Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 05 - A 380 Degree View
Page 27
Ben stood at the fence and flicked a chip of paint off one of the fence staves.
“Except for the fire.”
“You are pretty hot.”
He smiled at me but his attention was on the house. “Do you think the house is tainted? You know, bad juju because of Lucky?”
I shook my head. “Buyers from Sacramento or the Bay Area don’t even care about Lucky Masters. After a couple years, it won’t matter.”
And tomorrow I’d get rid of the baby doll heads. Poor Penny was unstable certainly, vengeful, definitely. Even as we spoke, Tom and his deputies were searching for the gun, failing that, he assured me the bullet lodged in the deck would most likely match the bullet in poor Mattie. That much was certain. What is not certain was if Penny intended for every resident of Claim Jump to die in an accidental fire.
Ben nodded “That’s true, so you could reinterpret the situation, so to speak, if you wanted.”
“I can do anything I want,” I countered automatically.
“I like staying with your grandmother. She’s great, but I think we’d be more happy with our own place.”
“That’s been the conversation for months now.” I said it as gently as I could, I didn’t want to startle him, but every once in a while I felt the need to state the obvious.
“I know. I like this house.”
“What?” I didn’t say it as loudly as it looks on paper. I said it very softly. Because, Mr. Ben Stone, Rock Solid Service had not uttered these words about any house, in any county.
“You do?” I pushed a bit just a bit. I liked this house too.
“Yes, I do.”
“I thought you liked Penny’s house.”
“I do. But it’s too far out of town and you want to be in town.”
“I do, but are you sure?”
“I’ll pay you 1.4 for it.” I knew Ben was serious, he had the money, and he had the desire. He had me at “I like.”
“It’s listed for 1.8” I pointed out, muscle memory, I can’t help it, negotiation is automatic. But Penny would have agreed to a lesser offer. She had said that.
“I have a feeling the estate will take the offer.”
“You are probably right, especially since it needs a lot of work.”
“Of course it does,” Ben agreed pleasantly. “You’ll have to divide your time between here and River’s Bend until you sell your house.”
“You mean you’d live here full time?” I gripped one of the fence staves it gave slightly, dry rot. Damn.
I looked up at the house. I loved the widow’s walk, I loved the kitchen flooded with sunshine, I loved that it was walking distance to every restaurant and bar in town. Hell, we would be smack in the middle of everything.
“You like to be close to all the action,” he commented.
“Nothing happens in Claim Jump,” I insisted doggedly.
“No,” he hugged me. “Of course not.”
Continue on with Allison
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Trash Out
Book 5 of the Real Estate Diva Mysteries
My stomach clenched at the sight of him. I stepped back into the shadow of the building as he worked his way through the party guests, glad-handing everyone, to the front patio area. Had he seen me? I fervently hoped not. Then again, when had he ever really seen me? I glanced around, but I was too far from the tasting room entrance for a quick exit inside. Besides, a sudden movement would telegraph my presence for certain.
I eyed him while arranging strands of my hair around my face as a pathetic disguise. I felt like my nieces and nephews who used to hide behind a door and close their eyes because if they couldn’t see me, I couldn’t see them. I always saw them, so I knew my ploy did not have longevity on its side.
He had lost some hair. He had gained some weight. We all look a little older in our late thirties, but he had aged more. Much more. And his face looked like his features had been moved around like a Mr. Potato Head that had been played with too vigorously then returned to the box all the features intact, but rumpled, never the same as when the toy was new. Maybe Mark had spent too much time baking in the sun, not because he toured the world on his yacht or because he volunteered to rebuild communities in Haiti, but because he didn’t pay attention pool side and always managed to get sun burned.
Mark’s arm snaked around the slender waist of a girl half his age. I blinked, why was she familiar? Because she had arrived with Peter O’Reilly, hit on Ben and now was latched onto Mark more tightly than a panicked abalone. As Mark worked the crowd, he failed to introduce her, funny; I hadn’t caught her name when she was attached to Peter either.
Mark introduced himself to one couple, then the next, then the next. I could hear him in my head even before he was close enough for me to hear him in real time.
“I’m Mark Cincet, damn glad to meet you.” He held the girl and his wine glass in his left hand and shook with his right hand. The girl obediently followed him and seemed unconcerned that he wasn’t bothering to introduce her. She had been completely devoted to Peter a half hour ago, and yet here she was glued to Mark’s side as if they were joined at the hip. She only offered a closed lipped smile if anyone thought to address her. I admired her discipline and focus if nothing else. I rarely stay by Ben’s side for very long. I am constantly disengaging from Ben every time I see something shiny.
Peter’s feelings were the least of my concerns. I took a deep breath, Rosemary insisted that I needed to do more Zen deep breathing. For once I wished I had listened to her. A text or a phone call would be a welcome distraction right now, or I could fake it, I could pretend I needed to answer my phone. I eyed him as he approached. Now I could hear him. From his practiced patter, he was just working on the hi, how the hell are you, bullshit and not delivering any real, useful information.
What a surprise.
At least I was dressed for battle. I had found a draped, low cut cocktail dress (blue, not fuchsia) on sale at Chico’s. My hair was currently bouncy and shiny since I had just escaped Robert’s ministrations. Plus, I was wearing my new, light catching engagement ring. All I needed was my new eye catching fiancé, but Ben was nowhere to be found, he was off saving another damsel. Damn it.
As Mark approached I glanced around, tamping down a rising bile in my throat that had nothing to do with the mollusk family. Where were my people? They were clearly in the parking lot tents or out back. I was surrounded by faces I did not recognize. Was Mark one of the workers? Did he work for Patrick? That would be rich.
He approached. I had half a mind to make a dash for it and hide in the wine tasting room, or behind Carrie in the pergola. I knocked back the rest of the wine and wiped my lips. My fucking worst nightmare was right here in sunny daylight.
He greeted another cluster of guests and had just tossed his head back in a laugh when he caught sight of me. Well, that was it. He lowered his head and frowned as the wheels turned round and round (fairly laboriously in Mark’s case) as he struggled to place me. Come on, how many girls did he leave at the altar? Should I even ask?
“Allison? Allison!” He exclaimed loud enough for about a hundred of the guests to hear. “Allison Little.”
It was, I hoped, loud enough to be heard at the pergola, but I wasn’t holding out any hope. I glanced nervously behind me.
I saw Carrie’s head jerk up like a deer sensing the hunter. She took one look at me, patted Patrick’s arm and determinedly made her way to my side. God bless the woman.
“What are you doing here?” Mark reached me first, but help was on the way. I kept my expression pleasant, professional. I regretted that I held no sharp objects in my hand, but the oyster knife wasn’t far. I’m sure the nice young man would loan it to me for just a few minutes. Picturing Mark with his heart cut from his chest and still beating as I held it up to the Aztec gods calmed me better than the damn breathing.
“Wow, Allison, it’s been a lo
ng time.” He stopped three feet from me, the girl still clinging to his left side. He took the wine glass from her hand and sipped, then absently handed it back to her.
“Yes, it has.” On closer inspection, he looked ravaged. He really had not aged well. I was uncertain if his appearance was accidental or if this was his signature look: early debauchery. No question he had definitely spent the last few years doing too much of something. Maybe I dodged a bullet after all; it was a pathetically cheerful thought.
“You look the same.” He offered lamely.
I stretched an insincere smile across my face. “You look pretty changed, what have you been up to?”
“Yeah, I’ve lived pretty hard.” He gave the girl a squeeze but she wasn’t paying attention to either him or me, her attention had wandered. “But I’m not sorry. I had a lot of deals both good and bad, my one weakness is I take it so personally when a promising company doesn’t reach its full potential. I think this one will do great, don’t you agree? You know, I swim with the sharks, that’s where the good eating is.”
Great, his thirty second elevator speech. He stood me up at the altar at the Marin Country Club in front of 250 guests and what do I get? His thirty-second elevator speech.
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Author’s note: A 380 Degree View was taken directly from a flyer a friend sent me. While I was writing the book, my husband and I were searching for a second home in Nevada City. I can’t remember if Allison and Ben decided to buy Lucky Master’s house before we found our perfect house in Nevada City, or after. But the parallels remain. We aren’t downtown like Allison is, I don’t want that much day to day activity right at my door step. But as Allison will tell you, nothing happens in Claim Jump.
Now the official part:
Catharine Bramkamp is the writer part of Newbie Writers Podcast (www.NewbieWriters.com) that focuses on newer writers and their concerns. She is a successful writing coach and author of a dozen books including the five book Real Estate Diva Mystery Series and most recently, Future Girls (Eternal Press). She holds two degrees in English, and is an adjunct professor of writing for two Universities.
She and her husband have parented two boys past the age of self-destruction and into the age of annoying two word text missives No character in the Real Estate Diva Mystery series is real, except for maybe Allison.
www.YourbookstartsHere.com
Comments? bramkamp@yahoo.com
Photo by Deanne Fitzmaurice