“That is a first.” He leaned back, elbows braced in the sand.
The river roared in my ears, I had no where to go and no place to hide. No one to call, my phone was in the car. I was on my own.
“The last time I loved someone, I was horribly wrong. I’m not very confident of my judgment.”
“Fair enough. Me too.”
“You too what?”
“It went horribly wrong for me once.”
“Are you going to tell me about it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to spend any more time or energy on her. But thanks for the offer.”
“So, is that an answer?”
He gazed and the water. The river current dashed over hundreds of small smooth stones, the water glittered in the sun and tempted me to come out and play.
“Tell me about your grandparents, that was a good relationship I gather?”
“Charles, my grandfather, attended Stanford with Pat. He and Prue got pregnant with my mother and she dropped out, Prue, not my mother. Prue was just a freshman and in those days, you did not solider on. So my grandmother schooled herself, which is why she’s such a fierce protector of the library I suppose, she always made sure I had enough books in my life.”
“And you loved that,” he concluded.
“I love reading,” I said.
He nodded and dismissed my statement. Clearly he did not really understand what getting involved with a voracious reader means: the lonely nights with the partner up holding the tiny book light with one hand and a huge hard back biography in the other because those tiny book lights are silly if you read fast enough; lonely Saturday afternoons when your loved one adds to your trouble and loneness by claiming, “just a minute, I’m almost done with the book.” The term almost done applies to any number of pages just past the middle of the book. The lover of a bibliophile is also doomed to distracted answers from the breakfast table while the partner in question devours everything in the paper – we read the inside of the front page. We read everything. We read cereal boxes.
I didn’t enlighten him further. “Anyway, she schooled herself. And she paid for my college education when my mother announced that she didn’t see the point of educating a girl.”
“That seems a little retro.”
“It is.” I agreed. “But you see my mother got pregnant when she was eighteen too, so I think she resented me for avoiding the Singleton woman curse.”
“The Singleton woman curse? That’s the second time you mentioned that.”
“We all get pregnant at eighteen.” I closed my eyes and leaned back to take in more sunshine.
“And you?” He asked. That was what Carrie was saying, the older you are, the more baggage you cart into the relationship. At least mine was a matched set.
“I avoided the curse. No children. No pregnancies.”
“Well good for you.” He said encouragingly.
“Yeah, well. Anyway, Pat discovered this town and brought up Grandpa and Prue. Grandpa, who did have a business degree, also had a little bit of cash, so he started buying up buildings and land around here.”
“What was up here in the fifties?”
“The Depression. Grandma and Grandpa moved here the day the last mine shut down.”
“What ever happened to the mines?”
“Filled with water, it cost more to pump the mines clear than the gold is worth.”
“You know, meeting your grandmother is like meeting the myth.”
“Yes, what was that all about?”
“Everyone knows about your grandparents and their house. The pot, sure, but it was always more than that. The best and the brightest were invited to Claim Jump, and if you were really lucky you could tag along and experience the Singleton home. I just never put you and the house in Claim Jump together.”
“Few do. That’s my mother’s doing, she doesn’t allow us to mention it. She leveraged her pregnancy into marriage and never looked back.”
“Yet, you’re here.”
“Haven’t been in a long time. My mistake.” I sat up and took in the river, the sunlight, felt the soft breeze that kept the temperature at a perfect 85 degrees. “I do love it up here.”
He gazed at me for longer than was comfortable. “I don’t blame you.”
7,
Grandma and I lounged on the cool patio while Ben showered.
“You know.” She closed her eyes and rested her head on the back of her chair. “We had a great run of people in the seventies, that’s when your grandpa and I were the most active in the community. It was so fun back then. People were interested in helping each other succeed, they wanted to create something of value. Now it’s not about improving anything at all. It’s about holding your position. Staying on the council. Or making money. Pander to whomever bitches the loudest.”
“The ADA of government.”
“What?”
“Your grandson is ADA.” I explained, “I heard all about it during Thanksgiving dinner.” I paused long enough for her to apologize for not attending that dinner, again. But she didn’t take the bait.
She nodded. “I read about ADA, kids can’t pay attention to any one thing for very long. Makes it hard to stick to goals doesn’t it?”
“Yes it does. Why don’t you come down for Thanksgiving this year and hear all about it in person?”
“Thanks, no, I’ll just learn about it third hand and about seven years later,” Grandma replied.
“So who’s on the council now?” I asked, moving away from family, since, for Prue, politics is a safer conversation.
“Don’t really know. I sort of checked out after your grandfather died. You know, those council meetings are deadly, especially during the public comment part. People focus on such meaningless things!”
“I know. But don’t you want to say something about this new development of Lucky’s?”
“Won’t do any good. The planning commission has approved it, and I assume reviewed it thoroughly. And from what Mike tells me, the council just approved the planning commission report and there was no public comment at all.”
“Closed session?”
“No, they can’t do that. But there was a special meeting that wasn’t posted until the last minute, something like that. Anyway, it probably doesn’t matter.” She slowly rubbed her hand across her forehead and sipped her martini.
“It does matter.” I insisted stubbornly. Her body language alarmed me. She wasn’t supposed to be old, that wasn’t allowed because the next step was incomprehensible. “We can fight this. Come on Prue, you’re the queen of Claim Jump, remember?”
She smiled at that sobriquet. She probably hadn’t heard it in a long time, I hadn’t said it out loud in a long time. Mom used it discursively, the Queen of Claim Jump. Pat and Mike leapt on the name and for a few years staged a beauty and talent pageant with the same name. That project didn’t last, but the memory of it does. Every once in a while some group creates a Fourth of July float highlighting the Queen of Claim Jump, funny, but no one knows the origins of the name. I do. Grandma would always be queen, in a good way, to me.
“Honey, I’m too old to get involved. Did you know the voters here actually voted against increasing the funds for the fire department? The opponents claimed that that since the county people didn’t want to be part of the city, they could make do without the extra help. They said that.”
“But we had help the other night.”
“We always managed to cobble together something. But it never seems to be on purpose.”
My phone buzzed for the very first time that afternoon. How nice. I got up and moved away from Grandma, just to be polite.
“Okay,” Carrie launched into her current dilemma. “So I’ve joined the gym and Patrick hired a personal trainer for me. His name is James.”
“James. Why do you have a personal trainer?” Carrie was one of those lucky – and young – women who always looked marvelous with little to no effort. I could not for the life
of me imagine why Patrick thought she needed a personal trainer, let along a gym membership. There are just so many other ways to spend one’s time.
“Yes,” Carrie said earnestly. “I want to get healthier, more flexible, you know, that kind of thing.”
“You want to take the next guy who knocks you over the head and kick his ass. “ I pointed out. Frankly, I did too.
“Maybe,” she brushed off my reference. “Patrick hired this personal trainer and he thought it would be fun for both of us to workout together.”
I may be crappy at relationships, but devoting unending afternoons with a loved one, sweating, commenting on how many weights you should lift, your technique, and why you should be working harder, sounded like a disaster. I imagine that after one too many suggestions, the woman musters up enough energy to throw the weight in question at the helpful partner in question and the work out session finishes up in the emergency room. Or someone loses in eye.
“So how’s it going?”
“James and everyone else is very helpful with my technique,” she immediately admitted.
Thought so.
“I wasn’t feeling very good about myself. I can’t lift all that much. Patrick is encouraging of course, but the rest of the people at the gym kept looking at me and rolling their eyes.” She paused. “So I bought a new outfit. Did you know you can buy push up sports bras? I got them on sale at Victoria Secret.”
“No more eye rolling?” I surmised.
“Not even from the trainer.” She gloated.
Sometimes I forget that Carrie can take care of herself. I thought about my own news. The Ben Stone admission was something to share with a best friend, but I didn’t. The words just wouldn’t come out. I just congratulated her on her success and that was that.
The air was hot, even in the shade. I returned to Grandma and the relative cool of the patio.
“I had coffee with Tiffany last night.” I didn’t really know where I was going with that lead, but it beat discussing Ben.
“Tiffany. Named after a lamp.” Grandma kept her eyes closed, she seemed smaller, as if she was deflating into her chair.
“Did you ever meet Gretchen and Gary?” She continued. “They use to stay with me in the seventies and eighties. Gretchen was a painter and stained glass designer, quite gifted. She did that piece with the mother and child.”
I mentally searched the rooms in the house. “The one in the blue bedroom?”
“Yes.”
That piece always stuck me as a little strange. Although I had recently encountered art that was violent and odd, the stain glass piece was a mild, sort of filmy romantic oddity. The subject was a mother bathing her little girl. When I first encountered the picture I thought, yeah, that’s nice, as if my mother ever bathed me by hand. Then later, when I knew a little more, it resembled a Berthe Morisot painting. But I never liked it. It just looked a little, what? Icky. The mother in the glass seemed to smother the child, her arms were too long and wrapped around the child’s body like a Red Tail Boa. The glass is still there in the blue bedroom because the blues in the painting match the bedspread. That’s where I get my concept about art – it does not matter what the subject is, as long as the painting matches the furniture.
“Anyway,” Grandma continued, “Gretchen was an artist and Gary was a gifted gardener, he also helped the boys around the greenhouse and in the garden. They stayed with me, what, a year or two, on and off. They were suppose to be in school but I don’t think either one ever graduated. Gary did drive to the City with Gretchen’s art and always come back with money. Sometimes they paid rent with cash.”
She wasn’t pausing for my insightful editorial comments, so I let her talk.
“They left here in the early eighties, you know we were still doing the hippie thing in the eighties.”
“I know.” At least I knew a little, Mom knew a lot. Don’t ever say groovy to my mother, not even ironically.
“So they moved up to the Ridge. But they came to visit us every month or so.”
“Why the Ridge?”
Grandma shrugged, but I could tell – she knew why, because she rolled her eyes a bit. Grandma had some lovely times in this house, but I was always worried, as I got older, of her getting ripped off by her former less than affluent guests, or even her former affluent guests.
“So they moved to the Ridge in the 80s and continued with their art?” I prodded her along, was there a point to this story? I listened for the shower, but the pipes were quiet. Ben would be joining us soon.
“Oh yes, for a while Gretchen had somewhat of a reputation. I even gave them back one of their glass pieces so they could sell it in San Francisco. They made enough from that sale to live for a couple of years.”
I closed my eyes. “Grandma.”
“Now don’t you go sounding like your mother.” Grandma waved a finger at me. But she only says that because it bugs the hell out of me.
“I don’t mind helping people, it’s what I do. It’s the right thing to do. You know that.”
I did know that, I learned it from her. My mother’s reaction on the other hand was to be far more protective and play her emotions and friendship much closer to the vest. My mother does not think it’s just swell to pick up people at the bus stop and bring them home for dinner.
You entertained at the Club. Everyone knows that.
“So grandma, what is the point of this conversation?”
“Tiffany is their daughter.”
“Ah, that explains the blighted childhood.”
“I wouldn’t have called it all that blighted,” Grandma frowned. “But most people don’t think their childhoods measure up to the fantasy.”
“Like Eloise.”
“Exactly.”
“I love Eloise, you mean the Eloise who is six and lives at the Plaza?” Ben sauntered across the patio.
I leaned my head back and watched Ben approach. “I cannot believe you even have a passing interest in Eloise.” I said. He looked wonderful, all tidy and squeaky clean.
“Bought it for my niece. I consider it a training manual for all young girls.” He smiled and offered me a glass of wine and handed another to Prue.
“Your brother must hate you.” Prue said with satisfaction.
“Yup.”
My phone buzzed. Well, damn.
I did not recognize the number on my screen. Oh, the excitement of the unknown. I learned to recognize what’s her name, Heather, cell phone number, so I was prepared. But this was a different number. Had she borrowed some one else’s phone so I’d take the call?
I responded cautiously.
“Yes?”
“Ms. Little?”
Ms. Little? Crap, it was serious.
“Yes,” I confirmed. If they were police or IRS, it was pointless to lie: they would get me one way or another. My name was up on some computer screen already, asking my name was just a courtesy on his part.
“This is inspector Graves, do you have a minute?”
A minute. I took a breath and walked away from the chaise. Ben took a drink of my wine and began to chat with Prue. She perked up and sat forward, as if Ben had magnetic qualities.
He did.
“Do you remember Mrs. Debbie Bixby?” The officer asked.
“Yes, I have clients buying her house.” And she displayed abhorrent taste in decorating. But I don’t think that was of interest to Inspector Graves. I had the inspection scheduled for tomorrow. It should be all fine.
“Why?” I finally asked out loud.
“No one has seen her in a couple of days and her husband just filed a missing person report, although we can’t get hold of him now either. When you saw her, do you remember anything - unusual?”
“Besides the decorating?” I blurted out.
“Besides that Ms. Little.” He intoned. No sense of humor.
“No, I came to the house, ran through the walk-through and left. How are her floors?”
“Floors?”
&nb
sp; “She had just refinished them. They should be perfect and pristine.”
He paused for longer than was necessary for such an inane comment.
“Perfect floors?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, we’ll be in touch.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me to stay in town?”
“Ms. Little we already know you’re not in town.” he pointed out patiently.
I clicked off. Before Mr. Bixby disappeared, he had signed the escrow papers. I was good. The Browns, depending on the inspector’s findings, should be good. I hope they don’t find any cracks in the driveway. They are obsessed with perfection. I was worried about that pause when I mentioned the floors. Should Tony double check tomorrow during the inspection?
“So,” Ben asked when I returned. “What do you want to do?”
The phone inside rang.
“Oh for heaven’s sake.” I said out loud. I dashed into the kitchen to answer it, because most likely, it was for me.
“Meet me downtown.” It was Danny. Again.
“I have a date tonight.” I kept my voice low. It was one thing to have a date with Matthew; that was before Ben arrived. But to run off and meet Danny? After Ben admitted to love?
“I have something to tell you.” his tone was a low as mine but more urgent.
“Why me Danny? What can I do?” Was this the same urgent thing he had to tell me that lured to me that horrible party?
“You’re not from here, but you understand the players. Just in case something, happens…” he trailed off.
“Oh for God’s sake. Okay, I’ll meet you for fifteen minutes on my way to a more romantic dinner. And I’m bringing Ben.” It was brutal, but I had to say it.
“Okay,” he acquiesced pretty quickly. “Fifteen minutes, meet me a Ravenous.”
I explained my dilemma to Ben. Not well, or elegantly, but Prue came to my rescue. “It’s okay Ben, if Danny does know something, there are not many people in town he can trust.”
Ben eyed me suspiciously. I smiled and tried to look far more innocent that I was, and more informed. I had no idea what Danny was talking about. But really, I hoped he would explain. Then I could be finished with Danny and Matthew and even Claim Jump.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 02 - Time Is of the Essence Page 17