Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 02 - Time Is of the Essence

by Catharine Bramkamp

  “No love lost there.” Jimmy approached with the wine bottle.

  “What is it with those two?” I asked. I mean, besides the fact that Mathew was young and successful and Danny was a washed up good-old boy.

  “Danny worked for Lucky for years, all that cutting and clearing? He was hoping for the foreman job once the construction started, but Mathew appeared about that time and took over the whole Red Dog project. Very bossy, but never got his hands dirty, you know?”

  I knew.

  “What about all these illegal homes up here?” I ventured, what did I care about those? But they’re very existence bothered me – a lot.

  “No one cares. There was so much money in the project already that Lucky could afford to look the other way. I was working for the city then. Danny helped me build my place. It’s not illegal, just no official permits. It’s pretty good, no problems, a little cold in the winter, but we’re okay. So that was never it. There was something else that bugged Danny, make him crazy but he never told anyone, at least not me. Mathew was the one who made sure the sub division was finished ahead of time and under budget. The houses sold like hot cakes.”

  For a second there was a crack of emotion. He cared for his friend and empathized with him. I wanted to open that crack and talk more, but Jimmy covered up his slip of emotions pretty quickly.

  “One of the county supervisors bought about five homes in the Red Dog project, and flipped them in the next year, made a pile of money.” He took a breath. “And now there’s another project.”

  “Who’s overseeing this at the City? The City manager?”

  “Don’t have one. And the assistant manager is new, she’s only been here for about six months and she doesn’t like the fire chief. Lucky just does his own thing and the City Council members love him because he’s one of them. Brings a lot of money to the town.”

  “Sounds like the same old, same old,” I said.

  “Yeah, nothing new in Claim Jump,” Jimmy agreed.

  Mathew returned, holding a plastic cup in one hand and pushing Tiffany away with the other, but she ignored him and kept as close as she could.

  “Things are pretty good,” he continued as if everyone around him was raptly listening to his story. “We have some older people in town, you know people who came here during the gold rush, societies, those kinds of people. But they aren’t too much of a problem, they come and complain, want to see the council meeting minutes, that kind of thing, but we tell them things are fine and we just move on.”

  “The bitch with the stop sign was pain in the ass,” said a voice from the couch, I could never tell exactly from where the sound came. It was as if the couch spoke. And the couch needed to get out more, it was not very interesting.

  “She just wants the traffic to be reasonable,” I defended her, mostly because I felt like taking the contrary position.

  “There must be something we can do to get her to shut up,” the couch spoke again.

  “We can plant something on her,” one drunk offered helpfully.

  “Yeah, but that would involve Tom and he doesn’t do stuff like that anymore,” Jimmy pointed out.

  All in good fun I suppose, but still I had an odd feeling about the conversation. Maybe these yokels weren’t as innocent and harmless as I thought. Just because a person is incapable of working with the system, doesn’t mean they don’t have a few skills outside the system.

  I smiled at both of them. Then excused myself, hoping that would help Tiffany along in her pursuit of her man.

  I myself had a sudden urge to talk to an adult. Because we are the man, man. I missed Ben. Wary of standing outside in the growing darkness – wild and displaced animals — I chose to huddle in the bathroom. At least Jimmy had installed indoor plumbing. The bathroom window framed a killer view. I could see the lights of highway 20 over on the opposite ridge.

  But my cell phone had no bars at all. Not a single one.

  When I returned the conversation had switched from sticking it to the man to hanging out at the river. What day was it? Didn’t matter, I was on break.

  “So.” Mathew sidled up next to me, pressing his chest against my side, and of course, some of my breast. There is really no avoiding them.

  “The party is getting a little dull. Come back to my place for a drink?”

  I smiled happily as if I was on the verge of saying - oh yes, I haven’t finished my quota of regrettable sexual encounters, take me away baby – but instead I said, “I’d love to have a drink with you, what do you think of the Blue Moon bar downtown?”

  The river was enough danger for one twenty four hour period. I needed crowds.

  He nodded, somewhat in defeat and we arranged to meet downtown in twenty minutes.

  Tiffany glared at me as I said my happy good-byes.

  I also insisted on driving myself. I know, not very ecological of me, but safer. If drank too much, it was an easy walk to Grandma’s from downtown.

  I pulled out the still silent phone – no bars, no reception. Damn.

  I tossed it back into my dot pattern purse that matched the shoes, and leisurely drove down the hill.

  When I was a kid the city and county ran a large information campaign on both Red Dog ridge and the adjacent development, Gold Ridge. I remember big billboards with pictures showing good homes and bad homes. The bad homes allowed Manzanita and pine trees to crowd close to their homes, and the back yards were filled with grasses and debris. The good houses were as clean and sterile as something in Rivers Bend.

  But that’s not why people buy homes in the Foothills.

  I drove by many, many bad houses. Manzanita bushes are not only prickly, they burn hot.

  Before the turn that opens up to March Avenue and cute mid- nineteenth century homes, a big green sign announced the hearing date for Lucky Master’s next project.

  I wondered where those ten houses that burned so quickly were located. Were they here? Or in another town? The conversation this afternoon wasn’t all that clear. What a surprise.

  There are quite a few choices for drinks in Claim Jump. It wouldn’t be a gold rush town if there wasn’t one bar for every ten citizens. I parked up the street and walked down the sloping sidewalk to the Blue Moon.

  The Blue Moon is a tad more upscale than the Mine Shaft, Gold Rush, Liz’s Place, Paul’s Bar, Sophie’s Bar and the Hootenay. This is the land of Lola Montez, Lotta Crabtree and third sons with nothing to lose. The Gold County - where the men are dirty and the women flamboyant. Not a place for sissies.

  The Blue Moon was full. Five or six patrons huddled around tables meant for two. People laughed, called to each other, and didn’t mind the cramped space. I finally saw Mathew in the back waving. I waved back and threaded my way to the increasingly shadowed section of the bar.

  He had ordered a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, a safe choice but nice. I turned the bottle, Glen Ellen, not local. I was very interested in sampling the local wines, but not tonight apparently.

  “It’s a relief to get away from that group,” he commented as I arranged myself.

  “Then why do you go?”

  “Not many people my age around here.” He filled my glass.

  “Go to Sacramento.” I sipped at my wine. Not bad, then again I think Jimmy was probably pouring Two-Buck Chuck at his party.

  jMatthew leaned back in the tiny chair, almost lost his balance and pulled back upright again. “Tell me about you.”

  “You’ve already seen a great deal,” I countered.

  “Yes, but I don’t know you.” He rested his arms on the table, it wobbled, and he pulled back. I picked up my glass before it tipped over.

  “Did you go to school here?”

  I shook my head. “I was raised in Novato.” I name the town instead of saying Marin because it’s far less incendiary than saying I was raised in Marin. Just the mention of Marin County launches countless unintentional consequences, not the least of which was the immediate idea that I was privileged and a snob. That
’s true of many residents there, I should know, but not of me. I avoid the association every chance I get. My mother, on the other hand, inserts her county of residency into every conversation.

  “I live in Sonoma County.”

  “Oh.” He twirled his glass by the stem. “I just wondered because you seem to know so many people here.”

  “A few.” I looked around the bar, the old wood, the old, genuine bricks, the hard seats. It was pretty typical of Claim Jump, in that it was historic, atmospheric and tiny.

  “So, you’re interested in city politics?” I started.

  “Yes, you would not believe the disorganization. And it didn’t come to light until after the assistant city manager was fired, then of course the city manger was fired a year later.

  “When did Lucky Master’s second project get passed?”

  “What? Oh, I don’t know, six years ago?” He finished his wine and poured himself another glass.

  “You don’t remember the date?”

  “Don’t have a head for dates. Besides it’s in county property the city politics didn’t apply.”

  “The county seat is right here.” I finished my wine and pretended to reach for the bottle.

  He nodded. “But staffed by different people. Anyway, it’s a good project, the city will profit once the project is annexed and they get the builder’s fees, quite a sizable chunk of cash.” He did not get my message and did not offer to pour me more wine.

  “How do you know all this? Do you live here?” I poured myself a healthy amount from the

  bottle.

  “I have a home here and one in Sacramento. Why?”

  “Just asking, you don’t speak like a local.”

  “I hope not.” He smiled – his teeth were perfect, not like the ground down, darker smiles I was just treated to at Jimmy’s house.

  “What do you do?” It’s a common question, it’s easier to pin and organize people. The job or profession gives an idea on personality or ability to pay the dinner check.

  My job completely reflects who I am. I am real estate.

  “I work for a law firm,” he said.

  ‘Oh, around here?”

  “No, in Sacramento.” And he shut up after that, which is actually unusual. I don’t run into many attorneys who aren’t just pleased as hell to regale me with their prowess in court and how smart they are, and how hard they work for the “little guy”. His reticence was a pleasant change.

  So I switched subjects to municipal challenges in Claim Jump.

  “We have a few wing-nuts in the city, but people are moving away from all this eco-groovy kind of thing and realizing that we need progress.”

  “You know a lot about it.”

  “Yes, I follow the politics up here, it’s a hobby.”

  An attorney kind of hobby. And as cute as he was, I’m not a big fan of attorneys.

  I allowed myself to kill the bottle of wine then politely said good night. He didn’t even try to kiss me, which is good, right? I didn’t know.

  I checked my phone as I walked back to my car. There was a single message from Ben. That’s nice, but I really needed a message from the elusive Christophers saying they found their client or better, the paper work.

  It was too late to call Ben back, and I didn’t feel like leaving another pathetic whiny message on the Christopher’s message machine.

  I drove back home and let myself in through the reliably unlocked kitchen door.

  I woke the next morning in a slightly better mood. The traffic still snaked down from high up Red Dog road to jam on Marsh Avenue. But I ignored it. By 8:00 in the morning, traffic had thinned quite a bit. The five-thirty commute was the most crowded. Lord, what if everyone wanted to get off the mountain at the same time?

  I hadn’t visited the greenhouse yet, and so I poured my coffee and headed out into the mild, sunny morning.

  The greenhouse is just steps away from the back patio. The building itself is not huge, maybe 500 square feet. But when I was very small, that building with all those glass panels looked exotic and enormous. And when I stood at the end of the building inside and looked down all those high benches covered with green plants, it looked as if they stretched to infinity.

  I pushed open the glass and wood door but it didn’t move as I expected. I looked down – a brand new metal lock barred my way.

  I sipped my coffee and regarded the lock for a full minute. Then walked back to the kitchen.

  “There’s a lock on the greenhouse,” I announced.

  Grandma looked up from the local paper. “We put that on during the Fourth. Pat thought it would be a good idea. The key is right there by the door.”

  I pulled the key off the bent nail and trudged outside again, all the spontaneity was drained from my project, but now I was committed and determined to follow through.

  One thing about greenhouses, especially the romantic kind built during the Victorian era (and any thing that’s old in California is Victorian, because it can’t be any older, unless it’s Mission) is that as pretty as greenhouses are in line drawings, in real life they can be quite dirty. The glass roof attracts more than its share of bird poop, and the panels are often streaked with yellow pine pollen. I suppose hired crews clean the conservatory in San Francisco, but there are no crews of people hanging around the corner of Main and Marsh avenues waiting to come up and clean greenhouses for cash. Locals here are busy people; there are rivers to sit by, progress to impede, officials to bribe.

  So despite the indifferent efforts of the line of gardeners my grandmother tries to hire to do yard work, the green house is not a crystal palace; it’s more opaque.

  The middle was cleared for work space, the sides planks were covered with Prue’s tomato plants. I wandered up and down the plants for a bit. There were some flowering plants, starts for something, I couldn’t tell, just little green shoots pushing out of the dirt. All very hopeful and metaphoric.

  In September, a glass house gets very, very hot, very early in the day. I was sweating by the time I traversed up and down the house twice. Not great for meditating; too warm.

  I remember this was more fun in winter when the snow was in high contrast to the green plants inside.

  “Prue, why aren’t the tomatoes ripe?” I asked. I hung the key back on the nail and headed for the coffee maker.

  “Oh, those in the greenhouse are just starts, the mature ones are in the back behind the barn.”

  I nodded and trekked back outside to pick real tomatoes. It’s too foggy in Rivers Bend to grow good tomatoes. I tried a couple of times, but I don’t get the results my grandmother consistently gets. She even enters her tomatoes in the county fair. My mother rolls her eyes so far back in her head she looks like one of those old fashion baby dolls with scary movable eyes. My mother, Frances, would not be caught dead at the County Fair, not even the Marin County fair. If mom could, she’d send the servant girl out to shop in the market. But she can’t because there are no servant girls in Marin, not with the cost of housing. So mom has to drag herself to Safeway and do her own shopping. Mom hasn’t been happy about it for forty years.

  We all have our burdens.

  Relaxing was difficult work, and yesterday at the river seemed to take care of all my sunshine and overexposure needs. I was restless. I checked my phone. No message from the Christopher’s. No message from Ben.

  I called Patricia’s cell, she’s in training to be our escrow coordinator.

  She picked up her own phone. “Hello, Allison.”

  “I’m calling about the Brown’s offer, do you have anything back?”

  “All I have is I have this one thing from the Christophers. Let me pull it up. It’s an Interspousal transfer Grant Deed.”

  “What? When?”

  “It was dated last month.”

  “In whose favor?”

  “His.”

  “She didn’t say anything about that. ” I meant Debbie, the seller. There is no real reason she’d share with me that sh
e was no longer officially on the deed, it didn’t really matter, but it was odd.

  “So we don’t need Debbie’s signature?”

  “Nope, Just the husband. And it looks like he signed.”

  He signed. She didn’t have to. My clients signed. Everything was signed. I was entitled to a big sigh of relief. I was finished. I was nervous. I felt uneasy. Why didn’t I know about the form? And why transfer, weren’t they both moving? Together?

  But whom could I call? Rosemary or Katherine, either could look into it.

  Oh hell.

  I punched in their numbers. Katherine was out, Rosemary was happy to hear from me.

  “Are you relaxing?” She demanded.

  “Uh, sure?” I responded. I was more interested in documents.

  “I’ll send you something about relaxing that should really work for you, it’s all based on breathing and counting, really simple, even you can do it.”

  “Thanks, can we talk about business? Because that does help me relax.”

  “No problem, see what you need to do is take a breath and say, one. Then take another deep breath and say, two. This will fill your body and your mind with positive energy and you will feel more relaxed and in control.”

  “Rosemary, what do you know about the Interspousal Transfer Form?”

  “Then breathe again and say three.”

  “Three. Rosemary, the form?”

  I supposed my tone was less relaxed than normal, she paused and then gave me information I could use. Deep breaths, what a crock.

  The phone clicked, but I finally had Rosemary in information mode, so I ignored it. If it’s important, someone will leave a message. Rosemary explained she had dealt with one deal involving an Interspousal form. The guy had his wife sign over her deed, sold the house, then divorced her.

  I thought of the huge TV in the Bixby bedroom. Maybe that was the case. It was not really my problem.

  Finished with Rosemary, who wasn’t all that helpful. I listened to the message the other caller had left as I wandered back into the house.

  Grandma never decorated her place per se. I think Pat and Mike helped a bit. The front rooms, the parlor and the sitting room as well as the dining room were furnished with more or less period antiques, some of them hailed from Pat’s own collection and some were purchased, per Pat’s suggestions. The dining room set, Queen Anne, was certainly lovely, but I liked the old set; a plank of plywood balanced between two saw horses. Grandma used to toss a bolt of green and yellow Marimeko fabric over the top and voila, it was now a dinning table. At the height of her guest participation phase, people would find chairs around the house and pull up to the table. When the communal life sort of faded out, Pat insisted on purchasing a decent table for Grandma, thus the Queen Anne. Grandma eats in the kitchen.