“Ben and I could go on a honeymoon,” I mused. “I wonder if there is a country politically stable enough to host me? I wouldn’t want to start an international incident.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Carrie’s voice was dispirited.
“I thought you were taking a round the world trip on a yacht or something.”
“No, we just said that to freak out my parents and make them think they’d have to foot that bill. No, we are not traveling around the world.”
Her parents were a whole project last spring, like everything and anything in Carrie’s life at this moment. Her parents also almost screwed up her relationship with Patrick. It was Patrick who solved the problem and now Carrie has embraced one of the unsung benefits of voice mail: the delete key.
“How are they taking the exile?”
“Patrick and I are having brunch with them this next Sunday. I’m hoping the expensive meal and wine will be enough for them. It’s not like they wish me well or anything. Patrick told me last night, he’s hiring a security guard, just in case.”
“Isn’t that a bit extreme?”
Her silence was my answer. For Carrie, no measure would be extreme enough; she is making up for years of childhood abuse.
“True,” I mused. “I wonder if my mother would want to plan my wedding?”
“Did she say?”
“No, she only wept with gratitude when I announced the engagement and my sisters-in-law clamored to be in the wedding. Like they want to wear a hideous dress and parade up and down in front of a big crowd of friends and family.”
“Hey, it’s not that bad,” Carrie protested.
“I wonder if we’ll just honeymoon in Claim Jump. You know with the cost of the house and stuff.” I changed the subject.
“Why don’t you pay for the honeymoon with the money from your house?”
“That way I’d control something and I’d get to choose the location.” I said out loud.
“And you think it’s going to be that easy,” she countered archly.
“No, but more fun. Thanks for coming by yesterday. You and Joan were my only visitors”.
“Drop the price.”
“Stop quoting me to me.”
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 whatever 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 thick 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 hair 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 than “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 pointed out that if I wasn’t the Matron of Honor, 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.
“Of 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 God.
“What do you mean Bruce isn’t good enough?” Emily was uncharacteristically shrill and of course, took out her wrath on the messenger.
I tried to shield Emily, Ben’s long suffering grandmother, from as much of the Furies 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 followed 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 Furies 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. (For 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 Little 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 realized 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 women who won the wine at my Broker’s Open still hadn’t returned my call to pick up their prize. I left the bottles 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 Street 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 obscured 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 repairs, 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 managed 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 escaped 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, had 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.
Sarah’s blond ethereal appearance belied how tough she was. She placed her hands on her hips and surveyed the empty room. “They really did clear everything out,” she touched a scuffed floorboard. “They had some terrible furniture, I think from the Hospice store, brown plaid couches, that kind of thing.”
“Tom was probably pretty persuasive.”
She nodded. “They weren’t local.” As if that summed up everything, and in Sarah’s mind, it probably did.
“It seems odd to not have them here,” she said quietly.
I nodded. I had those moments myself in Prue’s house. I keep thinking I’ll look up, and there will be Grandpa, whole and real, just coming in from finishing another project in the barn. But he doesn’t walk through the kitchen door anymore. I know; I’ve waited for him more than once.
She noticed my expression. “You do understand,” she rubbed her eyes. “They weren’t the best grandparents in the world.”
“But they were all you had,” I finished.
“Yeah.” Her shoulders sagged and she suddenly looked much younger than her twenty odd years. She really was alone. I considered her for a minute. Maybe it was better to sell this outright and let her move on.
“What do members of the Brotherhood have to say about your selling?”
“They’re on your side. They all voted that the rental income would be good for me to have, but as soon as the fire happened, all bets were off and they told me to sell.”
The Brotherhood of Cornish Men live to interfere with anyone who even passes through Claim Jump, even me, so a vote as to whether Sarah Miller should sell her house was not even remotely surprising. My face must have registered my thoughts.
“They aren’t so bad,” Sarah defended them.
I must not have looked sympathetic.
“Look, you have an interesting career, and you are good at it. Women like my grandmother or Mrs. Chatterhill never had careers, their influence comes only through the Brotherhood, or the PTA or the Theater Guild or Friends of the Library. The only money they controlled is money they raise through their own organizations, not through private industry. So this, for them, is really it.”
“You’ve thought a lot about this.” I was pretty impressed with her insight. Sarah Miller was soft-spoken and had a reputation for being somewhat retiring, except when she was performing for Summer Theater. For years Sarah was the designated ingénue, as the average age in Claim Jump is about fifty, she was a shoe in. But after her last performance as Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, she announced she was giving up the theater.
“You didn’t give it up for Scott did you?” I quizzed.
She laughed. “Are you kidding? I just don’t need to escape on the stage anymore. Now I have an interesting real life.”
Her new husband, Scott, wasn’t exactly a knight in shinning armor, but close enough. They ran the old library together and I had just sold them a house. Indeed, her real life was just fine; no additional drama was necessary. We should all be so lucky.
I was so accustom to staying at Prue’s, in what I considered my second home, that I turned up the hill and was half way up Marsh Avenue before I realized my mistake. I flipped a cautious U turn and headed back down to Main Street where my new house stood big, bold and directly across the street from the local theater.
I waved to Debbie, the former lawyer, who did not wave back and turned the corner to park the car behind the house.
Ben had assured me I could actually spend the night in the new master bedroom and the bathroom floor was completely repaired and safe to walk on. His assurances aside, I always approached the house with trepidation. What would I find? Something repaired? Or a brand new problem that necessitated pulling out a wall, or excavating under the kitchen floor? And if we did find something under the floor, would it be historically significant plumbing? The remains of an 1856 out-house that according to city ordinances, could not be disturbed?
I examined what I could see of the roof. It looked finished. Ben sent me photos of the completed master bath. It looked like the bath tile (a lovely dark blue) was successfully installed and Ben didn’t warn me against showering, so the tile and grout must be cured. I picked up the dozen remaining shingles and carried them to the overflowing trash can. I pulled out another carton of precious books and hauled those to the kitchen counter. I cautiously turned on lights as I moved to the front of the house. The front door was intact and locked, the timer hasn’t turned on the front lights yet. I walked through the hall. To my right was a formal parlor. No movement or signs of wanton destruction. To my left was the second parlor and stairs.
It was just too good to be true. Cautiously I flipped on the hall lights, the parlor chandelier, a purple Venetian glass extravaganza, was still intact. I almost relaxed. Perfect.
Except for the gaping hole at the foot of the stairs.
My phone buzzed.
“Watch out for the hole @ stairs” Ben texted.
I sighed and glared at the hole. All I could see below was dirt. And after falling through one floor, I was not tempted to approach this gaping hole to examine it anymore closely. The short answer would be dry rot, the longer one, termites. And there was the wild card of plumbing that could only be reached through this particular entry.
I listened, but the place was dead quiet. There wasn’t a worker in evidence.
The phone buzzed again. Ah, an explanation from Ben.
“Did you get the fuchsia napkins?” It was Claire Sullivan. We were on such intimate terms that formal greetings could now be dispensed with.
“Yes, they are already up at Emily’s, do you want to stop by and inspect them?”
“Can you bring them by tonight? We want to be sure they match the bridesmaid dresses.” She meant her dress; the matron of honor was to wear scarlet, which is a more polite name for fire engine red.
“No, I can’t,” I was a patient as I could be, given the caller. “I’m in Claim Jump.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Working,” I said pointedly. “I can mail a napkin to you, so you can check on the color. I can even overnight it if you’d like.”
She signed noisily. “No, I’ll drive up to Mrs. Stone’s house myself. Honestly. You knew we needed to match the dresses.”
“But you aren’t wearing the dresses to the shower are you?”
“Everyone will be able to tell.” Her tone was firm, her point, obvious.
I clicked off. I was tempted to call the contractor to inquire about the hole in front of my stairs, but resisted. I did not want to confuse, distract or piss off the lead contractor, a very important man whose name escaped me. I stared at the hole. Honestly, matching the napkins to an absent dress, how obsessively controlling. My offer to mail the napkin was hollow; I still couldn’t remember where I left the shipping box. Did I have time to order more?
I needed fortification. I retreated to the kitchen and retrieved an emergency carton Ben & Jerry’s Cookie Dough ice cream. Ice cream in hand, I returned to the stairs. Clutching the carton and spoon, I was able to stretch forward over the hole and could just grab the banister knob. My fingers froze to the carton because I had such a grip on it. Praying that the banister could hold my weight, with a heave I cleared the hole and jumped on the bottom stair.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out Page 11
