Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out (17 page)

Chapter
9

But she was right. I knew not to allow the house to languish
for very long
on the market. It was not good for the reputation of the property and certainly not good for my reputation as a Realtor. I’d give it a week or so,
then
if there was no interest
,
I really would drop the price.  Of course, I wanted some money out of it
;
I was pretty leveraged
.
I held two mortgages and the values or perceived values
of homes in our county
had fallen considerably. 
Ben and I had
purchased
the Lucky Master’s house
at a nice discount. And I was grateful for that opportunity.  But it didn’t change the fact that
I wanted to buy a bargain, not sell one.

Carrie had bestowed the moniker on Patrick’s sisters the first day they met. 
For what
ever reason, both women were tenaciously protective of Patrick to the exclusion of any other hobby. I finally met the infamous pair
during
the
engagement party at
French Laundry.  It was dark, I had been drinking and for the life of me, I thought
they were twins: tall, lanky,
grey haired
twins. As far as I could tell, the sisters were their own dates that evening. 

Claire and Kathleen
Sullivan
were about
three years apart in age.  Patrick is younger by six years.  I would have thought there’d be another in between Patrick and his
younger
sister
Kathleen
. 
Especially if it was a good Irish Catholic family
dropping a child every
two
plus
years, but I was mistaken.

When we met again, I was able to more easily discern their differences.  Both women sported the same t
hick hair as their brother.
Kathleen at least added highlights to increase the drama and interest of her appearance.  But Claire seemed unaffected by fashion or even fashion consciousness. She favored what
I call West County style: long
diaphanous
skirts, contrasting tunics and painfully original necklaces and matching earrings made from materials found around the yard.  Her graying h
air was pulled back in a braid.
I winced on her behalf
,
but was not lulled into complacency by her apparent new age ensemble. She was probably
the brilliant one, the quiet, working behind the scenes sister, while Kathleen acted as spokes-fury. 

They were the kind of team I loathed to take on in any way. But there was a shower to plan and this was my best friend – so far. I’ll spare you the lingering details and bodies metaphorically strewn in
the
wake of this event.

“We added a few more names.” Claire Sullivan announced when I accidentally picked up my phone.  I was driving north to check in with Emily before I left for Claim Jump the next morning.  Books rattled in the back of my Lexus.

I was not winning on any level with these two.  No
one I hired was right
. Every time I made a definitive move, the Furies intervened and made me
fire
perfectly innocent vendors
with no more explanation tha
n
“the
Sullivan’s
found someone better.” 
My bakery choice
produced
in
-
eatable
cakes
, my
centerpiece
idea was idiotic and they insisted on reviewing
my
wardrobe to choose the perfect outfit
for the event
.
Nothing was up to par, up to snuff
.
At one point I
churlishly p
ointed out that if I
wasn’t
the
M
atron of
H
onor, I would not even be on the guest list
.

It was a damn
good
thing I was moving
out of
River’s Bend,
by the end of this wedding, I’d have to. 

“O
f
course, email me the
additional guests and their addresses.
You have my email right?”  It was a sarcastic comment even though the Furies did not do sarcasm.

“Do you have enough invitations?  Did you arrange for Rod to come up and view the kitchen, he likes to see where he will work
,”
Claire explained.

I said yes
to everything she asked for because that was the
easiest
way to cope. 
This wasn’t my shower
and
these weren’t my future family.  Thank
G
od.

“What do you mean Bruce isn’t good enough?
”
Emily was uncharacteristically shrill
and of course, took ou
t
her wrath on the messenger.

I tried to shield Emily, Ben’s long suffering grandmother
,
from as much of
the
F
uries
opinions and feedback as I could, but this, coupled with an earlier rejection of her china was a blow
.
 

“
He does all my work, I wouldn’t have anyone else.”  Emily had
graciously
volunteered her own home
for the shower
, which
was
perfection
itself,
yet the Furies managed to find fault.

“I know that
,
”
I was as frustrated as she
.  “But they have their own caterer, they want Rod Nelson to cater the shower.
”

“Rod Nelson.”
Emily paused and brushed off the sole of her bare foot
.  “An upstart.”
  She dusted her hands over the sink and turned back to
what the Furies
had dismissed as an “adequate” patio. 

“A famous upstart
,
” I
fo
llowed her back to the spacious
patio, warm in the captured sunshine.
“I suppose it will look good to the hundred or so guests attending.”

Emily
paused and
narrowed her blue eyes.  “A hundred guests?  To a shower
?
”

“The
F
uries have spoken
,
” I
intoned.

“And you’re footing the bill.
”

“The houses will sell, it will be fine
,
” I insisted. I hoped the houses would sell in time, not to pay directly for the party but to help pay down my burgeoning credit card debt
. Expenses for this
shower
would
ratchet
me
up to
my limit
.  

Emily glared at the center fountain that
was perfectly fine, even pleasant, until the Furies evaluated it. Now it was too small and the volume of water was too low.
(
F
or what
purpose
, the Furies did not say. Kathleen just sniffed and commented on how small a fountain it was
.
)  Emily
finally waved her hands and marched back to the kitchen to furiously rattle pots and pans still in new condition from years of neglect. 

Neither one of us had much choice
;
we didn’t have any control at this juncture. Much like the house in Claim Jump, much like the wedding plans.  Much like
my
whole life.

A
L
ittle Choice
.
  That would be
a good tag line
for
next
year’s
sales
material. Maybe
I’d use it for my next ad featuring my own house.
I tucked away the idea and
soldiered
on.
I could do something.  I could help Sarah
;
that was some action, I consoled myself as
I pulled back into the garage
after visiting Emily
.  The
glare of my headlights illuminated another collection of boxes.
I
suddenly realiz
ed
that I
had completely forgot
where I stored
an important
box of cocktail and
(
matching
)
luncheon
napkins
for the shower.
  I knew they
had been
delivered.
But
in
what box?
  Did I accidently take it up to Claim Jump thinking they were important?
 
Had the napkins masqueraded as
books?
 
Hoped not.  I wasted valuable time searching
,
but the napkins were
nowhere
to be found. And I couldn’t remember, were they the right fuchsia for the party? 
Or were they
orange or tangerine? 

The wom
e
n who won the wine at my Broker’s
O
pen still hadn’t returned my call to pick
up
their
prize
.  I left the bottle
s
at Patricia’s desk with
each individual
business
card taped
to
the label.

“No one else takes this.” I instructed our
receptionist/escrow
coordinator.

“Sure,” Patricia didn’t even glance up from her
wide
computer monitor.  “Whatever.”

I didn’t have time to quiz her
further
.  “Tell Inez I’m driving back up to Claim Jump to list a new house.”

“
Okay
.”  Patricia’s didn’t look at me, which was odd, but I let it pass.

I already
took
photos of the Grove
S
treet house
and still had them
on file, but
I took them in the
dead of
winter
, before I had encouraged Sarah to rent
out the house instead.  Now
we were back to selling. 
Autumn
was
a
far lovelier
time of year
for
photos
, but the magnificence of the full
red and gold foliage obscure
d
the creek view, so I thought I’d combine the two sets
;
Lovely view, creek runs year round, that kind of thing.

The
fire
damage to the kitchen was minimal, nothing more than
the damage wrought by
a really good party.  I called one of the
sub-
contractors working on our place to see if he could come over for the repair
s
, then prepared to meet Sarah.

“Hello?”  Sarah came though the front hall just as I finished
my phone call
.

“Hello
,
” I
extracted myself from
the
charred pocket
kitchen into the living room/dining room. I could
not
imagine
how
Sarah manag
ed to care for
two disabled grandparents
in a space this tiny.
The
Millers
had limited themselves to just this ground floor. Sarah lived on the top floor and they rented out the basement (
full rental attached, I pointed out in my sales sheet
). 

Sarah’s
mother hadn’t been the most responsible woman in town
.  She got
pregnant very young and escap
ed
the wrath of her fundamentally Christian parents by
high tailing
up to the San Juan ridge area.  A person can disappear up there for as long as they pleased.  Sarah
had been
the real
casualty
of that skirmish. 
Her mother abandoned
her
baby to the care of
her
hated parents
. But I suppose the freedom was more important than the child.  Sarah, for her part,
h
ad done her duty and then some.
Now the girl was finally
free to do what she pleased.  It made me happy just thinking about it.