Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out (15 page)

“Every time I order a trash out
, I think of you,
”
I replied
,
happy at how steady my voice
held.

He halted his approach and frowned.

“You wouldn’t know the reference, but trust me, it’s apt.”

He opened his mouth but his brain wasn’t working as fast
as min
e
and there was a second lag between his next thought and what came out of his mouth. I used to be fascinated by those lips, by his persona.  Not anymore.

Before he could adequately form a witty response, Joan burst in for her shift
with her beau Norton in tow
. 
My friend is tiny but mighty. Her regular job is teaching composition to reluctant freshman at the local university.  She loves the teaching and hates the university politics.  She has helped me out on more than one occasion, open house shill is just one of
the
many
favors she does for me
.

“Have you seen the exterior landscaping?”  She called out as she slammed the door behind her.  “Just perfect. Honey
,
I don’t think they’re asking enough for this property!”

I heard Norton murmur assent, and the two marched into the living room.  I grinned at Joan. 

“Sorry Mark, I have to take care of these people.  Hello!”  I veered to the coffee table, scooped up my phone and edged by Mark.

Joan was dressed
up
for her
role
as
weekend
Marin
County
Matron. 
She wore c
risp cotton pants in dark grey and a light green sweater that brought out the green in her eyes and contrasted with her short red hair.  She looked great, and more importantly, she could be mistaken as someone who could afford my house.

“Welcome, thank you for coming by.”  I did not look backwards. 
Mark
could find his own way out: he
probably
had a few skills.  I greeted Joan and Norton like the strangers they were suppose to be portraying. I listened for any movement as I led Joan and Norton upstairs to the bedrooms.

They dutifully
and vocally
admired my clean tile, the view from the second bedroom window and finally the bedroom.  I didn’t relax my loud patter until the front door slammed and I heard the sound of a very expensive motor start up.

“Thank you.”  I sank onto the edge of my bed.  I looked at my phone.  I would not put it past him to take what he wanted
, a phone full of my contacts
. 

“Who was that?”  Joan asked.  She walked to the wi
n
dow and peered between the blinds.  “It looks like he’s gone.”

I took a deep breath, there were a few things Joan did not know about me.  “My ex fiancé.”  I said.

“Well, aren’t you the one with an interesting past?”

“I have an interesting past.” Norton protested.
  He was tall
,
slender
, and, I had to admit,
rather
elegan
t
. He was a professional musician, and
at times
somewhat spacy.  Joan adored him.

“Of course you do dear.” Joan absently patted his hand, and then proceeded to grill me
.

“But you win,
”
she pointed out when I concluded.
“
You
are now
running away with the delectable and wealthy Ben Stone.”

“Rock Solid Service
,
” I
put in.

“Rock Solid Service
,
”
s
he agreed.  “You don’t need to look so glum. This is a great move for you.
And that ring!
”

“Do you really think so?”  I whined.  It was only 2:30 and my shills
and my horrible ex-
fiancé
were
the only people who
had
talked to me.
  Good thin
g
I knew enough to hire friends.

“
It
will be a
n adventure,
something different to hold your constantly wandering attention.
I’ll come and see you. In fact I have time next weekend. Why don’t I come up and see your new place?” 

We walked downstairs to the kitchen. I poured them both a glass of the
Sauvignon
Blanc.

“Nor
ton
is at a music conference next weekend and I’m free.”
She turned to the man in question and raised her
eye
-
brows
.  He nodded.

I nodded happily
.
“I would like that, thank you.  You can stay with me.”

She sipped the wine, made a face and set it down. 
“Do you have beds?  Running water? Western toilets?”

I nodded to all her questions, as silly as they were.

“Count me in, next weekend.
”

Despite the red directional sign I ordered for the base of the hill, despite my A-frame signs out on the highway
, the
house
remained empty
.  The hour
suspended
between three and four stretched
out
excruciatingly. I am on record as unenthusiastic about open houses
anyway
.  For a typical open house I bring a stack of business
magazines
, then hide a mystery between the covers.  I always call my grandmother and pretend I’m conducting
market research for Claim Jump
.  I know no one shows up, but hope is eternal and blind. Or is that justice?

It was more difficult to lounge around and not allow the lack of response to needle me.  Instead of sitting still, I focused on what still needed to be done.  The
kitchen
shelves called to be straightened again
. Every
closet begged to be emptied one more time
. In this late afternoon light, the hardwood
floor
s
looked grimy. All my precious collections gazed down on me accusingly, as if I’m abandoning them for a newer shinier place, and I must admit, I am abandoning them for a shiny, but not newer, place. Maybe the house feels badly about that. Like when a husband leaves his wife for another woman, but she’s not even a younger or even prettier woman.  That’s
gotta
hurt.  I distracted my guilty conscious from the pleading aura surrounding the walls by ripping open a package of recently thawed Girl Scout cookies.

I shut down
the
open
house
promptly at four o’clock
.  The only thing I accomplished was to be able to report on Monday that I worked on Sunday.

I dumped out Joan’s wine and took another sip
from my glass
.  Not great. I regarded
the bottle
.  A new label with the Prophesy Estates logo had been slapped on
,
but it was askew.  I took another tentative sip.  Nope, too much grapefruit for me, I like my Sauvignon with more grassy flavor. 
I screwed the top back
on,
I’d serve it tomorrow during the Broker’s Open.

The
Broker
’
s
O
pen
is far more
important than
a general
open house.  Realtors are not only professional home viewers, they
know what to look for and they know
the right questions to ask.
But if
for any reason they don’t think the house is suitable, they will never take their clients by.  I needed to be warm, welcoming and forget every grudge I ever considered during the course of my long career here in River’s Bend.

Monday morning I skipped the
usual office
meeting in preparation for the
O
pen.
I showered very carefully to
maintain the sparkle of the
grout
.

I stacked the flyers and business cards by the front door.  I warmed a couple cookies in the oven to give the house that cozy scent. 
I created a
wine
giveaway,
I had three more bottles of the
Prophecy Estates
white,
all
of them could go to a deserving Realtor.
Raffles
like this usually help increase interest;
at the very least it adds to my collection of business cards.
  

I reminded myself to not make
any jokes about the lack of murder, blood or death in the house.  I didn’t really want to bring
up my grow
ing
reputation for discovering dead bodies in my listings
;
I prayed no one else
would either.

Per Stac
e
y
the Stager
’s recommendation
, I traveled down to my mother’s
house
Sunday night
. I
choked down some of her infamous
spaghetti and meat balls (the meat balls
were
hard, like tiny boulders)
, tolerated her comments
regarding
the anticipated size of my bridesmaid dress and
with no more effort than that,
earned the right to fill my bookcases with colorful glass vases
scavenged from
the boxes in
my parent’s
garage marked “vases”. The
borrowed
collection
looked pretty good. The
orange and purple glass
complimented the dark green and pumpkin chairs and dark green couch arranged in a circle in the center of the living room
.
(
Move the furniture a
way from the walls, Stacey instructed, and I
had
obeyed
.
)

At 10:00 I was ready
.
I even remembered to remove the cookies from the ove
n
before they burned and exuded
a less-than-homelike -
scent throughout the house.

My phone buzzed, Patricia texted:  “they
’re
on the way.”

I loosened up, executed a couple of deep knee bends because I remembered Lucille Ball did that kind of thing before taking on a big challenge.  And I was ready.

So I thought.

About thirty brokers from nineteen offices marched through the house. I hovered in the hallway, greeting people, doing my best to gesture to the attractive hand carved banister, the updated, like new kitchen (well, I never used the kitchen, so it was just like new).  I offered cookies. I resisted the urge to mention the tile grout.  Even at ten in the morning, the cookies were snatched up. 

“You have a lot of books.” An agent from Green, Green and Green
scooped up three cookies with one hand
and tossed two
cookies
into his wide mouth before I could respond.

“Uh yes
,
” I smiled and moved the plate of cookies away from his other hand.  

“Wow, did you read all these books? ” A bouncy young
girl
sporting a shiny ReMax
nametag
that was difficult to
read
,
reached for the cookies.

“Yes, I read all the books.  Remember to leave your card for the
wine
drawing on your way out.”  I
wondered if she was old enough to drink
.

I glanced around
searching for the one person I hoped was absent. She didn’t appear with the Re-Max group.
I had removed my directional sign just in case
, since this was
apparently
a new cause of hers
. It was hidden in the trunk of my car, which was parked down the street.

The
Christophers
walked in, hand in hand.
The Chr
istophers are the self-anointed
power couple in River’s Bend. She is neat and small and sparkles with all the features of a politician’s wife. She has prematurely white hair and today, wore glittery sapphire earrings.  Paul is tan, fit and looks like the golf champion he is, negotiating between tees. Finishing up deals on the green. Or sometimes he doesn’t take your call at all.  It depends; perhaps they both work according to divine inspiration.