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

by Catharine Bramkamp

  She did the same with her grandfather, no breath, no sound.

  The stove clicked as the metal warmed up again.

  “It’s too late.” Sarah said out loud.

  She moved towards the phone, but the hand-held was dead. No charge on the set.

  Sarah did not own a cell phone. There was little point. Her grandparents always knew exactly where she was and what she was doing. The gossip in town was more effective than a GPS chip. Sarah pulled her robe closer around her throat. There was nothing she could do at this hour in the morning.

  She slowly climbed the stairs back to her own bed, now cold.

  Sarah woke to the snow. She allowed a sigh to escape as she regarded the empty street, decorated with wet, April snowfall. Did she want it to all change? It would change, she knew. A flood of activity was banked up, ready for her to say the word and the dam would burst and activities and expectations would engulf her and carry her into her new future. She wished she had some idea what she would do when she hit land.

  She glanced at the clock, still black. She was unable to remember what was scattered around her small apartment: a tiny kitchen she did not use; a living room decorated with a love seat and a television for the odd nights when she didn’t drop to sleep as soon as she climbed up to her rooms. A phone, that’s what she was thinking of, a phone. She rose stiffly and dragged the heavy, slippery quilt from her bed. She wrapped it around her shoulders; it trailed behind her like a colorful train.

  She picked up the handset of the avocado green princess phone sturdily connected to the wall. She dialed in the first memorized number that came to mind.

  Scott watched the snow fall from the library windows, it was early morning again. He was quite the morning person now. The light was a gentle white color a bright wash over all the empty shelves and old flooring in the former children’s area.

  He flipped on the lights but the white light didn’t change. He flipped the switch back and forth like a meditation. Ah, the power outage ploy. He had only visited Claim Jump in the summer months so he never experienced this kind of weather, but he had heard the stories from his dad.

  Scott turned and trooped back down the stairs and regarded his little car. Sporty, red, low to the ground, the car would be perfect if he was still living in LA or in Dubai. An inch of snow covered the car making it look very picturesque. He kicked the tires. As pretty as it was, it would not get up the hill to where Sarah was surely stranded with her grandparents.

  He turned up his collar and trudged carefully down the slushy sidewalk of Main Street. He’d walk to her. At least the walk wasn’t all uphill. He glanced around the stores as he walked. It was too early for even the tiny grocery store to be open. Did they open with the electricity out?

  There didn’t seem to be that much snow, not enough to cause a power failure. But the consistency was, he noticed, more slushy and heavier than the powder at Tahoe. Maybe it only takes a couple feet of this weighty snow to pull down the power lines.

  Sarah’s house was not very far. Scott turned into Grove Street. The narrow street was choked with cars and snow. The small driveway was just large enough to host an old brown Oldsmobile. The car was covered in three inches of snow.

  He glanced at his phone; it was barely seven o’clock. Were there rules about early calls? Was he crazy to think that she’d even be up? What about those grandparents? He hadn’t heard much about them. Sarah always deftly turned their conversation away from her and back to him and his travels with his dad. To Sarah, Scott’s peripatetic lifestyle was romantic, interesting and far more elevated than he deserved. It was not of his doing. Very little in his life was of his doing.

  But he was doing this.

  He banged the doorknocker.

  Sarah jerked the door open, the knocker swung and banged for one final time.

  “You came! I just called. There was no answer. Then I couldn’t remember if the phone at the library was connected to the wall or if it was a handset and if the charge had gone out. You can call out of course but what if the other phones can get it? And how would you know if someone is calling? I couldn’t even leave a message. I’m so glad you’re here.” She backed up and he stepped out of the chilly air.

  “Are you okay?” He stomped his boots on the mat, water puddled around his feet.

  Sarah looked terrible, her blond hair was matted and messed. A ripped sweatshirt that should have been be tossed in the trash years ago hung from her narrow shoulders. Under the threadbare sweatshirt, she wore a yellow tee shirt with a neckline that was stretched and thinned. Her sweatpants were stained, and she shuffled down the hall in socks three times too big. If he didn’t know better, he’d say this is what a person looks like after surviving a real tornado, class four hurricane, or an earthquake, not just a night without electricity.

  She must have noticed his expression. She deliberately ran her hand through the tangle of her hair and made a gesture towards straightening her sweatshirt.

  “I really didn’t sleep.” A long stairway rose up to the right. To the left, a narrow wall separated the entryway from the living room. Since he had viewed a number of homes in the area, he knew that originally there was no wall dividing the front door from the main living room. The whole room welcomed the guest at the front door.

  This home had been divided into apartments.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake your grandparents.” He lowered his voice. From what he gleaned from her and her nervousness when she spoke of her guardians, they weren’t the most forgiving or flexible of people. Yesterday, he delivered her back to her house just five minutes late. It was because of the increasing snow, so not her fault, but she was frantic none-the-less. He didn’t want to get her in trouble again.

  “I wanted to see if you needed help, you know, because of the electricity.” He finished awkwardly.

  She wrung her hands and stared at the closed door.

  “My grandparents died last night.” She blurted out.

  He took a step back. “Both of them? Oh my God, Sarah, I’m so sorry, what can I do?”

  That was the right thing to say. She brightened a bit.

  “Do you have your cell phone? Does it have a charge?”

  “Do you have reception?” He was learning about the foothills. He pulled out his phone and squinted at the tiny bars. He was good to go.

  “Who do I call?”

  “Suzanne Chatterhill.” She rattled off the number from memory and he dutifully punched in the numbers. He handed the phone to Sarah so she could do the negotiating. He wasn’t quite brave enough to take on Mrs. Chatterhill so early in the day.

  I woke to the sound of the ringing phone; no ring tone can replicate the sound of a real phone rattling off in an empty kitchen. Or not empty, the phone stopped on the third ring. Prue was up? I groaned and rolled over and grabbed Ben’s phone, seven fifteen. Rather early for a social call, but sometimes the calls in Claim Jump were not social.

  I struggled out of bed, leaving Ben where he was. He smiled in his sleep and rolled into my abandoned spot. Now he could rest comfortably.

  I pulled on what was handy and staggered downstairs. It was only when I reached the dim kitchen that I realized there still was no electricity.

  Shit.

  “No, no, you’re right to leave them there. The coroner can take them. Do they have insurance? Plot picked out? Ah, good.”

  Prue limped to the calendar hanging on her now silent refrigerator. “Tomorrow? Are you sure that’s not too soon? Oh, they have an opening. Of course.”

  She listened for a minute and nodded to me with a finger on her lips. “I’ll bring the deviled eggs. No trouble.”

  Prue gestured to a cabinet and I pulled out a classic two-cup espresso maker, Italian, lifesaving.

  “I told you, the gas still works.” She flipped on the stove to demonstrate. I packed in espresso, filled the base of the coffee maker with freezing cold water and prayed to the Starbucks gods to forgive me.

  “Who was
that at such an ungodly hour in the morning?”

  “Suzanne Chatterhill of course. The Millers passed away last night.”

  “Because of the cold?”

  “Because they were old.”

  “I thought they were younger than you.” I blurted out, which demonstrates why I should not operate my life before a good amount of caffeine is delivered into my system.

  Prue ignored me and gestured to the refrigerator. “Get out the dozen eggs and we’ll boil them up right now. I’m bringing eggs to the funeral service.”

  “Which is?”

  “Tomorrow. The church had an opening.”

  “Difficult to schedule funerals.” I pulled the eggs out of the dark refrigerator. “Death can be so last minute.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Whose funeral?” Ben blinked and automatically glanced at the espresso maker. I pulled it off the gas and poured three cups then refilled it so we could do it again.

  “Sarah Miller’s grandparents. Suzanne called all the right people so the girl will be taken care of. They can’t reach the daughter, the lines are iffy on the Ridge and she may not have a real phone at any rate.”

  “Most of us just use our cells.” I said, a small defense of Sarah’s mother.

  Ben emptied his mug of coffee and held it out for more.

  “Not yet.”

  I loaded the eggs into a pan with water and set that on the stove while the second round of coffee was percolating.

  I looked out the window while I waited for water to boil, I knew enough not to watch the pot. Outside about five inches of snow glittered in the growing morning light. Cars came down the street slowly, chains clanking, clanking. The outside was muffled in cotton. The whole world looks so pristine before the first shovel takes to the driveway, before the first anxious path is cleared to the car. Snow is so lovely in those first precious minutes before we have to get organized and figure out how to get to work. But in this minute, there was a soft peace all around us.

  “Do you think they made up?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Ben yawned. “About as well as we made up.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The hearse blocked the whole street. Neighbors who in the past just nodded to Sarah without saying anything more, helped direct traffic and explain to the drivers of two trapped cars that it will only be a another minute or so. The trapped drivers, neighbors as well, abandon their cars to watch, their feet getting soaked in the slushy road snow.

  Scott started out by just holding Sarah’s hand. He felt it was an important job, and he was right. As a gurney loaded with a black bag pushed through the front door, Sarah cried and sagged against him. Scott held her close, his arm around her, his other hand steadying her as best he could. It was cold, but he knew she was colder inside than outside.

  Hell of a thing. He wished he didn’t know exactly how she felt.

  The second bag was rolled out, Suzanne Chatterbox following close behind.

  “Here.” She handed Sarah a list; bullet points for emphasis, many items already check off and completed.

  “I called most of the Brotherhood. You don’t need to worry about food for the service, just come at two o’clock.”

  “They didn’t want a service or anything.” Sarah said faintly.

  “Nonsense, the service isn’t for them anyway.” Suzanne said firmly. “Do you want to call your mother or should I have Maria Johnson continue to call?”

  “That would be good.” Sarah’s voice was small and faint.

  Finally Suzanne turned her attention to Scott. “Here is your copy.” She thrust the list at him and he took his obediently. Suzanne took in the two of them, Sarah leaned against Scott who, for the first time, looked like an adult and able to handle his responsibilities.

  “Take care of her.” Suzanne instructed. “Remember, the funeral is tomorrow at two o’clock, Methodist Church.”

  “They were Baptist.” Sarah’s voice was a little stronger.

  “The Baptist minister will be there.” Suzanne checked another list. “The Methodist church is easier to get to in this weather.”

  Scott’s phone beeped. Suzanne looked at him disapprovingly and she marched off.

  “That was the Northern Queen. They have power.”

  As if in answer, the living room lights in the house flared on.

  He squeezed her hand and gently pushed her to an upright position. “Do you want to stay here?”

  She took a deep breath. There was nothing left to do but weep. She squinted at the house and considered her position. She squared her shoulders and marched back inside. She flipped off the lights avoiding the two chairs. She found her purse and her keys, slipped on her grandfather’s galoshes and walked back outside to Scott.

  “I’ll come to your place.”

  Prue took an envelope from Maria Johnson who had her cell phone glued to her ear and couldn’t stay for coffee. She just waved and moved on intent on whatever Brotherhood task she’d been assigned.

  I made up another batch of coffee for Carrie and Patrick. They emerged on cue, Patrick looking adorably disheveled and Carrie just looking adorable because that is her job.

  She still wore her ring. I could shine a flashlight through it and light up both our kitchen and the kitchen across the street. So the behemoth diamond was still with her. At least all was well in that department.

  Prue made steel cut oatmeal on the aforementioned gas stove, because everyone knows to buy a house with a gas stove in case of a power failure.

  I asked the obvious question in order to banish the elephant in the room.

  “What are you going to do about Carrie’s parents?”

  Patrick took a sip of his coffee, grimaced. Carrie pushed the carton of milk towards him and he glanced at the label, and then poured it into his cup.

  “Clearly, we can’t ignore them. So I called them yesterday and invited them to participate in the wedding, you know fully as the bride’s parents, and gave them an estimate of what their half would cost. Just the rough numbers, we haven’t firmed things up with the caterer yet.”

  “Who’s catering?”

  “Thomas Keller, he’s doing it as a favor to Dad, but I added in what he normally would charge, if you could get him to do it at all.”

  “Of course.” Thomas Keller was such a famous chef I was surprised he even had time to cook anymore.

  “What did they say when explained the price of being part of the family?”

  Carrie grinned. “Patrick was wonderful! There was this big silence, so Patrick talked about how much he respected their desire to be part of the family and be full partners in the wedding process, and of course they should be in the wedding and Patrick could help Dad buy a tux because the rentals never fit quite right.”

  “Do you think that will do it?”

  “Not at all.” Patrick drank up his doctored coffee. “So I brought up our own family tradition: if the groom’s family pays for the wedding, then the bride’s family pays for the honeymoon.”

  “You’re the first to be married in your family,” I pointed out to Patrick.

  Carrie nodded. “They don’t know that. So we began making suggestions for honeymoon destinations, like Istanbul or to the Galapagos or I suggested a cruise to Easter Island on a private yacht.

  “What did they say?”

  “Nothing. They got off the phone in a hurry.”

  “It’s not the end.”

  “We know, but we won a battle, and that’s important.”

  Once we ate, and washed up with cold water, the question was, what can be accomplished with no electricity? I could make phone calls, and intended to, but my unfortunate habit was to shower and be clean before I worked, and I felt grimy and gritty and unwashed. I was not taking a cold shower. What Prue did not mention is that even though the water heater is gas, the pilot light is electric.

  “Poor Sarah.” Prue finished rinsing the last oatmeal bowl and handed the chilly bowl to me to dry.

&nb
sp; “Will she be okay?”

  “Yes, but she is such a lost soul.”

  We stood around while Patrick called the airport. “They have electricity, I’ll need to leave.”

  We waved him away. He opted to shower at home.

  Just when I was considering which book to read, we were interrupted by another call.

  “Who?” She paused then handed the phone to me.

  “Have you seen Mattie Timmons?” It was Maria Johnson, who would run out of cell charge soon if she wasn’t more careful with her calls.

  “Why would I know where Mattie Timmons is?” I responded.

  “We saw you talking with her at the funeral, then at Penny’s open house.” Maria said, matter-of-factly. “Have you seen her lately?”

  “As in yesterday?”

  “Yes. Her babysitter called and Mattie hasn’t picked up the children. Of course the phone isn’t working. School is closed, but still, three more children is a lot more children.”

  “I’m not taking the kids.” I defended myself immediately.

  She paused. Ha! I knew it. I stood my ground. “I have to work with Sarah to figure out her house plans.” I offered, just so she knew I was contributing to the general community effort.

  “I’ll call Michelle.” Maria said after a minute or two.

  “Thanks for letting us know.” I hung up the phone. “We should visit Mattie Timmons.”

  Prue stayed home. I gave her the job of sitting by the phone in case anyone called. What an antiquated concept, sit by the phone. The power came on just as the three of us left. I felt we were abandoning Prue but she waved us away. “Just come back quickly. I want a hot shower.”

  The drive was slow. We silently regarded the white and pink dogwood, once confident of spring, now weighted down by wet snow.