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

by Catharine Bramkamp

  “Tell me about it.” Danny said morosely. He was crumpled into a lawn chair, his bare dirty legs splayed out.

  “How is your house?” I accepted a drink from my grandmother. “And how is Jimmy’s house?”

  He took a deep breath and gulped down half his martini. “Still there.”

  “Did you stay up there?” I asked, not a little horrified at the thought.

  “The fire wasn’t around us, but yeah, we had to stay and keep water on the house. Jimmy had some friends working his. I sprayed mine myself.”

  “Didn’t council member Schmidt lives up at the very top of Red Dog?” Prue asked suddenly.

  Danny shrugged. “He was before my time. I think we share a driveway, or he put in the drive way and I share it, something like that.”

  “He wasn’t at the party.” I said helpfully.

  “I take it Johnson Pass wasn’t clear enough for the equipment or people to exit off the mountain the other way?” Prue asked.

  Danny shook his head, “Prue, Johnson Pass has been closed for years. You know that. Can’t get anything but a tank through that stuff.”

  “Did the fire burn it out?”

  “Don’t know, didn’t check.”

  I lapsed into silence, the air was so warm and comforting, it didn’t seem possible we had recently brushed with disaster.

  “Schmidt. He used to be on the board of supervisors, then retired, then was bored, or his wife made his leave the house so she could have lunch with her friends in peace, so he ran for City Council and won.” Prue said thoughtfully, delivering information that none of us really cared about, but had to listen to anyway. “I did hear he had a place up the road.”

  “When was he on the board of supervisors?” I wasn’t really paying attention but I did want to be polite, especially since Danny wasn’t going to keep his end up. At the rate we were slipping, it was going to be an afternoon devoted to napping. Not a bad thing to do.

  “Back in the seventies,” Prue offered.

  “Wasn’t that when Lucky Masters built his first development?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “They’re talking about annexing all the new stuff, all the way down to here, into the City.” Danny said with a tone in his voice I did not recognize.

  Prue shook her head. “We’ll fight that, we don’t want this annexed.”

  “Too expensive for the city,” I concluded, which it is.

  Danny left just as Pat, Mike and Peter showed up to keep Grandma company.

  “Didn’t you use to date Danny?” Prue asked.

  “Didn’t date, just hung out together,” I corrected. I did not want Prue to turn Danny into one of my new friends. I was fine on my own.

  I did nap, and woke just in time to pull on a dress, the matching shoes and dash outside to wait for Matthew, who had left a message at three on Grandma’s phone telling me he’d pick me up. No messages on my own phone. I was starting to feel a bit neglected.

  I rubbed my arms and stepped out closer to the edge of the road pavement. Cars were parked at odd angles all along the road every one of them facing downhill. No one was suppose to go up past our house to Red Dog Road until the fire department had secured it. Since the local Claim Jump department boasted four paid firefighters along with ten volunteers, it would take a while.

  But here was Matthew’s BMW cruising down from Red Dog Road. Apparently he didn’t need to follow the rules.

  We went for drinks at the more raucous Ravenous Bar.

  “This is loud, do you want to go someplace more quiet?” I asked.

  “No, this is kind of fun, but we can move outside.”

  So I was back on display. Well, I wore the same dress I wore to the party the other night, so I hope Matthew planned to introduce me to new people. I’d hate to think what these appearances were doing to my reputation as a Fashion Diva.

  I stretched my legs and admired my wedge sandals. They had survived the trip up to Danny’s, all that nasty red dirt and gravel road. Looking pretty good. I tugged at my top and leaned on the table to gaze directly at my date, but before I could execute any good maneuver, the friggin’ phone rang.

  I smiled apologetically at Matthew, who gestured that I should get it. He continued to drink his Chardonnay.

  I was drinking Sauvignon Blanc. I hate Chardonnay.

  Anyway, answer the phone.

  “I’m on the east side of Rivers Bend. Patricia said you know it pretty well because your sister-in law lives there. Where is Floral Way?” Heather’s voice faded, then unfortunately, came back strong.

  I tried to reign in my exasperation. “Take a left on Laurel, then a right on Lancaster, the road sweeps to the right again, but stay on it.” I gestured to stay on the road.

  “Okay, I see it now. Thanks.”

  “Anytime.” Why did I say that?

  I clicked off and glanced up at Matthew.

  “What was that?” He asked.

  “Giving directions.”

  “You give enthusiastic directions.”

  “Um, thanks?” We regarded each other. He was certainly lovely. “You were saying?” I tried to rescue the conversation, which was difficult since it wasn’t very scintillating in the first place.

  “I wasn’t saying anything. I just thought we’d sit here and drink our wine.” He waved to a couple across the street. They smiled, a bit tensely as if they were afraid he’d call them over and force them into conversation. But he let them off the hook.

  “The DeRosas. Do you know them?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, well. They are always… I mean. They attend city council meetings, want to legalize marijuana.”

  “Really? On a state level or just locally?”

  He sighed and a clear expression of anguish flickered across his features, one of the first unguarded emotions I’d seen.

  “Pot shouldn’t be legalized, it’s a bad drug,” he said.

  “Spoken by a man with a glass of wine in his hand,” I pointed out ruthlessly.

  “It kills,” he said simply. His fingers tightened on the stem of his glass.

  “Please, no one dies from an overdose of pot, unless you are so addled that you dive into the river, hit your head and drown.” I was a little flippant but really, it was the truth.

  “How did you know?” His voice was strained and his fingers gripping the stem of his glass were white around the nail beds. I was afraid of the glass stem breaking. But it was a real reaction. One of the first genuine reactions I had seen. And I didn’t know why.

  “What do you mean, how did I know? First of all, we lose about two people a year because of accidents at the river. But I would guess the accidents stem from one too many beers rather than one too many puffs,” I goaded him. I’m not in favor of pot per se, but it’s not the root of all social ills.

  He drained his glass and banged it on the table. I gestured to the waiter for another.

  “My brother was a pot head,” Matthew said tersely. “Spent the summers up here while I was in school.”

  “You were the good child,” I concluded. I could relate to that, being the bad child and all.

  “I worked at being the good child.” He pointed out.

  I had no idea a child had to work at being the good child. It reminded me of Carrie’s relationship with Patrick. Working at it. Working the relationship. I’ll work at relationship MARKETING, but must a love relationship be a boat-load of work?

  If it is, count me out. I’d like at least one thing in my life to be easy.

  The waiter poured Matthew another glass of wine and I ordered another for myself.

  “It wasn’t so bad, being the good one.” A smile flashed across his handsome features for just a second. “But you can die. Pot needs to be eradicated, especially from this county.”

  I narrowed my eyes, this from a man hanging out with pot smoking locals at the river? It seemed rather hypocritical.

  “But people are going to do what they are going to do.�
� As if that was a good enough excuse.

  “Maybe, but they also can be stopped.” He gulped down the second glass and called for a third.

  “Maybe.” I echoed.

  He insisted on driving me home and walking me to the kitchen door, as if we were on an old fashion date. The wine hadn’t really affected him that much and it hadn’t affected me at all. I turned and offered Matthew my hand. It took it and firmly pulled me in for a kiss on the lips. I had no opportunity to respond either favorably or unfavorably.

  I struggled to gain equilibrium. “Good night,” I managed even though it was still daylight.

  “Good evening.” He saluted and strolled back to his car.

  I carefully kept the screen door from slamming behind me as I let myself into the kitchen.

  “Ben!”

  6,

  Ben Stone. Rock Solid. Standing in my grandmother’s kitchen. Ben stood in the center of the kitchen. Big and alive. His broad shoulders seemed to overwhelm the small kitchen. My grandmother hovered in the back ground, rubbing her hands like a happy leprechaun. Even her gray curls looked pleased. Out of all the fantasies I’ve created and replayed about the man, this was decidedly not one of them.

  “So, who was that?” Ben greeted me in a not too friendly manner.

  “A friend.” I countered not meeting his eyes.

  “A good friend from the looks of it.” He narrowed his blue eyes and glared at me, as if he could penetrate me with X-ray vision.

  “Maybe.” What was I saying? I just spent an hour with someone I completely mistrust, and don’t even think I like much, and here is a man who I do trust and do like and I jerk him around.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked instead.

  “I don’t know.” His gaze softened, he was no longer working hard to x-ray through me. He looked sincerely surprised at his own reaction. His eyes narrowed and once again, I was at a loss for the appropriate romantic language. Hell, I was at a loss for any good words at all. Oh sure, now the two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc kick in.

  Is it fair to say he takes my breath away? Or is that just another cliché to explain the tightness in my chest and my inability to suck in enough oxygen to keep my eyes from rolling into the back of my head before I efficiently pass out?

  Thank God I wore a decent outfit, in fact, the best outfit I brought up with me.

  But Ben was not charmed by my appearance, I could tell, a woman knows this kind of thing.

  “What are you doing with him?” Ben repeated.

  “Him? There is no HIM. He’s a guy I met up here who actually invited me to dinner – in public - and thinks I’m sexy,” I retorted. “It’s not like you were here to squire me around.”

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Why is it we devolve into Junior High when we discuss this?”

  I waited, I remembered enough lessons about betel nuts and cannibal negotiations to know when to keep my mouth shut.

  “I was wrong,” he confessed suddenly. I almost staggered against the weight of what he said, but it would have looked like a comic pratfall, inappropriate in this instance.

  “I thought you’d be surprised, pleased.” He explained.

  “I am pleased.” I said, this time more sincerely.

  “Philistines!” Raul bellowed from the front of the house.

  Ben looked a bit startled but did not let his expression slip, much.

  “They call that food! Shrimp and cream cheese tortured and stuffed into stale croissants!”

  “He ate lunch at Fabulous and it wasn’t very good,” Prue explained quickly. “He hasn’t recovered.”

  “Maybe the fire affected the shrimp delivery.” I pointed out unkindly.

  “Maybe.” Prue moved around Ben, she gave him a quick once-over and grinned at me. She reached into the freezer and pulled out a bag of frozen, and I suspect, re-frozen shrimp.

  “I’m either eating or tossing out everything in the ice box.” She explained to Ben. “Allison, can you pull out the strainer?”

  Grateful for some activity, I ducked my head under the sink and I pulled out the colander and dropped it into the sink with a clang. I could feel Ben watching me. What to say? What excuse could I use? Was I a bad person? I didn’t even deserve love, yet who, out of the two of us, mentioned love?

  “There is not an artist in the bunch!” Raul bellowed and within the second, the man himself appeared. Raul rarely wears shoes. He slid into the kitchen, and as usual, his socks offered no traction. Arms waving furiously he careened into the center of the room and headed directly towards the wall of sharp kitchen instruments. He slid to a stop just in time. He stared at an egg beater and, oblivious to his near miss of impalement, immediately turned his attention to me.

  “Allison, and what are you doing?” He glanced down at the shrimp in Grandma’s hands. “Ah, wait.”

  I waited while Raul disappeared. We heard a smack as he collided with the hall table with a bellow but he was quickly back clutching his camera.

  “Here we are! Allison, All Is Son. Now this, this is art.”

  I glanced down to where Raul had aimed his camera, he was focusing on the colander. Prue obediently pulled open the package of shrimp and dumped the contents into the circa 1935 aluminum colander. Raul moved in for a close up, peering at his flip-out screen.

  “That’s fabulous Allison, move your hands, run your hands through the shrimp. Love the shrimp. Ah, you have beautiful hands, move the shrimp around a little, yes just so.”

  I moved my hands as he directed. At least my manicure would be famous on You Tube, where most of Raul’s art now ends up.

  “Rinse now, slowly, wash the shrimp.”

  “Enough!” Ben bellowed.

  “Oh for God’s sake Raul, leave Allison alone.”

  “Thank you.” The elfish man smiled and bowed to Ben. “For allowing me to film your lover’s hands.”

  Ben just looked at Raul, who looks like what most people image Toulouse Lautrec to look like, small, French, even though I think he’s from Simi Valley, anyway, Raul doesn’t look all that threatening, unless you’re worried about the camera stealing your soul, then he’s a menace.

  “She’s,” Ben started, sputtered then shut up.

  “This is Allison’s friend.” Grandma leapt into the fire, and emphasized the word in a way that conveyed far more uncomfortable truths that I’d like. “Now shoo, go find out what Brick is up to and report back.”

  “Brick is too gloomy today.” Raul said, suddenly just as gloomily.

  “Brick is always gloomy.” Grandma retorted.

  “I will up load. Your hands, Allison, will be famous. I will call this the Handling of the Shrimp.”

  “I hope that’s all that will be famous.” Ben muttered.

  I shot him a look, then smiled at Raul. “See you later Raul.”

  “Care for a Cosmo?” Prue leapt into the awkward silence and lunged for the refrigerator.

  “No thank you.” Ben glared at me, smiled at my grandmother, and glared at me again.

  “What were you thinking going out with another man?” He finally sputtered.

  “I’m thinking he asked.”

  And didn’t mind taking me out in public.

  That still nagged, the public part, although I don’t know why it should. And Matthew’s reaction to pot, how could his brother die of it? Did he graduate to a stronger drug? I should ask Prue. The irony of learning this information over drinks was not lost on me.

  “And what is the conclusion?” Ben pursed the subject.

  “I’m not dating him, okay? He’s just someone I met.”

  “She needs more friends.” Grandma confirmed and handed Ben a Cosmo. He glanced at it, shrugged and took a drink.

  “Here, let’s make some dinner, how’s the shrimp coming along Allison?”

  I glanced down at my hands, still embedded in bright pick frozen shrimp. I pulled out my hands and dried them.

  “Fine Grandma.”

  “Well you sco
ot over. I’ll make us some pasta, that’s a good comfort food. Hand me my drink.”

  I gave the kitchen over to my grandmother. She can make pasta, it’s one of her few specialties and I was happy to conceded culinary expertise to her. Ben had never seen me really work in the kitchen, other than toasting a couple of English muffins. Now was not a strategic time to show off my ineptitude.

  “I don’t need more friends.” I assured Ben.

  “Are we friends?” He finished his Cosmo and looked around the kitchen. I knew what he was searching for.

  “Here,” I pulled out one of the bottles of Amador County Zinfandels I had picked up at Safeway.

  “I guess we’re friends.” I poured a healthy amount in a glass for him and an even healthier amount in a glass for me.

  “We’ve only been seeing each other for three weeks.” He explained patiently. “Hardly enough time to establish a reasonable rhythm of dating expectations.”

  “Or even a relationship.” I pointed out. Carrie had been seeing Patrick roughly the same amount of time and they had already progressed to the stage where they were working on improving each other. What was wrong with us?

  “Would you like one?” He took my arm and moved me gently from the kitchen out to the dining room and parlor. Raul was nowhere in sight, a good thing.

  “Wine?” I asked.

  “A relationship.”

  I paused in the hall. Behind me Prue was muttering and pulling more items out of the refrigerator. Before me I could see through the front windows and out to the street. The doors to my right and to my left led to rooms filled with furniture I had memorized. The man behind me, waiting patiently, was new.

  “This is the dining room.” I turned to my left and led Ben into the most respectable room in the house.

  “What is that?” He pointed to the tiny brown head resting in splendid isolation on the mantle above a brick fireplace.

  I had forgotten about that. “That’s from my Uncle Steve. He claims it’s a real shrunken head. He works with head hunters on a regular basis, so it could be true. But I bet he found it in San Francisco.”

  “It looks real enough, any reason why it’s in the dinning room?”

  “It’s my grandmother’s way of rebelling. This used to be a far more eclectically decorated home. But as soon as Pat and Mike – her best friends – got into the antique business, the décor improved.”