Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out (14 page)

“I don’t think scrubbing the tiles at 12:30 in the afternoon when the open house is slated for 1:00 is the best way to avoid the inevitable. And what are you wearing?”

I brushed my hair with the back of my hand, and three strands caught on my rubber glove and pulled painfully.

“You do not get it
,
” I snapped.

“The only time you clean is when you want to avoid something
,
” she
pointed out.  She righted herself.  “I’ll get the cookies and sodas.  You get cleaned up.  And try to look your usual lovely, calm sales self.”

Sometimes I hate my best friend.

Chapter
8

Carrie
was
scheduled to be the
open house
shill from 1:00 to 2:00
PM;
she had a date with Patrick at 2:30
, and since she seemed thoroughly recovered from yesterday’s drama, I wasn’t too worried about her
.
My friend
s
,
Joan and Nor
t
o
n
(a former client and long story) promised to stop by at 2:00 and spend
,
at the very least, a half an hour declaring their love for everything Craftsman.   Ben was due in at 3:30 on his way back from his mother’s house in San Francisco
. He
was
instructed to limit his comments to vague
generally complimentary remarks and was not allowed to inspect
or
speculate on
plumbing or site lines.  I don’t want experts at this juncture, just good vibes.

Carrie stepped past me and
inspected the grout.  “Very nice. What’s next? Hand crocheted
shower
curtain
, toilet paper cozies
?”

“I was going to hand tie a new carpet for the hall
,
”  I
countered.

She nodded as if I made complete sense.  “How are you doing?”

I sighed.  The house glowed in the early afternoon sun. Shafts of light illuminate
d
the front hall and
then
escaped to show off the burnished wood of the empty shelves in the living room.  My kitchen was pristine, of course.  T
h
e bathrooms were decorated
with the best of Crate and Barrel.  Fragrant
jars of
potpourri
replaced my usual pile of Mary Kay make up.

“I like my house.”  I cast around.

She nodded.  “I do too. But you can move on you know. It’s okay.” Her tone was one of a
H
ospice volunteer telling their elderly charge that’s is okay,
the family members can take case of themselves
, y
ou can move on
now
. 
Walk towards the light.

I didn’t respond, but I smiled weakly.

“Go,” she shooed me to my bedroom.  “Change, I’ll take care of the initial crowds.
”

On cue, two of my neighbors pushed open the door and yoo
-
hooed.

“Got ‘em.”  Carried assured me.  She straightened her slender shoulders and marched down the stairs to greet people I only
can identify t
h
r
ough the
distinctive
tone
of their leaf blower.

“
We saw the sign and thought we’d just check the place out.  Wow,
how lovely is this?”

“You are so right, it’s fabulous. Have y
ou seen the bathrooms? You must
check out the tile grout in the
guest
bathroom.” Carrie dripped with Valley-girl tones and enthusiasm for the terribly trivial, an act she has perfected
over the years
of
helping me during open homes.
There are two kinds of people who stop by an open house – buyers and lookers.  Neighbors are just lookers, they want to see the inside of a house they have been driving past for seven years.  They want to be assured
that
their house is better.  And they want to know the relative value of their own property.  I like to get rid of them as quickly as possible to make room for the actual buyers.
Carrie knows that.

“
It is
totally
surreal how
perfectly clean and white it is.” She grabbed the man’s hand, his name is Steve
,
and pulled him upstairs.  “I have never seen anything like it, have you seen anything like it?”

I dressed as quickly as I could.  I heard them banging up the stairs with Carrie in the lead babbling about tile, William Morris and cats.

Carrie’s squeals of appreciat
ion
echoed off those clean, clean tiles and down the stairs.

I
yanked on slacks and a red sweater and lost minutes hunting for the last jacket I attached my New Century
nametag
to and
finally
emerged.

I almost c
ollided with Doris, the wife of
Steve
,
the
leaf blower. 

“Oh, excuse me.” She pounded down the stair steps and headed to the door. 
“Steve, are you coming?”
  Her voice had a panicky edge to it.

“Those are really clean tiles.” Steve was still in the bathroom.  Carrie emerged and delivered a triumphant wave.

“Honey,
”
Doris called.  “We should be going.”

Steve reluctantly exited the bathroom.  “We could do that in our bath
,
”
h
e
announced
to no one in particular.  He slowly descended the stairs. Doris grabbed his
arm and hurried
him
out without another word. Carrie followed brushing her hands with satisfaction.

“Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Another couple from down the street, I recognized their car
,
strolled
through the front door
at exactly 1:00. They
admired the wood paneling as well as the inlaid wood patterns in the
entryway
floor
, but
they
barely said hello
to me
.
  I couldn’t help contrast
th
is River’s Bend
reception to what I experienced during an open house I held in Claim Jump.
Even though I still suffered through
Claim Jump (many of them members of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men)
neighbors
investigating
the famous Masters place
, at least
they
were friendly and engaged
.  They
often offer
ed
up new gossip and local lore
in exchange for evaluating the toilets
laundry chute
.
The River’s Bend
neighbors were silent, even grim as they marched
purposefully
through
the rooms, opening every closet
, peering inside
every kitchen drawer
, doing the math in their heads – how much, how much
.

In contrast, as
the members of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men inspected the cupboards, they generous
ly
shared
reports on the cupboard contents of a half dozen homes around Claim Jump. 

Carrie waited until the couple from down the street climbed up the stairs to open up all the drawers in my bedroom.

“Well,
” she
announced
loudly.  “ I must run.”  She
acted
like a
cross bet
ween a
L
ong
B
each socialite and
major
philanthropist
.  “I have a charity ball to organize. I love this place, I’ll bring my husband back this afternoon,
will
you still be here?”

“Till four
,
” I
raised my voice so it would travel to the second floor
.

The neighbors stirred and finally abandoned the master bedroom.  As they came down the stairs, Carrie busied herself in the kitchen loudly commenting on how the caterer would love
the
abundance
of
counter space.

I nodded happily to the neighbors but they said nothing to me.  Okay, fine.

I pulled out
a
bottle of
Prophesy Estates
Sauvignon
B
lanc and open
ed it. 

Joan was late for her 2:00
,
so I called grandma
,
but she was out and
there was no answering machine.
Prue
firmly believes that
the caller will call back if
the situation is
all that earth shattering
.
I was
constantly
annoyed by her stubbornness, but she was right
.
Ultimately, new
technology passe
s
by
her stubborn resistance like the
Y
ub
a flowing around a boulder.
She
avoided
the answering machine
phase
and
now
had progressed to her own
cell phone.
A gift from me.
This
new gift was
ostensibly to be
taken everywhere so we could always be in touch. 
It
was a perfect solution when A.
s
he remembered to charge it and B.
a
ctually took it with her.
Because C. she does not want to los
e
it.
So D. it
was often abandoned
in the kitchen drawer.
I left a message on
that
cell reminding her that I’d be up next weekend
to hold
an open house for Penny’s
property
.

A visitor knocked on the door at exactly
two oh five
, excellent
.
I was expecting Joan and Norton, but I didn’t recognize the car outside.  Great, a potential buyer! 
But it wasn’t
a buyer
. It was Mark.

He
walked right in. 

“Mark.”  I stood
up
from the couch and strolled casually to
wards
the
front
door
intending to
keep him in the hall and not allow him anywhere near my precious living room.

He gave me a lopsided grin that was a little disturbing since his face seemed lop-sided. But I could tell from his expression that he still fancied himself a ladies man. 
Lucky, lucky me.
  I was tempted to call Ben, but he was
still in San Francisco.

“How did you find me?”  I asked.

“You advertise, remember?”  He stepped towards me and I instinctively stepped back.

It wasn’t the first time I regretted the public nature of my business. 

“Where is your friend?” I meant the simpering girl attached to his hip at the winery opening. 

“Oh Beth?  She disappeared last night.  Won’t take my calls.” He
approached
two more steps
.  Mother, may I?  No, you may not.

I raised my eyebrows and tangoed backwards five feet.  

“Too bad about
the kid.  You
know
,
I always have great ideas for investments. Except for this one,
who knows
what
that
accident
will do to the potential?  I told Cassandra
so
, but I don’t think she was listening.”

“Mark, what do you want?”  I stopped in the center of the living room.  He stopped on the steps leading to the sunken area. 

“I thought we could be friends
,
”
he held out his hand, the fine slender fingers beckoned to me
.

“Only because of the company I keep
,
” I said sarcastically.  “At least do me the courtesy of being honest.”

“Okay, you do run with some pretty interesting sharks, I’m impressed.”

I waited, my arms crossed defensively under my breasts.  All I could think of was, really?  He really came by because he thought I’d surrender my contact list so he could interest my friends in one of his current schemes?  Had he always been like this?

“You could be part of my next business plan too
,
” 
h
e
offered ingeniously.  He stepped down into the living room pit and approached me like a
great white, although not as charming
. “Allison, we go way back. Tell me you don’t think of me even once in a while.”