Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 02 - Time Is of the Essence

by Catharine Bramkamp

  Time is of the Essence

  A condition of a contract expressing the essential nature of performance of the contact by a party in a specified period of time.

  - California Real Estate Principles Notebook, Fifth edition

  Catharine Bramkamp

  Time is of the Essence

  Catharine Bramkamp

  First edition copyright 2009 by Catharine Bramkamp

  Second edition copyright 2011 by Catharine Bramkamp

  Revised e-book copyright 2014 by Catharine Bramkamp

  Published by A Few Little Books

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, some places and incidents are products of the author’s fevered imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, local organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  It’s not about you. Get over it.

  March 2014

  Design and layout by Stacey Meinzen

  Ash drifted across the sky and settled on the grill cover and quickly laid a layer of soft grey over the surface of the deck. Two borate bombers droned closer. Out of habit I paused and watched the heavy fat planes roar overhead to drop their fire quenching loads further up the mountain. It could be too little too late. I shouldn’t even be here. For many reasons I shouldn’t be here.

  Focused on where I was stepping. The deck was now so deep in ash, my foot prints would show, but if the whole place went up, who would know? I glanced down, picking my way through the dirt, ash and rocks – not a blade of grass to be seen, let alone a decent lawn.

  That was the only reason I saw it. A distressingly unanimated hand decorated by five artfully painted nails. Just like the Wicked Witch of the East, only for this person, a deck had been dropped on her.

  Despite all the lessons learned from too many scary films, I leaned down for a closer look. The hand remained still.

  I squinted and craned my head to get a better look under the deck, trying to adjust to the contrast between the hot sun outside and the gloom under the deck. The girl’s eyes were closed, and there were dark patches on her arms. I could barely make out the dark stain that matted her hair. She was fully clothed, rumpled but seemingly intact. That was all I could wish for her. That and I hoped today was the day she wore her best underwear.

  1,

  “We love the house!” Lisa Brown chirped over the phone. “Can you believe we found it so quickly!” She paused for a breath. “Now what do we do?”

  The Browns did indeed love everything about 908 Spring Street. And it was about bloody time, I had been working with them for over a year.

  Their sense of immediacy is different from mine.

  But in a buyer’s market, that’s what you get.

  As a matter of fact, here is a conservative estimate on what I have already spent on the Browns; seven no-shows, 25 cancelled appointments, 57 postponed appointments, 108 unreturned phone calls, and when we finally did meet so I could show them a home or two, it was like dragging Goldilocks through the master bedroom of the three bears. I figured it cost me $500 in gas alone carting these two from the this-will-be-perfect-home to the you-may-find-this-acceptable. When they finally liked Spring Street (except the sidewalk in front was a little uneven) I had stopped caring.

  And so of course they liked this home. This home was, apparently, magic – with a certain indescribable, (the French, Rosemary informs me, call it Je ne sais quoi) something.

  Now I admit, that I had stopped driving them around in June. I simply sent them photos of home with features that matched what they told me they wanted. I pointed out open houses so they could take a look and make a decision on their own. I know it’s a tough market, and there was every chance that if I did not accompany my clients to each and every open home and showing, I ran the real risk of another agent sweet talking the couple and snapping them up. Any real estate agent who is that unscrupulous deserves Lisa and Timothy Brown. In fact, I’d be more than happy to pass this couple off to any of the more, er, ambitious agents in our community.

  I considered the Browns, loose on the Open House circuit, as an opportunity to cut my losses and simply sue as procuring cause and secure a referral fee. But no. The particular and fastidious couple diligently trooped from open house to open house and remained firmly tethered to me, their favorite Realtor. I am the only thing they agree on. I am the only thing they consistently like. Other agents reported back to me that Lisa, with her big blue eyes and shapely legs and Timothy, the American All Star dream, informed every agent at every open house that they, the Browns, were already represented by Allison Little at New Century Realty. Damn.

  So this house on Spring Street finally fit their list of must haves - five bedrooms three full baths, real hardwood floors and a hot tub just outside the bedroom that was actually included in the sale (well, yes, I did happen to have that in writing, especially since it was the hot tub that sold the place to the Browns. I did not want to know much more information than their explanation, “it’s close to the bedroom.”)

  I hadn’t seen the house yet. It was new on the market and hadn’t even made the Broker’s Tour for Thursday. But since I had seen everything else in River’s Bend, sometimes twice, I was very happy to write an offer for the Browns sight unseen. I made sure the date of response was clear, three days, and I faxed it to the listing brokers, Christopher and Christopher - God is our partner – from my office at New Century Realty. I normally call ahead to the listing agent and say hello and introduce myself on the off chance that the other agent hasn’t heard of me, Allison Little – A Little Goes a Long Way, but I knew from experience that neither Jill nor Peter Christopher answer their phones. So I simply faxed over all the required paper work including a check for about $3,000 or so written to their named escrow office (usually the buyer chooses the escrow office, but with Christopher and Christopher, they always insist on their own escrow officer who, I believe, is a cousin).

  I wandered down to my broker’s office to check in and check out. Now the Brown’s were their mortgage broker’s problem. I felt like celebrating, but quietly so as not to call attention to myself. I always try to look serious and trustworthy when I talk with my broker on record, Inez. I don’t think she’s fooled, but it’s a masquerade that serves us both.

  “So what are we up to?” Inez arched her perfectly tweezed eyebrows. Her bright canary yellow suit complimented her clear coco colored skin. I’d love to have skin like hers. She doesn’t age. I have no idea how old she is, she suffers no laugh lines around her enormous brown eyes, there is no gray in her black straight hair. I hate my Norwegian ancestry. One big hearty laugh and I’ve added five new lines to my eyes.

  Anyway the point is, Inez is far too elegant to be as cynical as she is, but perhaps it is more a matter of maturity. That, or she’s been working with me long enough to know the short answer is never the full answer. Because what would I be up to?

  “Well, the Ocean View property is in the final weeks of escrow – for the low, low price of 7.5 million and a complimentary cleansing.” I ticked that off on my perfectly manicured fingers.

  Inez nodded with satisfaction. The sale would be a great commission for the office. Sure it almost cost me my life, but whenever I bring that up, she claims I’m just being overly dramatic.

&nb
sp; That house originally listed for eight million but the family took the low offer without a peep. The new buyer will be able to brag about their bargain for years. Good for them. Good for me.

  “And what about the next house for Mr.?”

  “Norton? His house just closed escrow. You know that. My assistant is working with Norton to find the perfect condo for which he will pay cash, so it’s still in the family, our office, so to speak.” I ticked that off on my fingers as well.

  “When did you get an assistant?” Inez looked at me skeptically.

  I smiled mysteriously. At least I hoped it was mysterious. My assistant was really my good friend Joan. Joan is bright, clever, and has no background in real estate at all. She’s a university professor. She thinks helping me out is fun so she is usually up for whatever I need her to do, or be. I’ve used her often in the past for various jobs, like the time she waltzed into one of my open houses and announced she would buy the place at list price, no negotiating and she wanted it right now! This propelled the couple, Miriam and Charles Anderson, who had spent a total of ten hours returning to that house over and over as they debated the merits there in, to buckle down and make an offer for $1,000 over list price. Their offer was graciously accepted. So, Joan is not really an official assistant, more like a secret weapon.

  Joan in turn, derives benefits from her services in other ways. In the case of the Norton property, the client himself.

  “I’ve always had help.” I replied honestly.

  “Well, you have three houses ready to go. I suppose you can take some time off. But before you go, I have a new agent I want you to meet.”

  Inez glanced down at her gold and diamond Rolex watch. “She should be here. Come and meet her before you take off.”

  “Sure,” I responded. Actually Inez couldn’t really stop me from taking time off. Real estate agents are, in the eyes of the IRS, independent contractors, as in no one is my boss, and no one else helps pay for my medical. Plus I fork over a monthly desk fee. I often pay for my own copying. But according to the DRE, I cannot work without a broker; I must be associated with an office. Inez has to pay for my workman’s comp fees as well as Errors and Omissions, which is deducted from my commission split. But she provides the office, the sign and the branding. It’s a little bit complicated. Inez knows she can’t tell me what to do, but she loves to be asked.

  So I ask, or at least tell her what I’m up to.

  Most of the time.

  Some of the time.

  Well, today I’m telling her what I’m up to.

  “So you’re visiting your grand parents?”

  “Grandmother, my grandfather passed away twelve years ago September.”

  “That’s pretty precise.”

  “I loved him very much.” I said, and then stopped talking. I love my parents, but in the course of my life, they have become more of an abstraction – the idea of parents. My grandparents on the other hand, were solid, real, and endlessly entertaining. I do believe I love them more than my parents. When my grandfather passed away, I was devastated; I took it harder than my mother. Grandpa’s absence still hurts. I never thought that even after twelve years, my heart would still hurt. I try not to dwell on it too much.

  “I used to spend my summers up there, so I’m going to catch the last of the summer heat.”

  Inez nodded, it had been a cool, foggy summer here, she understood.

  “Well, stay in touch and be good to your grandmother.”

  “I always am.” I replied.

  We both rose and headed out of Inez’s office into the labyrinth of corridors and halls that is the New Century office. Rosemary, one of our two top agents, claims that the office resembles the labyrinth in Rhodes because she’s been there. I’d like to go to Rhodes.

  We marched into the reception area, Inez looking elegant in yellow, me looking substantial in red. Inez greeted a waif of a thing hovering by Patricia at the front desk.

  “Can you believe it?” Patricia flipped her long hair back over her stooped shoulder and squinted into her computer screen. The new girl seemed riveted to her spot. It was understandable. Patricia commands the reception desk with all the charm and diplomacy of Yosemite Sam. Never make any sudden movements.

  “And they only found a hand, leg, arm… wait, oh they found both feet.”

  “Patricia.” Inez glared at the administrative assistant.

  “Oh,” Patricia beamed up at us all hovering over her station. “Sorry,” she said happily, she clawed a strand of hair from her mouth. “I was just telling Heather about the murder down at the creek.”

  Heather, who is very pretty, looked a trifle pale. Maybe she just needed more blush. I knew a good Mary Kay consultant who could help.

  Inez scowled at Patricia but didn’t reprimand her. It would have been a waste of breath. Instead she focused on the new girl. “Ah, Heather, you are here.” Inez reached out her hand and the young lady took it and quickly released it. Or Inez released it first. I hope the girl wasn’t hurt. Inez can crumble bricks with her bare hands. I think it’s a hobby.

  “I see you met Patricia,” Inez continued smoothly.

  Heather’s baby blue eyes flicked to Patricia uneasily, but she wisely said nothing.

  “And this is Allison,” Inez said with a flourish. At least I hope I deserve a flourish.

  “Hi,” Heather pulled herself together and focused her charms like a blast of air conditioning. Heather possessed the kind of lovely looks that, unlike Inez’s handsome mien, do not last. This is the only reason any woman still believes in a god (or two). With effort, Heather batted thickly mascara covered lashes, gave her tight mini skirt a cursory tug and offered her hand.

  I took the hand. It was so flaccid that I could only give it a little shake using as much strength as it takes to tap the water from a batch of cilantro with about as much enthusiasm.

  “Heather.” Inez said. “Just got her license, she tells me she knows everything about the county, I’m sure we can learn a few things from her.”

  “I’m sure we can. Nice to meet you. If you have any problems, just give me a call.” I plucked my card from the stand on the front counter and carelessly handed it to the woman.

  “Thanks.” Heather honored me with a smile that was perfectly outlined in cranberry lip liner and meticulously filled with rosy lip color and one too many coats of gloss. I was fascinated. How did she maintain that perfect shiny set of lips and still talk? Let along drink a latte. I’m always interested in beauty secrets like that. But now was not the time.

  “It’s a great office, you’ll like it here.” I repeated the party line. Inez was standing right next to me, what else was I suppose to say? “I’d love to stay and chat more, but I have a client.”

  I love how important that off hand comments sounds. I use it so indiscriminately that I’m surprised Inez hasn’t caught on. Even if the “client” is a date at Safeway to pick up toilet paper and more white wine, I always say I’m meeting a client.

  I nodded to Heather who was now gazing at Inez with the adoration of the inexperienced and skirted past Patricia before she could add any additional editorial on the scattered body parts in the creek, or worse, tell me what she thought of Heather..

  Patricia did not look happy with the new girl. Patricia is never happy with new people; they are so difficult to train.

  Since I knew I wouldn’t be in town to monitor the inspection of the Brown’s future home, I decided to do a quick walk through before I headed up to Claim Jump. I’d call my inspector, Tony and give him my impressions, just to speed the process along. Neither of the Christophers were available so I called the owner directly and he said come on over. I glanced at my MLS print out, the Bixby. Debbie Bixby answered my knock and reluctantly let me in even thought the house was a mess and no one called ahead, I should have really called ahead. I had just called ahead, but her husband must still be at work.

  The house was in the same neighborhood with the same floor plan I had showe
d my clients, oh, three months ago, but they had rejected that house because the neighborhood wasn’t upscale enough. I squinted at the elevation of this new, desirable house. A peaked roof, upgraded double paned windows, but still built in 1955. Apparently this side of the street was upscale enough.

  “You’re the other real estate agent.” Debbie Bixby, soon to be former owner, was a petite woman who clearly relishes a tasty salad of lettuce and jicama for every meal. Any smaller, and she could fit into my purse.

  Okay, I haul around a pretty big purse.

  Debbie raised a hand like a traffic guard and halted my progress at the front entryway.

  “You need to take off your shoes,” she instructed.

  “Take off my shoes?” I glanced down at my Jimmy Choos, red pointed-toe pumps to match

  my suit, and wondered what was offensive about them. It wasn’t like I had slogged through vineyard property and then came right over here trailing dirt and grape seeds.

  “We just finished the hard wood floors and everyone has to take off their shoes,” Debbie explained. “You know heels like those,” she pointed specifically to my lovely patent leather heels, “will damage the floors.”

  She was barefoot, dressed in a casual ensemble of black hoodie jacket and tight yoga pants. The stretchy clothes looked good on her tiny body. Her toenails were painted a lurid purple.

  “I suppose it cost a great deal to re-finish these lovely floors?” I glanced around the house. From the photos on the MLS, I knew it was a regular tract home on the east side of Rivers Bend, but it had some amenities like fragile floors and a larger yard, the hot tub and it was, finally, enough for my clients.

  I made a note on my inspection sheet - floors perfect, don’t touch.

  Why do people spend money on useless home improvements? Like floors you cannot walk on?

  “Is there anything else?” I slipped off my shoes and held them by the toes ready to drop them into my purse.