Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out

by Catharine Bramkamp

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

  “Norton 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 floors 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 Open 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 Open. 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 growing reputation for discovering dead bodies in my listings; I prayed no one else would either.

  Per Stacey 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 away from the walls, Stacey instructed, and I had obeyed.)

  At 10:00 I was ready. I even remembered to remove the cookies from the oven 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 Christophers 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.

  I still couldn’t forgive him for the sanctimonious way he handled the apparently rouge directional signs. But I was here to make friends and sell the damn house. I smiled and tipped my head.

  Mrs. Christopher said, “it’s a lovely house, but it needs to be brighter, there is too much wood.”

  Mr. Christopher said, “it needs to be darker, there is too much light. You want intimacy in a house like this.”

  “You’ll need new carpet or carpet credit,” suggested the Prudential agent.

  “Rip out the carpets and install more hardwood,” recommended three Century 21 agents.

  “Tile,” advised two Re-Max agents.

  I nodded as if I were taking in the information and seriously considering it. But I was really too busy straining to hear the passing conversation as agents swooped up and down the stairs. I wouldn’t take many of the suggestions anyway. My client wasn’t included to improve the place at this late date.

  “Did you hear about the house on Heron Court? They took both toilets and the water heater, ripped it from the garage wall.” An agent reached for a cookie while she continued to talk.

  “Was there insurance?” Another voice, I couldn’t see who, responded.

  “Of course, but the bank would never finish out a garage, the walls are soaked, all the way through the sheet rock, thank God nothing more happened.”

  “What would you do with a water heater?” The other agent mused. “If it’s not attached to a house?”

  “I supposed it’s only partially belongs to the house, how much does something need to be attached before it’s considered part?”

  “Maybe they’ll sell it?”

  “Sell it on eBay?”

  “Craig’s list,” they agreed.

  Times were difficult. The volume of agents had shrunk in proportion to our shrinking opportunities, loan requirements and paltry commission rates. Office
s were consolidating and people were staying away from the profession in droves. Many former Realtor had moved to banking, insurance, or house cleaning. It was a wonder our own office was standing at all. Rosemary and Katherine passed by the Christophers and nodded but did not engage the couple in conversation.

  “Is this an Eichler?” A short man wearing a Keller Williams name tag blinked as he surveyed the hardwood floors and built-in shelves.

  “No, those are single story and are mostly found in Marin.” I explained, without going into it further. I had written “Craftsman style home” on the MLS site, the man could have read the post before he showed up. Well, maybe that was too much to ask.

  I liked my Craftsman bungalow. Did I like Victorian as much? It was too late to turn back now. I think that’s a song lyric.

  “This is a fabulous living room!” Katherine bellowed as soon as she caught my eye. Katherine was dressed in her best selling ensemble, a red suit with a short red jacket and full skirt. She even wore high heels to honor the grand occasion.

  Inez, wearing an uncharacteristically subdued beige suit stalked behind both Rosemary and Katherine. Her two lead agents may dwarf her in size, but not personality. She waved to me, gave a cursory glance around the front room and determinedly headed to the kitchen so no one could say she was prompting, or even condoning her own agent’s behavior.

  Just when I thought I was safe, she did walk in. Marcia Yates, with Coldwell Banker, at least last I heard. Marcia changed real estate offices as often as I change shoes.

  Marcia is fond of pointing out that when it comes to a deal, she is tenacious as a bulldog. She stands up during every MLS meeting just to list her clients and her listings, she never asks for help, she never gives it either. She has an impressively inflated sense of her own skills that belied her tiny stature and rather disproportional nose. You just can’t help but be reminded of the football scene from the Brady Bunch.

  “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia,” Katie Patterson, Frank Howard Allen, whispered in my ear. “Did you hear she’s switched to Green, Green and Green Realty?”

  “What’s wrong with Coldwell Banker?” I whispered back.

  “They’ve all gone through at least one escrow with her.” Katie grabbed two cookies, dropped five of her business cards into the vase for the raffle and hustled out.

  “It’s a beautiful house, and so well priced!” Rosemary’s purple caftan billowed around her. She nodded to me and then to Katherine. The two waltzed through the house making loud compliments in every room they entered. We offer this service for each other during many of the Broker’s Open, during the first fifteen minutes, when you need compliments the most.

  Marcia, Marcia, Marcia sneered at Rosemary; she glanced around, a frown on her face. I held my breath, but she made no comment, just slid by and dropped a card into my vase.

  The crowd thinned, most already heading off to view the next two open houses.

  “I wish I had a client for you.” Rosemary said in more normal tones now that agents like Marcia, Marcia, Marcia and the Christophers had left the premise. “I have someone looking for modern, but not bungalow style. I like this though.”

  I shrugged and tried not to look too smug in response to Rosemary’s compliment. “Just keep it in mind, you know the drill.”

  Rosemary pressed a box containing a plastic statue of Joseph, patron saint of lost causes, for me to bury upside down in the back yard. I forgot about that. I would bury this one here and get another to bury in the front yard of Penny’s house in Claim Jump. We needed all the help we could get.

  I shooed out the last of the agents who were now just clogging up the foyer and chatting about the agents who just left. I quickly shuffled through the business cards left specifically for the wine prize. I chose three people who did not comment on what I could do with my floors or my books and called to tell them they won the random drawing.

  I drew in a breath. Inez hadn’t mentioned the national office for New Century Realty for weeks. Perhaps I was back in their good graces. I had refused additional “help” in the form of more training, I had turned down the offer to take all the foreclosures and short sales. The escrows for both Lucky Master’s down town office and the new home sale to Scott Lewis (both in Claim Jump) saved my ass just in time and created some breathing room. The sale of this house and Penny’s would complete the picture. Patricia told me she heard the national office was losing interest in monitoring individual sales and were investing in analytics instead.

  I released my helpful red arrow sign from my trunk and drove it back down to the bottom of my street and posted it back where it belonged. My phone buzzed and I defied all the new laws and answered as I drove the short way back into my garage. I had moved out much of the garage contents to Claim Jump, but noticed a few boxes ready for the next trip, as if they breed in there.

  “They are not happy with this accident,” Carrie reported.

  “The Broker’s Open went just fine thank you,” I said testily.

  “Okay, I’m sorry, but I spent last night at a family dinner and all they could discuss was the damn shower, then the damn wedding, then back to the damn shower again. At one point Kathleen suggested they call the whole thing off because of either the accident or because the pastry chef they want for the wedding cake won’t return their calls. Can you imagine! What am I going to do with them?”

  “Move. It’s working for me.”

  “Patrick can’t leave the business,” she said morosely.

  “You were in a great mood yesterday,” I pointed out.

  My call waiting buzzed, but I ignored it. The odds were good it was one of the Furies with a cake related question.

  I pushed the boxes closer to the car and walked back through the kitchen. I grabbed a cookie just as the call waiting chirped again.

  “I mean, are they determined to ruin my life?” Her voice ratcheted up an octave.

  “Hold that thought. I have to check this.” It was Sarah Miller; I was willing to take this one.

  “Hi Allison? This is Sarah Miller. You know how you lectured me on how I needed my own income and stuff and I shouldn’t depend on Scott like I depended on my grandparents?”

  “Yes.” Although in reality, the dividends from Sarah’s investments would keep her in shoes and food for the rest of her life. Not expensive shoes, but still, she wasn’t as destitute as all of us in Claim Jump assumed when Sarah was the hot topic and unofficially designated Brotherhood charity last spring.

  “Well, the tenants set fire to the kitchen.”

  I get whiplash every time I talked to the girl. I heard Carrie click off. I’d call her back. I rubbed my eyes. Crap, another good intention up in flames. I was distressingly good at that.

  “So you want to sell?” I concluded.

  “Tom Marten offered to evict them.”

  “I’m sure he did.” Tom Marten was the handsome and surprisingly effective police chief for Claim Jump, he, like the rest of the community, considered Sarah his own special project, even after she hooked up with newcomer Scott Lewis.

  “So you want to list the house after all.”

  “I know I should have an income stream and all that. Suzanne Chatterhill told me all the same things you did, but this landlord stuff is just a pain in the ass, if you ask me.”

  “It can be that.”

  “Can you come up and see the house?”

  “Of course.” I said automatically. I had seen the house; I still have the photos I took in early spring when she first thought she’d sell. Then I convinced her to rent. And now we were selling. I blame myself.

  I walked to my own front door to check on the lock box dangling on the door handle. I’d lock up everything and drive up.

  “I’ll be there tomorrow,” I promised.

  “Meet me at the Grove Street house.”

  I click off and hit Carrie’s cell phone. “I need to go back up to Claim Jump.”

  “Again?” Her voice hadn’t lost the edge during our four-minu
te separation. “You were just there.”

  “All my business is up there,” I pointed out defensively. And Mark did not know where Claim Jump was located. That was a plus as well. But I didn’t tell Carrie about Mark, she had enough on her plate.

  She took a breath. “Okay, what do you have left to do?” She meant the shower, not selling my house, not my own pending nuptials, not the winery. I was working on forgiving her even as I listed my accomplishments.

  “Not much, the caterer has just now been confirmed. The Furies aren’t completely certain about the plates and napkins, apparently Emily’s Royal Doulton is not quite fancy enough. They are bringing in four generations of silver for the over 100 guests and we still don’t have a cake because they keep changing their minds on the flavor, decorations and the baker. Other than that, we are all set, don’t worry about a thing.”

  “You’ll be fine, you are steady and sensible. Do you think Cassandra can hold up under their onslaught?”

  Great, that’s what I want in my obit: she was steady and sensible. Perhaps I should take up some dangerous hobby. Oh, right, my hobby is discovering dead bodies in unlikely places; maybe I should take up something safer, like splunking. “I’m sure she can. I mean, except for Fred’s accident, the opening went well, and Chris Conner gave Prophecy Estates great coverage in the paper, editorial is so much better than straight ads.” Chris Conner also mentioned that Trisha Gault was injured, but declined to name where, which I thought was very interesting.

  “Sometimes you just kill me.”

  “My job as Matron of Honor is to make sure you stay alive and in one piece.” I lectured, then more gently added, “I’ll be back by Friday. Joan is coming up and Sarah wants to sell the house again. It should be over pretty quickly, except for the shouting. Why don’t you spend the day with Patrick?”

  “He’s working, he distracted, he’s planning the honeymoon, and surprising me,” she added before I could ask.