, on the other hand, looked rested and pretty.

  She patted Prue’s hand and poured her another cup of coffee.

  Prue took a sip and set the mug carefully on the bare table. “Sorry, that’s not a solution for you, is it?”

  “Can you be totally numb?” I ventured. I sipped my coffee - good, I could feel the heat, taste the coffee. I wasn’t quite dead and numb to the world.

  “Did you call Patrick?” I asked Carrie.

  “Did you call Ben?” Carrie asked me.

  Touché. “Okay, I’ll go first.” I slowly dragged my phone towards me and lifted it as if it weighed nineteen pounds.

  He answered immediately. My heart fluttered and my stomach dropped. Which indicates that I still cared very much for this man. The thrill was there, obvious and happy. I’m using all the wrong words. Perhaps I’ve never really been in love? I don’t seem to access the vocabulary that women who are in love seem to find so easily and declare so loudly. So I went for the simple.

  “I was thinking of you.” I said.

  “Ran away to your grandmother’s again didn’t you?” He guessed immediately.

  “Maybe.”

  I looked around the kitchen. Prue was up again. She and Carrie stood together at the far counter and loaded the automatic drip machine. Brick was outside wielding a broom against the wet leaves on the path between the garage and the house. It was about time. Raul wasn’t working at all; he was filming the kitchen scene for his blog and You Tube postings.

  “Prue needs me.” I did not say she needed help in general. Her imagined helpers would take offense and I still needed that walkway cleared off. I kept it personal.

  “I understand.”

  “If you’re not doing anything,” I paused. “Come up and join us.”

  “Really? You’re ready for that?”

  “Oh sure, why not?” I kept my voice light and breezy. It happens all the time; it was probably a blessing.

  “I’ll take that in spirit rather than tone. Okay, I will come up and you’ll have to talk to me and explain why one of the best Realtors in the county can’t find us a decent house to share.”

  I had that coming. “I’ve been distracted,” I offered as my only defense.

  “I know,” his tone softened. “I haven’t forgotten. I’ll be up by afternoon.”

  “Drive safe.”

  My phone beeped. “Gotta go.” I hung up before he could say goodbye, but he knew what I meant.

  “ Is Ben coming up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, I have a leak in the upstairs bath.” Prue said with some satisfaction.

  I readily agreed to meet Mr. Scott Lewis at the library, my favorite building in Claim Jump. I’ll accept any excuse to visit my favorite childhood vacation spot. And now, with the possibility of Lucky getting his hands on it, it became that much more precious.

  The library wasn’t tall or imposing, not like the Methodist church that dominated Main Street and possessed all the charm and character that made it the most photographed building in town. The library sits a block uphill from the church, at the crest of the Main Street hill, which aids its imposing features, since it’s edifice is not as high as the church steeple.

  I think the library building lends the town a bit of gravitas. The miners and owners in this town were surprisingly literate, establishing reading rooms long before the actual library was built in 1907. I appreciated how the library carried the weight of secular intellectualism to counter the soaring wood steeple of the church. The old theater was down one more block from the church. So we have it all: art, religion and science on a single street. Science and intellect teeters at the top of the hill, which always pleased me.

  “So you’re Allison Little.” Scott Lewis was a slight man, handsome in an immature way, his features not really formed, which seemed odd for someone in his thirties. Then again, maybe he hadn’t had much life thrust upon him. I made my way up the familiar steps of the library. I felt a bit of nostalgic twinge with each step. What would Lucky do? Would he really tear down the place in favor of condos?

  “Hello.” I took his hand; his grip was strong. Good, not a wimpy man. If I’m lucky, a buyer who knows what he wants. Wait until Inez hears about this, I’ll be the golden girl again in no time.

  “If you get the bid here, will you turn it into a bed and breakfast?” I asked casually. He could name each small room after a famous author, or local author, it’s been done before, but tourists always love it.

  “Turn myself into an innkeeper? No I don’t have the personality or the patience. We once stayed in a bed and breakfast, here as a matter of fact, but dad couldn’t stand it, he said he didn’t want to make friends at 9:00 in the morning, and we moved over to the Northern Queen.”

  “Where are you staying now?”

  “The Northern Queen, of course.”

  “Is your dad with you?”

  A raw, pained expression clouded his features. I backed off and changed the subject.

  “If you don’t know if you’ll get bid, why a house?”

  He sighed, taking in the brightly colored quilts hanging over half-filled shelves, the special section
reserved for Cornish genealogy. Tall wood columns carved in the Corinthian style still held up the ceiling. I glanced up at the same time he did.

  “You’re a local? You can help me?” He asked instead.

  “I’m enough of a local.” I straightened my shoulders.

  “Your grandmother is a member of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men, isn’t she?”

  “Yes she is.” I didn’t comment on what I thought about the members of the purported brotherhood. The ladies, it turned out, were too embroiled in the sale of the building, meeting, protesting among themselves, composing letters to the editor, meeting again, to pay much attention to my grandmother’s needs. I was not impressed at all.

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  I nodded. “What are you interested in?”

  Scott and I agreed to meet in a few hours to view houses. I was impressed with his focus and drive. It was refreshing. I had a number of things to do before taking Scott out to view homes this afternoon. The first was to check in at Prue’s. I walked into Carrie describing her complex wedding arrangements; Prue was a new and rapt audience.

  “We have an A list, a B list, a C list and a D list.”

  “Who’s on the D list?” Prue dutifully asked.

  “Everyone else.” Carrie rubbed her eyes. For a woman whose dream just came true, she was ill at ease. Her gigantic diamond engagement ring sparkled even in the dim March sunlight.

  “Who is on the A list?” Prue asked. She patted the table to indicate I should sit down.

  “Three hundred people.” Carrie’s voice was close to despair as if she was creating the guest list for a memorial service instead of a wedding.

  “You only invited one hundred guests to the engagement party.” I pointed out. I know; I was there. I didn’t sit, I moved over to the coffee to see if there was any left.

  I wondered if that put me in the A Plus list, but she didn’t look like she’d appreciate a joke or light tone. Who knew getting married was so damn serious?

  “That’s as many as the French Laundry could hold,” she pointed out.

  “Ah, of course.”

  “Did your family make the A list?” I asked tentatively.

  “They would be on the F list if I had my way.” She rubbed her face vigorously; I held my breath, waiting for layers of make-up to be inevitably smeared off. But not even a dramatic gesture such as that would mar her lovely, natural, skin.

  Carrie has been my best friend for many years. She proved her worth and earned my undying devotion when she stepped in during one of my own complete personal and public disasters. She barely knew me, but knew enough to whisk me off to my grandmother’s to save me from suicide, or at least a long string of ill-advised choices. I couldn’t get in as much trouble in Claim Jump as I could in Marin and she knew it. At maybe 100 pounds, Carrie is stronger than she looks. I just hoped her fiancé appreciated it.

  He probably did.

  “Patrick says he wants to meet my family.” She finally blurted out.

  ”Before you’re married?” I poured out the last of the coffee and moved to the opposite end of the table.

  “The wedding is in September, he wants to meet them like, this spring, or something,” she trailed off.

  “It’s already spring, it’s March, I think that counts as spring,” I flipped open my laptop. As Carrie continued to speak to both Prue and me, I began searching around for listings. I had already called Inez to arrange to pick up a lock box key from the New Century office here, on Main Street. Inez was mildly pleased I had a new client. I had hoped for more enthusiasm.

  Carrie had two months left of spring to produce parents. Patrick was often quite precise.

  “And the C list?” Prue prompted.

  “Those are just the media and hangers on, all the worker at the plant.” Cooper Milk, an odd fore-shortened name for the original idea of a milk co-op, continued to play to the audience in this case, the community. The marriage of their current CEO, and third generation Sullivan to run the place, would be shared. Thus the outdoor wedding, the winery location, the volume of guests.

  “Wait, you’re getting married during Crush?” I lifted my head like a prairie dog.

  “Right before, we want to get married in the fall, it’s so beautiful. We just don’t know where yet, you’d think Patrick would be able to easily secure some place beautiful like Gloria Ferrer or that Castle D’ambrosia something in Napa.”

  “Please don’t marry in Napa.” I begged.

  She grinned. “Got you.”

  I smiled back but concentrated on the shared MLS system. It was quirky, but usable. I found five houses in the 700 range and printed them from Prue’s color printer.

  Carrie regarded my grandmother. “I could use you. You could be my grandmother; I can walk myself down the aisle. We could explain that the rest of my family perished in a fiery car accident, the bodies burned beyond recognition, something like that.”

  “Happens all the time, it was really for the best,” I muttered.

  “Didn’t you already admit you had family?” Prue’s tone effectively categorized Carrie’s family in the same classification as, say herpes. She wasn’t that far off.

  “Yes, he does know I have a family, but the accident could be recent - today.” Her expression brightened. “They could have a terrible accident today and the bodies burned beyond recognition. A closed casket service, of course, no, just the memorial service. I could say they requested closed casket in their will!”

  She was quite cheered by the scenario.

  This may sound harsh; we all love our parents, especially if they live in another state. Carrie grew up on the other side of the tracks of Rivers Bend. If the Ridge existed in Sonoma County, that’s where her parents would live, that’s where all refugees from responsibility and legal drugs hide. Carrie only let her background slip once. From what I can guess, both from allusions and late night conversations including one when she let it rip that if I thought my situation was stressful, try abuse, try a mother who turned her back. She begged me never to mention that slip up again, and I haven’t. Carrie left home too young, but sometimes a girl needs to escape and save herself. And good friends do not insist that you relive the worst parts of your life.

  It’s part of our pirate code.

  I picked up the Supra key from the New Century Office on my way to the Library to pick up Scott.

  The New Century office in Claim Jump was located on Main Street and had a perfect view of Hank’s Roadhouse. Three desks were illuminated by the watery afternoon sunlight but not one was occupied. A woman perched at the front desk as if her presence there was temporary. She greeted me as I entered.

  “Hi, you must be Allison, your office just called, your manager was pretty enthusiastic.”

  “I’m sure she was. Thank you for loaning me a key.” I rummaged around my purse for my wallet and ID.

  This local New Century agent was tall, taller than me, and was dressed in formal Claim Jump business attire: jeans and matching jean jacket with New Century embroidered over the left pocket.

  “No problem, we’ve lost enough agents during the downturn so we had a few keys just floating around.” She pulled out a manual key, a chunky piece of equipment the size of an ancient cell phone and handed it to me. The four-digit code allowing me to enter any house in Nevada County was written in ink on masking tape and stuck to the back.

  “Do you need a deposit? Want me to sign anything?” I flipped open my wallet to my ID and dug out my DRE card. I glanced around for a form to fill out; I was prepared to write a check for the privilege of the loan.

  “Oh no, just return it before you go back to the Bay Area. I know your grandmother.”

  “Well, thanks!”

  I dropped the key into my purse and headed up to the parking lot to meet Scott. My phone (much smaller than the key) buzzed.

  “I’m running late. Dinner?”

  “Works for me, Carrie’s here.”

  “Did she call Patric
k?” Ben asked.

  I paused by my car. Scott saw me and headed down from the library doors, locking it behind him.

  “I still haven’t heard about the sale outcome,” Scott complained as he approached my car. Are people around here always slow to get back to you?”

  “Why, did Patrick call you?” I asked Ben.

  “We’ll talk, can you tell Patrick she’s here?”

  “I’m with a client, can you call, tell him she’s fine. I don’t want him freaking out.” It started to rain again; I unlocked the passenger door for Scott and hurried around to my side.

  “Sure, how are you doing?” Ben asked conversationally. It sounded on the surface as conversation, but there was far more loaded into that sentence.

  “I told you, I’m with a client.” I wrestled with the door and hopped in.

  “I’ll call him.” He understood my sitation immediately. “See you tonight.”

  “What if your bid is accepted for the library? Didn’t that require an all cash offer?”

  “Yes, that’s why they agreed to let me make a bid.” Scott confirmed.

  “And you have more?” I meant money; cash would be lovely, even in a foreclosure, cash can move the process along quite quickly. I love cash, but I hardly ever work with it.

  “Yes.” He shook himself like a large goofy Labrador and rained inside the car, leaving me feeling damp and a bit cranky. “ I do have more. Do you think I could turn it into a bar?”

  “No.”

  “What do you know about Sarah Miller?” He quickly changed the subject.

  “She doesn’t sing very well.” One of the few verifiable facts I knew about Sarah.

  “No kidding. Uh, don’t tell her I said that out loud.”

  “Your secret is safe.” I drove to the first house, only a few blocks from the library.

  I did know something about Sarah, all courtesy of Prue, who heard it through Suzanne Chatterhill, who heard it through various members of the Brotherhood. Sarah Miller was like a ward of the town. Many of the Brotherhood members doted on Sarah and found it shocking that her grandparents were so narrow minded and had inflicted their world view on the girl. Never mind that many in Claim Jump were perfectly aligned with the far right of the world. Narrow minded was categorized differently depending on the situation and the person doing the categorization.