“That’s nothing,” Katherine billowed in shaking her head. “the holier than thou Christophers are on the war path again.”
“For what?”
“Do you still have a sign in front of your house?” Katherine raised one thin eyebrow.
“I drove by it this morning.” I remembered I needed to replenish the flyer box as well. Lord, were we tangling with the Sign Nazis again? I didn’t think I had the strength. I reached over the high reception counter and grabbed a yellow sticky note. I scribbled “more flyers” and stuck it onto my phone.
“My sign is gone. When I called to find out where it was they said it was too close to the road! The road!” Katherine’s voice rose, and we both hushed her. We didn’t want our manager Inez to march in and lecture us, not this early in the morning. I glanced at my watch, I had twenty minutes before the staff meeting, it was like recess before math class.
“Wow, another body.” Patricia popped off. A body would be welcome after missing toilets and missing sales signs.
“Another body?” I reached around her and rescued a small fan of flyers and notices from my IN box. I sorted through the paucity of mail. I liked the hard copy flyers and notices that came into our IN boxes, it showed a distinct perseverance for the old art of direct mail, for printing, for glossy paper stock, for full bleeds. I considered ordering hard copy flyers for my house.
“You know, sometimes they use new people during crush, some don’t know their ass from their elbow. Remember the guy last year? Dead in the stainless steel tank?”
I nodded, I did remember.
“Once the tank was drained, who looked again?” She squinted at her monitor and scrolled down for more information. Inez, our manager, never comments on Patricia’s hobbies. Patricia is not only our administrative assistant, she also serves as our ad hoc escrow coordinator and she is really good. You do not interfere with genius like hers. She can get blood from rocks and paperwork from banks. Based on just that talent alone, we both love and fear her. That she wears black nail polish and matching lipstick is just a bonus.
Who indeed? I didn’t know what happened to the tanks after the wine was drained and bottled. Stored, ignored, cleaned, wasn’t there something about the fumes from the cleaning agent?
“How could a worker be missed?” Rosemary demanded, as if Patricia knew.
“He could have been illegal, they wouldn’t write anything down in that case, no record.” I offered.
“It was an accident.” Patricia scanned her generously sized monitor. “It happened once before last year, and now this new guy.”
“Crush shouldn’t be taken literary.” I put in.
“Lord, who dies in a winery?” Rosemary commented idly. “I would think all those safety requirements would make it impossible to so much as slip on a grape skin.”
Patricia frowned at the tank photo. She rubbed her eye carefully to not disturb the thick black eyeliner, then sighed. She switched to the company email screen. She was enigmatic. I admit that I sometimes take her for granted. Patricia works tirelessly and efficiently. Her manner with our walk-in, potential clients, was abrupt, but Rosemary once pointed out that she didn’t want clients who weren’t serious. And if they could get past Patricia, then they were serious. The three of us did not ask why Patricia was looking up death in winemaking, her tastes were catholic and if she were interested in wine deaths today, she’d surely be distracted by gardening mayhem tomorrow. Although I haven’t heard much of people dying in the garden, short of old English mystery novels.
She glanced at her cell phone and frowned. “I have to take this. Go, talk amongst yourselves.” She took the phone and headed to the ladies room.
The lull in the lobby was short lived. I opened my mouth to start enticing Rosemary to attend both the broker’s open where my house was scheduled to be on tour and my own open house, when Paul Christopher - God is my Partner - roared into the office, eyes blazing with self-righteousness and, since I’m exaggerating, self-importance.
“I am shocked that you would ignore all our notices and laws!” He paused in the doorway right in the path of the automatic eye for the doorbell. The bell clanged loudly accentuating each of his evangelical pronouncements.
“We traced four improperly placed directional signs directly to your office.” He bellowed. I gestured for him to step all the way into the lobby and out of the sensor for the door, but he stubbornly held his ground.
Paul Christopher is undeniably good looking. The late fifties looked good on him. With swept back long hair and soulful eyes, he flaunted the charisma of a late night evangelist, which is what he was in a former life. He likes to say, “I’m not really godly, I just play godly on TV.” I am not sure whom he saves in real estate, but some of his methods have not been exactly; well, traditionally Christian, as I understood it. Rosemary loathes him; Katherine thinks he is really the devil and once during a rather rowdy broker’s dinner tried to find the three 6’s carved into his skull, but had no luck. But she still believes.
The door chime was beginning to lose heart when Patricia finally emerged. “Jesus H Christ who is standing in the fucking door!” Patricia smacked open the door of the ladies room and stomped into the lobby. She glared at Paul Christopher. He glared back, but at that second, she had more righteousness on her side. He slowly took one step into the lobby. The doorbell uttered one last exhausted clang and fell gratefully silent.
“Those signs will come down now!” He glared at Patricia as if she was the devil incarnate. She was worked up enough to be.
“Don’t you threaten,” Patricia raised her fist.
Inez brushed past me, a ball of fury and energy. “Go to your office,” she commanded. Rosemary turned and sauntered to her coveted windowed office while I just dived for any room not in the path of Inez or Paul. I did not have the fortitude or documented virtue to withstand the wrath of Mr. Christopher, especially since I was one of those people with for sale signs posted too close to the street. But he didn’t need to know that yet.
“What do you mean to come into my office and make a scene like that?” Inez may be a foot shorter than Mr. Christopher, but she is much stronger and considerably smarter. She crossed her arms, displaying her perfect long red talons and eyed him.
“Sometimes you have to make a scene to get attention.” He declared with a smirk. “You know that we self monitor the signs we use, we don’t want the city–”
“Government,” he spat, “to tell us what to do.”
“And in the absence of government oversight, you have anointed yourself judge and jury.” She pointed out archly.
“I’m the head of the Sign Control River’s Bend Beautification Committee, yes.” He puffed up his chest.
“Sign Nazis,” Patricia’s voice carried down the halls.
“Patricia.” Inez warned.
The sign Nazis are a reoccurring problem. Members have the honor of belonging to the most obnoxious self-appointed committee in town. They make up their own rules, and change those rules to suit their whims. If you don’t take their calls, if you are late responding to their calls (they give you about ten minutes to respond), if you don’t do as they say, they simply pull out your sign and throw it away. It can be very costly. Most agents are forced to listen. Mostly we listen. Mostly.
“Why don’t we go into my office and you can tell me exactly which signs are violating your sensibilities?” Inez offered.
“No, I don’t have time for that. Here take the list, Marcia phoned me with the information just today. You must have them down by 10:00 this morning.”
It was almost 9:00. He knew that.
“Drop everything because you say so?” Her tone was heavy with sarcasm. But he did not appreciate or maybe even understand sarcasm.
“Or we will take them down for you.” He sneered, his work finished, he jerked the door open. The bell only beeped one little bleat. The door slammed. The ensuing silence was deafening.
“I know you’re all listening.�
�� Inez called out like Gilda outing the Munchkins. “Any of these ours?”
Katherine, Rosemary and I crept back to the lobby. Patricia looked at us impassively then turned to her computer, her fingers flew over her keyboard a staccato rhythm to accompany Inez. Inez rattled off the addresses where the red arrowed signs were purportedly posted.
The challenge was of course, that those handy arrows often pointed to a street that held a number of homes for sales, offered by multiple offices. Sure, we ordered them, they are often a critical component in marketing a house. All three of us sold homes because the buyers followed a red arrow sign.
“Nope.” Rosemary called out. “I just sold that house, we left the sign for Prudential, they still have a house there.”
“Nope,” called out Katherine. “I called on that sign a week ago, I thought it was already down.”
“I don’t have to ask you Allison,” Inez said as I rounded the corner. “You don’t have a listing do you?”
“Only my own house.” And I didn’t think even a dozen arrow signs would help. I was pessimistic, saved being disappointed later.
To be fair, Carrie had given me plenty of lead-time. She brought up the shower idea New Year’s Day, right after one of the most elaborate and beautiful engagement parties I had ever attended. Which makes perfect sense, Patrick Sullivan is about as perfect a man as they come. Except for Ben.
“As the maid of honor it’s your job to organize and host a Bridal shower for me. And just to warn you, the Furies said it better be good.”
She held up a Bride’s magazine the size of a phone book. “It’s all right here.”
“That’s bigger than the September issue of Vogue.”
“No kidding. You should see what I’m supposed to have. Supposed to want.” She ran her finger down the index and turned to the back of the magazine where the articles were hidden.
“It says right here that the maid of honor gives the shower. And if you think the Furies don’t have a copy or two of this respected tome, you are sadly mistaken.”
“So even if I don’t want to give you a shower, even if I’m tapped out from selling my house and decorating and repairing the new house, I still must throw you a party, as if you don’t have enough of those to attend.”
“Damn straight.” She flipped open her calendar. “Now, what is a good date for you?”
“No date.”
“Good, September 13 works for me too. My colors are fuchsia and tangerine. You knew that. You’ll want to use the same colors for the shower. Invite whomever you want, but Patrick’s sisters will have a list, and his mother promised me a list as well.”
“And is your mother on the list?” It was a cheap shot, but the only ammunition I had left.
“When hell freezes over.” She said cheerfully. “Do you want to invite the office?”
“No, do the Furies have friends?” I used our nickname for Patrick’s sisters. It was Carrie’s name first, I just use it in solidarity.
She paused and considered that question. “I don’t know. I watched Kathleen and Claire at the polo match the other weekend. They seem to have acquaintances, but not really friends, not like us.”
“Do Junior Leaguers have friends?”
“They are supposed to be friends, yes.” She was still thinking, which was good. Was this really the lifestyle for her? Or will she help Patrick become real, like the Velveteen Rabbit (not my favorite story, but instructive as an example).
“Your job then is to talk to them and see.”
As if it were that easy. I had been working on this damn shower for months but still did not have a handle on Carrie’s sisters-in-law to be. The Furies seemed to be fiercely protective of the family in general and Patrick in particular. Patrick’s parents seemed nice enough, they did the charity rounds, ran the business, but they weren’t overt about it, they did not show off. In fact, they were more adept at staying out of the paper. Chris Conner, Rivers Bend’s version of an investigative reporter, had never been able to dig up anything interesting or shocking about Sullivan family. The only time they were ever mentioned was in official capacities, direct from missives delivered by the Cooper Milk PR department.
By April, the phone calls from the Furies started, sometimes they texted, sometimes they emailed. The delivery system didn’t matter, what mattered is that one or the other had something to tell me almost every day. By September I was so exhausted by their constant haranguing that I began to leave my phone in the car or abandon it at the office or forget it at my grandmother’s, and consequently missed important calls. From them.
The conversations sounded like this:
“This is Kathleen Sullivan, is this Allison Little?”
“Speaking.” I automatically stood up straighter, expecting to Kathleen to know I was slouching. Not a good look for someone with breasts the size of hot air balloons.
“I’m calling about the shower. I understand it’s on the 13th? Are you planning on holding it during the afternoon?”
“That’s the tradition.”
“Yes, perfect. We have a list of people we’d like to invite, about a hundred guests.”
A hundred guests, and me needing to tackle and clean all the grout in my bathroom before I could reasonably put the house on the market. The traditional catered lunch for the shower would cost, at the very minimum, twenty dollars a head, and I already knew the cake would cost almost the same because the San Francisco bakery I was asked to patronize was hellishly expensive but apparently worth every crumb. Not counting the wine and a festive but lethal punch, I was in this for thousands.
I struggled to keep my voice bright and professional. I had resolved to treat the Furies as professionally as I could, more like problem clients who wanted to buy a house worth millions of dollars and so, worth the effort and strain. Sure, I wouldn’t really see them again after the wedding (I fervently hoped not). But Carrie would, and in this exchange, I could affect her future happiness in such a profound way it didn’t bear close examination.
This is why weddings are such a strain.
I gulped and answered. “Sure, a hundred is fine, will that be your whole guest list or will there be more?”
“There may be more. You probably should rent a place or a restaurant to have it. A hundred is probably too big for your house, yes?”
Too big for my house: not too big for Emily and Ben’s. And it may be too far for some to drive and so the number would decrease. Perfect, I just had to convince the future hostess.
“No, I’m good on the place. Just send me your list and I’ll go from there.”
“Are you hiring someone to calligraphy the invitations?” Kathleen asked. “We know a great handwriting expert in Sonoma who can do that.”
I was going to send out these babies electronically through eVite, but now, I guessed not. I added paper invitations and the cost of hand writing the addresses to my expenses.
“I have someone for that too.” I assured her smoothly. Like I organized these kinds of events every day.
I hired Patricia to write the addresses out on the invitations.
Ben offered Cassandra’s wine for the party and we rented the tables and chairs. Emily wouldn’t hear of any caterer working in her house except a dear friend of hers, so that was taken care of for me. There was little I could do except do as I was told. Doing what I’m told is not my best event.
Chapter 3
The trailing weekends of August have a sense of finality about them, the weather is finally warm, but the sun disappears just early enough to remind you that it is the end of summer songs and the coming of fall, and for us in Northern California, really hot weather. I was ready for that, selling a house in September brings different buyers, the family are all settled and ready for school, but my house would appeal to a different demographic. I just had to find them and reel them in.
Saturday morning Ben decided to pull me from what can only be charitably described as aimless fussing around my house and loaded me up i
nto his truck.
“You look like you need a break.” He said kindly.
I slouched down in the truck seat and braced my bare feet on the dashboard. I wiggled my toes and watched the brown hills pick up some green coloring as we neared the ocean.
“I had no idea I owned so much crap.” I admitted.
He nodded. “I may leave much of my stuff behind. We can keep my place at Emily’s for wine tasting and visiting.” He glanced at me. But this time I didn’t start crying.
We drove through west county to the coast past Osmosis spa, they specialize in hot sawdust baths, past tiny towns that were little more than a steak house with parking lots and past many, many happy cows. We drove out to Heart’s Desire beach. Ben pulled out a big picnic basket and tossed a couple of beach towels to me.
The main beach was crowded, so we kept walking up the trail to the second beach that wasn’t so replete with kids and dogs.
The tide was low, the water shimmering in the summer warmth. The sea looked inviting, but was really only up to 65 degrees by this time of the year. I was satisfied with dabbing my toes in the water and just soaking in the sunshine. The sounds of families and kids playing melded agreeably into the background.
Ben unpacked pate, Cow Girl Creamery triple brie, fresh prosciutto, Tomales Bakery rosemary bread, and a small quiche. He also bought my favorite frosted cookies, not gourmet as the rest of the spread, but my favorite nonetheless. He had chilled some Iron Horse Sparkling, the brut that I like, as well as a dry rose from Toad Hollow.
He pulled out flutes and we started with the sparkling.
“To us.” He handed me a fluted champagne glass and we toasted.
I felt the stem, “Why do you have a glass charm when it’s just us, it’s not like I haven’t already shared your cooties.”
He grinned. “Look closer.”
I glanced down at my charm, and sucked in my breath.
Most women would have guessed sooner; the picnic, the beach, the sparkling, but not me, I was too worried about Carrie’s wedding to consider my own.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out Page 3
