“Well, okay but you know Allison, you should be doing your own work.”
“I am doing my own work, I have to,” I searched for a reason why Ben could not get doors by himself. He was shifting in front of me from one foot to the other. His movements were making me dizzy.
“Just until your club meets.” I cajoled her. I made a rude gesture at Stone, and he stopped moving. “Think of it as a favor for Mortimer.”
“Well, all right, it is for Mortimer’s house.”
“Yes it is.” I hung up.
She made it down in record time. And I didn’t ask how. Dad always drives when they’re together in a same car, but when mom’s alone, well, I know her car does 160 miles/per hour, my brothers know her car does 160 miles per hour, and I suspect mom has tried it enough times that she too, knows.
Ben was already in the truck when mom pulled up squealing the tires dramatically.
She climbed out, dressed in her casual bridge ensemble – suit, pantyhose and closed toed shoes. I admired her very much, but I was still a bit out of it, and just wanted her in a safe, or an already burgled spot.
“Thank you mom, see, I couldn’t just leave the house open.”
“What do I say when people come by?” She wrinkled her nose in the direction of the open door.
“Just make something up.” I told her. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Okay but hurry up, I’m going to bridge from here.” She paused in the empty doorway. “Who is in the truck?”
“The contractor. He wanted nail plywood over the entrance.”
“You can’t do that.” Mom said gravely. “Get more Gilberto doors, they go with the house.”
Considering the house was faux Tudor with a turret on the south side to defend against possible Goth invasions, or perhaps affordable housing proponents, I didn’t think there was much a person could do to enhance the façade, but then there wasn’t much you could do to ruin it either.
I waved to mom reassuringly and climbed into Ben’s truck.
The cab is just high enough force a girl to awkwardly scramble onto the seat. Scrambling, leg waving, hoisting, all impossible in a skirt but a bit easier in silk slacks. I was fortuitously dressed in the perfect ensemble for the recently assaulted.
Doors and More is located in a small warehouse in south San Rafael, an architecturally abandoned district of mostly warehouses and increasingly, box stores that anchor strip centers filled with smaller box stores. I knew from experience that during the course of this recent build-up, many locals, some with jobs, most without, stormed every single city council meeting and spent hours decrying the intrusion of box stores into whatever neighborhood they have decided is filled with charm and uniqueness. Yet, as soon as something like Lowe’s opens, the first people to belly up to the patio furniture display are those very same bleeding hearts. Why? Because box stores stock the necessities in life rather than the cute things in life. A person can only own so many candles, shells and yarn before a person is forced to shop at the Container Store for matching plastic boxes in which to store the yarn, and the shells, and the scented candles, and tiny pieces of fair trade imports.
I am not making this up. Go to your local city council meeting and bring up the word Starbucks and watch what happens. I do it every chance I get. Especially if those sitting on the council happened to be the very candidates I voted against.
“On our way back can we stop at a Starbucks?” I asked.
“Sure,” he glanced at me.
“Medicinal.” A Venti mocha frappuccino with a shot of vanilla would really hit the spot right now.
He turned into Doors and More, a freestanding warehouse- like establishment with contractor hours to match. Not open. Closed on Sundays.
Who is closed on Sunday?
“Now what do we do?”
“Home Depot,” he said, although he didn’t sound happy about it.
That store anchored similarly minded establishments including my Starbucks. So in the end we all got what we wanted.
The doors weren’t something to write up in the MLS but they would serve. Ben also purchased a deadbolt and of course, a door handle. I almost forgot about that little detail. But I did need something on which to hang my lock box. My new lock box. It was stolen along with the doors. I’d have to supply another, and those things are expensive. Damn and double damn. I used my credit card to pay for the door ensemble thinking the money would be better spent on a direct mail campaign, or a scarf. Cost of doing business.
I almost forgot about my mother.
We found her almost exactly where we left her, except she had pulled up a dining room chair and was sitting in the empty doorframe. Give her a shotgun and she could have been Granny from the Beverly Hillbillies. It was just the way she was sitting, not the way she was dressed, or did her hair, or that she wore granny glasses, just the way she was sitting. She looked kind of belligerent. Good thing she didn’t have a shotgun. Oh never mind, my mother is complicated.
As soon as Ben climbed out of the truck, my mother was on the alert. She stood and greeted Ben with a wide smile and cheerful greeting.
“And you are?” She hinted fetchingly as he approached. Mom was also better than me at flirting, did I mention that? I am not skilling at flirting.
“Ben Stone,” he reached out and shook my mother’s hand.
Allison Little Stone. Allison a little stoned. Stone Allison. Little Stone.
It will never work between us.
“You are so wonderful to do this work on a Sunday.” Mom continued, finally releasing Ben’s hand. “Can we thank you with dinner tonight?” Mom fluttered her eyelashes completely forgetting she had macaroni and cheese cooling in the trunk of her car and a 7:00 date with bridge.
“I’m sorry, I always have dinner with my grandmother on Sunday, but thank you.” He said politely.
“Your grandmother?” Mom beamed. “And who is your grandmother?”
“She’s from the City, but she lives up north. She’s pretty elderly, that’s why I have dinner at her place, she doesn’t get out much.”
My mother nodded knowingly. I knew she lived for the day when her own mother would be too disabled to get out of the house and too frail to care. But that wasn’t the case yet. I could see a flash of envy in mom’s eyes, my grandmother, her mother, was her Achilles heel, and I was the only person who knew. It was one of the few situations I could leverage, particularly since the same woman who drives my mother to distraction is my own personal fan – Grandma is always on my side.
And from Ben’s easy refusal of Mom’s invitation I could tell that he too was loved by his grandmother and wasn’t sorry to miss out on dinner with me in favor of dinner with her.
That’s the other problem with dating, or god help you, falling in love; we all have full lives. And trying to combine those lives at a later age (Okay, it’s not that late for me, but I don’t know how old Ben is, I should find that out) is difficult to say the least. Maybe Carrie was right in working on marriage and a relationship while she was still in her twenties. It’s too late for me.
I helped Ben install the door, with my mother hovering and offering suggestions, which highlighted why my father played golf and still drove into the lab every other day. Mom was very, very helpful.
“Shouldn’t it swing the other way?” she asked. “You know in, instead of out?”
Ben grunted and gestured to me to hold the door steady as he mounted the hinges.
“We’re just installing this temporarily,” I said. “We’ll get the better doors later on.” My head hurt again. I didn’t know getting hit on the head carried such long-term repercussions so to speak. I braced myself against the door and closed my eyes for a minute while Ben worked.
“You okay?” He whispered.
I nodded, not trying to do anything more than help him. Mom was the flirt, and she was working hard at her craft. I was just the assistant, the muscle. Ah, well.
Mom did not leave until the job was fin
ished and met with her approval. She shook Ben’s hand, batted her eyes and zipped off to bridge club in a spurt of gravel. Ben followed quickly after.
“I’ll go to the store tomorrow morning,” he said to me as he left.
“I’m coming with you,” I declared, not bothering to flutter my eyelashes or any other part of my body.
“It will be early.”
“I know.”
“It will be boring and we won’t really learn anything.”
“I think the door seller is key, and I’m going with you.”
“Is there any way to stop you?”
“No.”
“7:00 then.”
I struggled with the time. “Sure,” I said as calmly as I could. “I’ll be there.”
Chapter 6
Inez called as I was driving home, unfortunately, the cell phone worked all the way up the freeway, there were no drop off points that I could use for an excuse to cut her off. At least not legitimately.
“You were attacked this afternoon.” Inez accused.
Had Ben called in to report the theft? Maybe. Should I ask how Inez knows these things? It wasn’t relevant to the current conversation.
“It wasn’t personal.” I assured her.
“Any attack is personal.” Inez declared. “We need to report this.”
I had my opinions about reporting. Not to belittle my own experience or that of anyone else, but real estate agents get attacked, molested and killed on a disturbingly regular basis. It should not be that surprising. We advertise in the paper that we will be alone in an empty house on Sunday from 1 – 4 PM. We walk into deserted homes with people we don’t know, and we are constantly getting into cars with strangers; we are statistical nightmares. And since this was the first time for me and since it had nothing to do with me per se, or me as a Realtor per se, I was not interested in adding to already depressing figures.
“No,” I said, “It really wasn’t personal, it wasn’t about my job. It was about something else.”
“What something else?”
“Just something else.” I hedged. “I’m starting to lose you.”
“I can hear you just fine.”
“No, really, I’m going over the hill. Oh, before I lose you, I can’t make the meeting tomorrow morning, I have a client.”
I clicked the phone to vibrate. I can’t turn it off completely, but I can turn off the ringer. When I turn up the volume of the radio; I can’t hear the phone vibrate. If someone wants a million dollar home, they will leave a message.
And if Inez wants to labor over this further, she too can leave a message and I’ll pick it up, oh, sometime tomorrow. I wasn’t in the mood today.
I passed by the huge Christopher and Christopher billboard. Jill and Peter, sitting so close that her hair was sticking to his head, the perfect image of the perfect couple: blond and beautiful. God is our Business Partner was scrawled across the bottom of the billboard – their tag line. It’s on every ad, every sign, including on their generic open house signs, and of course, the saying appears on their business cards.
I’d have to check and see how Maria was doing with her back-on-the-market client.
But that would all wait until tomorrow. I needed to get my sore head and body into a hot bath and bed.
It’s dark at five in the morning. Even in summer. No one should be up before the sun, it’s not right. But many people were. Note to self. No commute. Ever.
We have already reviewed the whole commute thing in the early morning hours. Getting into San Rafael as the sky lightened wasn’t too bad, and I was smart enough to start my trip at Starbucks and end my trip at Starbucks. I did not want to damage my dignity by dancing around full of coffee while trying to interrogate the owner of Doors and More. I used the restroom at the San Rafael Starbucks and picked up more coffee for both Ben and myself.
I felt very smooth as I presented his coffee order to him. Of course, I just assumed a flavor and gave him just a tall Frappuccino, in case he didn’t like it.
“I must say you are always on time.” Ben took my offering with a smile.
“Always,” I replied easily, because it’s true. He too, was always on time. You may think that is a small thing, but in our businesses showing up on time is huge, it’s enormous, it can make or break a relationship. Which is why I got out of bed in the dark. Being late is not allowed.
I don’t know what I expected from Doors and More. It wasn’t really a retail outlet, so I expected to find a seedy place lined with dusty shelves covered by rusted dead bolts and bent door handles. I expected an equally dusty, perhaps even shifty- eyed proprietor hovering behind a high counter, not eager to see customers at all because they interrupted his day. Or at the very least, we’d see the dudes themselves lurking around the back, swapping stories and nodding in that most excellent way.
“They looked like surfer dudes,” I said out loud as we walked towards the building. The air was cool in the early morning, but no fog down here. The sky was clear promising another hot day. Lucky Marin.
Ben glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. He can pack so much into that single expression. I wish I could do that. But then I wouldn’t be able to speak. Won’t work; must talk.
“Dudes?”
“I know, it’s like saying a house is really clean and the seller is really motivated. Tells you nothing.”
“No, it tells us something.” He held the door open for me. “Surfer dudes don’t fit the current criminal profile, so maybe they haven’t been doing it long enough to pick up the uniform and the mien of harden criminals.”
“Well,” I rubbed my head. “They were good at hitting.”
He nodded and addressed the proprietor who was waiting patiently for us to approach. Even at 7:00 AM, the hour contractors rise to walk the earth, we were the only customers.
Our salesman at this fine establishment was not a dude; he was as old as my parents, which moved him completely out of the Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure category and into the perpetually old person category. Okay, maybe just the middle-aged category. But he was old enough to know better.
Ben took the lead and started to ask questions. I thought he would use complex contractor-like language, but I understood every word.
Ben described the doors and asked intelligent questions like where did he, the proprietor – he did not wear a nametag – find the doors?
Imported, like his entire inventory.
“I heard they were the thing to have.” The man explained. “There was a lot of word-of-mouth hype about them. I ordered those particular doors six months ago, then the shipment was misplaced. Lost probably, how you can lose a huge shipping container of wood doors is beyond me, but these kids now-a-days.”
We both nodded sagely. Yes, those wild and crazy kids.
“Anything unusual about the doors that you noticed?” Ben asked. He sipped his coffee as if he had all the time in the world. At this hour, who didn’t?
“A couple of my contractors noticed they were pretty heavy, ” the man admitted. “I had to order thicker hinges to handle the extra weight, but other than that, nothing, they’re just doors”.
“And can we get some of these famous Gilberto doors?” Ben asked.
“No, all sold out. Just yesterday a couple of guys came out here and bought up my whole inventory.”
“Guys or dudes?” I asked dreamily.
He thought about it seriously. “Dudes. They looked like they were from Bolinas or from out on the coast somewhere.”
I glanced over at Ben; I hadn’t said dudes loud enough for the man to hear me. At least I didn’t think I had. I was whispering.
“And there are no more doors to be had?” Ben asked.
The man sighed and pulled out a thick binder. He leafed through the pages for a minute or two, and then stared at a page covered with tiny numbers and faint lines. “Says here they’re discontinued.”
“I thought you just got the first shipment.”
“Well, somet
imes they can’t keep up with demand. This started big this spring, the doors everyone will want, so we all ordered, we had to jump though so many hoops just to get the doors delivered, and then just this trickle came in. Maybe it was too much for the supplier.”
“Is the supplier someone you recognize?” Ben asked.
The man frowned as he studied the pages in his binder. “No, it was a new company, never heard of them.” He slammed the binder closed. “Probably won’t use them again either – too much trouble.”
Ben and I both nodded in agreement.
Great, now they are rare. My mother is going to love this.
“Anyone else carry them?”
“Not around here, there’s an outlet in the East Bay and one down in San Jose, but that’s it, they didn’t make too many of them. I know, Steve told me he heard there was only one container from Columbia and that had been lost. I thought I wouldn’t get my doors at all, but I was able to get a few. Must have found the inventory.”
“And how do you lose a container?” Ben asked before I could.
The man wrinkled his forehead. “I was told it happens all the time, they all look alike, people pick up the wrong ones and cart them away.”
“Doesn’t seem likely.” Ben said.
The man shrugged. “That’s all I know. Is there something else you need?”
“No, no. Thank you.” He put his hand on my elbow and ushered me out.
“Do you think he’s legitimate?” I asked as we walked to the parking lot, the sun had cleared the hills; the sound of the freeway was more muffled as the air thickened with the sounds of movement and activity. I don’t do things this early, but I didn’t point that out, I wanted to look tough and competent.
I needed to go to Starbucks, just one more time.
“Can I buy you another cup of coffee?” I offered.
He stopped walking, and glanced at the small cup still in his hand. “Sure.”
We drove separately to the same Starbucks I had just left, oh, a minutes ago, and met inside. I automatically took my place in the ubiquitous line to make my order. Ben glanced around as if he had never been into one of the franchises. Three women standing in line ahead of me glanced back at Ben.
Death Revokes The Offer Page 13