Ben and I walked downtown. I met up with Danny at Ravenous. Ben and Danny greeted each other with much the same affection as two dogs interact over a tasty bone. It wasn’t fair, Ben was towering and confident, Danny’s body looked like it was shrinking, but the pot belly stubbornly remained.
Ben didn’t pursue the conflict. After a couple of volleys concerning building supplies and how many two by fours they could carry in one load, Ben nodded to me and trailed off to the ornately caved bar. It came to Claim Jump by boat, around the horn. Most of the bars in town have the “came around the Horn by boat” providence. Who knew if it was true? It made for a good story.
“Okay, what is so important?” I hadn’t even ordered a drink. I just wanted to get this over with.
He slid over the paper to me.
The headline read Fire Destroys Seventeen Homes, Lucky Masters Promises to Help Rebuild.
“It’s all about Lucky.” I glanced at the reminder of the article.
“It’s always about Lucky.” Danny growled. He took a drag of his beer.
“You’ve been edgy since the fire.” I flipped the paper open, more burned out, gruesome photos. I glanced at the date. July 6, 2001.
“Wait, this was years ago, that first fire.”
Danny nodded. “Only a few homes that time, but they went up in flames much faster than anyone thought. Like this time.”
“Fifty homes this time.” I waited.
Any silence was difficult for him. He glanced over my shoulder at Ben. I twisted around, but Ben wasn’t looking at us. God, he was a good man.
“Cheap insulation, really cheap insulation. It works great as protection against snow and frost, keeps the homes pretty warm. But in a fire?”
“They burst into flames.” I finished for him. I knew about foam insulation of course, but no one uses that kind of insulation out here, for obvious reasons. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a California law against it.
“That’s what was put in all the homes.”
“All the Lucky Masters homes?” I searched my mind, was that specific substance illegal?
“ Some houses explode, some smolder which is just as bad as the fumes can knock a person out.”
“You know about a lot about it.”
He sighed. “Me, Lucky, the foreman, maybe a couple other people. He used part local and part out of town workers. But no one really knew they were doing anything wrong. Just saving money.” Danny stared into his beer glass. “And time.”
“You can’t really recall a house.” I pointed out.
“But you can stop it from happening to the next house.”
“Those new homes will be closer to town.” And closer to homes that were flammable for their own, more organic reasons, old timber, deferred maintenance, creative electrical wiring. Another fire wouldn’t just be a disaster, it would be a conflagration like the Oakland Hills.
“All Lucky’s homes?”
“Not mine, not Jimmy’s. I convinced Jimmy to put in fiberglass insulation.”
I smiled, that would make the insulation the only thing that was “code” in the whole structure.
“And why are you telling me this?”
He drained his glass. “I don’t know. I guess I think you care. And if something happens to me.”
“Nothing is going to happen to you.” I interrupted. God, I forgot he could be so melodramatic and why wasn’t he burdening his wife with this information? Oh, they divorced.
He nodded. “Sure, just the same. Now you know.”
He rose, glanced at Ben again and slammed the screen door on his way out. I didn’t move from my seat. Ben finally came and joined me.
“So,” Ben said. “It looks like you need another drink.”
I nodded absently.
“Learn anything?”
“Those homes that burned?” The bar tender served me my Penfold Cabernet and winked at Ben.
Yeah, I pick up men at bars every night of the week.
“The insulation in all the homes up above Grandma’s is that foam insulation. The kind that just blows between the walls. It’s easy to install and very cheap. And very flammable.”
“Fire storm waiting to happen?”
I nodded. “And it almost did. But I don’t know what to do with the information. Who would care? It’s over at this point.”
“If you could prove it, the owners could sue for damages,” he suggested.
“I hate promoting law suits.” Then something occurred to me. “You aren’t secretly an attorney or lawyer are you?”
“Hell no.”
We paused for a minute, drank our wine, admired the bar, listened to the story about how it was shipped around the Cape in 1850, and negotiated the dinner plans.
“So is Danny an old boyfriend?”
“Do you remember much about the seventies?” I responded.
“Yes, mostly.”
“Well the seventies lasted into 1986 up here.”
“Ah, so not really a boyfriend boy friend,” he concluded thoughtfully.
“What do they call it now a-days?”
“Something truncated for ease of texting I’m sure, but they use to call it friend with benefits.”
“That’s about right.”
“Is he still privileged?”
“Interesting question. No.” I answered quickly. Unlike Carrie, I was not in the mood to string things along, keep him guessing. He was too astute and focused for me to successfully pull off that kind of act.
“Hey,” he said softly.
“Hey what?” I responded, I admit, cautiously.
“I said I loved you, and you have not yet given me a response.”
I had a missing girl, a fire, a possible scapegoat, a disgruntled ex-lover and my grandmother was in some kind of trouble.
“This isn’t really a good time.” It sounded lame even to me.
“Oh, not a good time? So a man dishes his heart up on a platter and you stab it with a spork? Fine.”
“A fork,” I corrected. “Or to make it a more traditional image, a knife.”
“No, a spork, one of those plastic spooks with tiny spikes on the end – not a clean hit, oh no, but a messy grinding hit that jerks the heart around and tears it bleeding and shredded from the plate. A spork.”
I was stunned, really stunned and did not have a single word to say, in fact nothing came to me at all, my brain was out of practice.
“I don’t know what to say.” I wanted to put this off, if possible, for the next hundred years. I swore, after the debacle with a man who remains forever unnamed, that I would not, ever, hand my own heart over and, well, have the damn thing sporked.
“Okay,” he rose and towered over me for a minute. “I’ll just give you more space, that’s a seventies thing to do as well isn’t it?”
“I… “
But he left before I could formulate any more coherent words. And what were my words?
I drained my glass and smacked it on the table.
“You should have been nicer to him.” The bar tender advised.
“Oh shut up.”
I had to walk home again by myself. This was becoming monotonous and wrong. And it was my fault.
My grandmother didn’t help much either. She was relaxing on the back patio enjoying the fading light when I arrived home, hot, sweaty and thinking that maybe these warm nights weren’t all so great after all. Maybe a little cooling fog would help.
I plopped down and put my head in my hands.
“Where’s Ben?” Grandma asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh Allison, what did you say to the man? Do you take night classes in driving men away?”
“No, I just, he just.” I burst into tears, something I should have done earlier, except it’s emotional blackmail of the worst kind and not fair, especially when the other guy is wielding a spork metaphor.
Grandma stiffly rose and walked over to put her arms around me. “Oh honey, that’s okay, he’ll come b
ack.”
“No, no, he won’t. I blew it.” I snuffled.
“Now honey.” Grandma wedged herself into the seat and pulled me close. Even though Grandma is skinny, she still has a comforting smell and soft heart. I buried my head into her bony chest.
“He seems like a lovely boy, just what are you afraid of?” She patted my back encouragingly.
“I’m afraid of becoming my mother.” I sniffed.
“Oh honey… “
“And my sisters-in-law.”
“Well.” Prue started.
“And those women in the grocery store with those screaming sticky children all jammed in the cart and eating all the Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food before I can get to it myself.”
Prue wisely reminded silent, I was on a roll.
“And those women who wear those hideous corduroy jumpers teamed with pink long sleeve tee shirts and tan sensible shoes. Especially the sensible shoes.” I wailed and started crying harder.
“Honey, honey.” She pulled me closer, not for additional comfort, I think she was trying to smother me so I’d stop talking.
“I agree.”
“What?” My voice was muffled against her chest.
“We’ve had this talk before. Lord’s sake girl, how many times do we have to review this before you get it? Love does not mean sensible shoes. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Carrie is changing for Patrick, she’s working with a personal trainer.”
“I thought she was seeing the milk guy.”
“Never mind.”
“Look, this Ben is a nice man, and he likes you.”
“He doesn’t make enough money.” I sniffed.
“Since when does that matter?” Prue demanded. “Your grandfather and I had nothing, well, apparently we had Pat, but other than a collection of friends and this place, when we started, we had nothing.”
“You had my mother.”
“She wasn’t necessarily an asset. See, you are all ready ahead of the game. Allison.” She pushed me back so she could look at me. I was sporting a red skin, red eyed, blubbery face only a grandmother could love (my mother would have made some kind of comment like, a woman should not apply mascara in the morning if she is going to cry in the afternoon. A saying that could be embroidered on a pillow and sold downtown).
“Allison, you need to let yourself go at some point, and this time, it may as well be with a good decent man, regardless how little money he has. Money didn’t help much last time did it?”
I shook my head.
“Right, now you may want to find Ben, apologize and agree to at least risk his love.”
“That sounds like a song.”
“Everything eventually does.”
It was dark by the time I pulled myself together. Ben hadn’t returned to the house, but his truck was still in the driveway. So I called Carrie.
“I don’t’ know!” I wailed to Carrie. “Why would I let him leave me in the middle of an argument?”
“He said he loved you.” Carrie pointed out.
“But how can you love someone after only three, maybe four weeks?” I protested, completely immersed in my own pain.
Silence greeted me from the other side of the phone.
“Maybe it’s okay for some people.” She said coolly.
“Oh crap, look I’m sorry! What you and Patrick have is special, you know, different. Ben and I are just normal people and I know nothing about him.”
“You know more than most women. Some women, even today, marry men their parents chose, and it works out fine. What are you holding out for Allison?”
She paused to let me think about that. But I had no answer. Really, I didn’t. So I waited her out, hoping that she would provide the critical information.
“You deserve to be happy.” Carrie said quietly. “Maybe you need to think about that.”
I did think about it. Maybe I needed to relax, meditate, do that damn breathing thing Rosemary was telling me to do. I breathed in and said a random number, five. I headed for the greenhouse.
The green house was stifling hot, and dark. I flipped on the lights. I hadn’t gotten around to cleaning off the ash that coated the glass panels. The lights threw the plants into high contrast against the dark black glass.
Breath in. I wandered up and down the two tables –the little scraggly plants in their little half liter planter containers looked less and less like tomatoes the more I stared at them.
Not a single red tomato hung from any plant.
Sometimes you see things because people tell you what to see. I do it all the time—look, I explain to potential buyers—at the back yard space possibilities unencumbered by the previous owner’s vision (empty, weed filled lot). Look at the great room as possibilities for family fun (unfurnished living room needing paint), that kind of thing.
I was sure this was not what Rosemary had in mind. I was not meditating at all. I was peering, touching smelling.
Oh boy.
Who knew about this? I sort of knew about this, but denial is a contact sport in my family.
Suddenly I saw Tiffany’s ravaged face. She knew. Her parents were here in the seventies. She knew. And she told someone. Matthew? But why should he care? And even if he did, there was very little to be done here. Grandma’s house was not within the City limits and the sheriff really didn’t care. City limits.
I stopped breathing. So, all the rumors, all the innuendoes were right. I hate that. I like the honest and the good to be right. It’s part of the reason I read so much fiction; I crave neat, happy endings.
I walked back to the house, Grandma was already inside fixing something for dinner, but I didn’t have an appetite. Now I really knew something was wrong with me. I never turn down food.
I retrieved the Blue Willow plates and set two on the kitchen table. They looked lonely.
Where was Ben? I’m an idiot.
There was a knock at the door and Grandma answered.
“Mike, how are you?’
A young police officer stepped into the kitchen. He seemed nice enough, at least he had some laugh lines around his eyes. He wore his uniform with confidence bred from years dressed in pressed shirts and unconcealed weapons.
“Can I get you a … “ Grandma began.
“Ice tea?” I intervened. I don’t know if it’s a misdemeanor to offer an officer of the law a drink while he’s on duty, but it couldn’t be a good idea.
“No, I’m fine. I just want to look around Mrs. Singleton.”
Grandma eyed him for a minute, crossed her arms over her chest and said quite clearly. “No.”
He was not expecting that. “Mrs. Singleton, we are just following up on a couple of complaints and I need to check it out. I’m just doing my job.”
Prue shook her head. “Nope. I’m in the county, you’re City.”
The young police officer took off his hat and rubbed his head, he was starting to lose his hair. “True, but that will change when this gets annexed, so why not let me in?”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“You’ve been watching too much TV.”
“Well then, when this house becomes officially in the City Limits, then you can come back.” Prue said with exaggerated dignity.
“You know we will. Things have to change. Captain said so. ”
“I know things will change, but annexing the city will not be one of them,” Grandma insisted.
He sighed. “I could call the sheriff.”
“That you could.” Grandma agreed.
I steeled myself to not look in the direction of the back yard. Did Tom Marten send him? What did Tom know?
Officer Foreman (that’s what I read on his name tag) rolled his eyes. “You know the sheriff is busy with fire victims.”
“Then we’re at an impasse aren’t we?” Grandma agreed pleasantly.
How could she be so confident? I studied her. Easy stance, her crossed legs—in all their bare wrinkled glory – were not tense or stiff. She wore an
elegant, tied-dyed Summer of Love Past tee shirt. (Of the few items that are in abundance in Claim Jump: tee shirts). She was solid and not easily pushed around. Even for an old person.
“Just doing my job.” He mumbled.
“Who sent you?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Just City business.”
“Come back when it’s County business.” Grandma ushered him out and closed the door softly but firmly.
“Ice tea?” She poured me a glass and returned to the stove. I don’t know what she was doing exactly, but she was hovering around the burners as if she was doing something important.
“Okay Grandma. The broken lock on the greenhouse. The subterfuge. Not allowing a perfectly nice boy to take a look around. What gives?”
Prue stopped fussing at the stove and turned to me.
“Okay, okay. The lock was to keep people out but it didn’t work. I don’t know who broke the lock and I don’t know who tipped off the police, but they can’t do a damn thing about it.”
“Because you’re on county property.”
God, my grandmother was working the system.
“Why do you take the risk?” I had to ask.
She shrugged. “Mostly because I can. It doesn’t hurt anyone and sometimes my friends need a little, you know, smoke.”
“Need?” I sounded like my mother. I took a sip of ice tea to clear my mouth and sensibilities of such a terrible fate. “And my uncles used to support themselves on the sales I suppose?”
“Yes,” she admitted reluctantly. “But not so much anymore.”
“Is that why uncle Steve goes up to the Ridge every year?”
“He has friends there.” Grandma protested, “Don’t worry about your uncle.”
“I never have.” I shot back. “And what about the sheriff and the DA? Aren’t they interested in what you’re doing?”
Grandma sighed took a few steps to the back door of the kitchen and then stopped.
“Grandma?” I prompted.
Grandma shook her head. “A few years ago the DA’s wife was dying of cancer.”
I looked at her. She nodded slightly.
“It was easy for me, and a small price to pay for him. Actually there is no price when it comes to someone you love.”
Great, another saying for a pillow. I was racking up platitudes but not much helpful information. I did not have an answer. I just didn’t want my Grandma to go to jail.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 02 - Time Is of the Essence Page 18
