The guard waved us to some area “around back”.
We headed back to the truck – still there.
“I’ll go find out where “around back” is, you wait here, keep the engine running.” Ben instructed.
Business must be pretty good – to waste all this gas.
Ben disappeared in the direction of “around back” and I slouched down in the seat and smiled at the disapproving matrons pushing baby strollers the size of SUV’s dangling diaper bags so large they could double as carry-on for a week and a half in Europe. The mothers frowned at me as they steered their little Einstein’s off to enjoy another dose of fine art. I admire their sincerity, but I did not envy their lifestyle, or their scowling faces.
Shouldn’t little babies be more fun? Oh, maybe it’s like that Jaguar metaphor earlier. Sometimes the dream costs more than you expected.
Across from the new De Young was the Old Academy of Science – it too had been completely re-built.
I watched the moving equipment make a big mess of what once was a wide plaza in which a person could run as fast as she could. Since that person was the youngest, and was often running away from her older brothers, a space big enough to run, yet scattered with trees behind which that same child could hide, was a godsend. My brothers loved nothing better than to chase me with snakes. The gift shop at the old Academy of Science sold very realistic-looking rubber snakes. I have many memories of those trees and that plaza.
“We’re seeing a Dr. Charles Wang.” Ben slid easily into the driver’s seat and backed out of his temporary parking spot. “It is, quite literally, around this way.”
Dr. Charles Wang did not greet us at the back door, but two nice men who apparently did this kind of thing for a living, helped Ben wrestle the painting out of the truck and through the back corridors filled with the busy internal workings of the museum, and up to Dr. Wang’s office.
I am far more conversant with the façade of the famous building than the art inside. In fact, I’ve only been as far as the front lobby of this particular museum. My two restless brothers dictated the family activities. We visited the aquarium, not the art museum.
And even when I did enter the museum, it was to attend the opening parties. I usually spent the evening in the lobby not bothering to take the complimentary tour; it would have distanced me too far from the buffet table.
I told you art was not my thing; Hillary picked exactly the wrong person for this job.
To my relief, Dr. Wong was as charming as Fischer was nervous. He smiled greeted us cordially, offered a firm handshake and immediately examined the painting.
“It’s like that one they found in LA.” I said helpfully, mostly because it was the only fact I knew.
Ben glanced over at me, and raised his eyebrows.
I smiled, having delivered my one fact and waited for the verdict.
Dr. Wong smiled as well, and stroked his bare chin. “Well, this is the real deal, and it’s political, which always adds to the interest. You know, we had 10,700 people in the building for the Chicano art exhibit; huge interest, and growing, so this will become more valuable over time.”
“But how valuable is it right now?” I asked. Since NOW is what is important to my clients.
“Now?” He shook his head. “We would pay about $250,000 for it. It’s probably worth a bit more, and I can write that up if you want to take it to Sotheby’s or Christies, that’s what I’d recommend.”
“No, that’s fine; Hillary just wanted a second opinion.”
“Hillary?”
“Yes, Hillary Smith, the woman who hired and I assume paid for your services.”
“Hillary? No, Mark Smith called and asked me to look at the painting.”
“Did he write the check for your fee?” I asked quickly.
“Most assuredly. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lunch meeting.”
We nodded and he nodded and he called the staff to take the painting back down to the truck.
“The oldest always makes it sound like his idea.” I said. “Or in this case, her idea.”
Ben merely grunted.
We followed the staff members outside and waited while they loaded the painting back into the truck bed and deftly covered it with the tarp and tied it all down. The painting, not the truck. Who is that artist who covers buildings and trees? Christo. Maybe I know a little.
“Can I leave the truck here for a minute?” Ben asked them.
“Sure.” Our two helpers hopped off the truck and disappeared.
Ben turned to me. “Have you been to the top of the tower?”
“No, it wasn’t open when I was here last.” How does that sound? As if I travel down to the De Young every month or so to catch the latest exhibit. See my earlier statement about a party in the lobby.
“Come on, let’s go up, it turned into a great day.”
To reach the top of the De Young tower, you have to stand in line and take the elevator. No option to take the stairs. While we waited in line, Ben entertained me with fundraising stories. Dee Dee Wilsey emerged as one of his heroines.
“Everyone wants a rainmaker on their board.” He concluded as the guard, or at least, the uniformed staff member directed us to the elevator on the right.
We rode up in silence because one does not speak too loudly while in an elevator or God help you, too intimately. Why? Because you just don’t.
“So are you on any boards?” I twisted to look at him; he made sure I left the elevator first, quite the gentleman.
He was still focused on the recent history of the museum; it had only been a few years since it opened – more or less. “She probably raised 100 of the 180 million it took to get this together.”
“And what do you give to museums?” I guessed.
He shrugged, “I’m a member of this one and a couple others. And I often give in-kind, you know, the use of materials or I donate my labor to fix things, I do what I can. The reason I know about the Lost Art gallery is I helped with the restrooms – made them compliant.”
“The rest rooms or the museum?”
“That needed to be compliant too. Ever try to negotiate a wheelchair through a non-compliant art gallery, let alone a non-compliant rest room?”
I shook my head. The very thought of my mother or father confined to a wheel chair made me cringe, so I changed the subject.
“This is beautiful.” I gestured to the floor to ceiling windows that surrounded the top of the museum tower. Below us spread the park, the city and beyond, the sparking ocean. Nope, it was the ocean not the bay, we looked out past the avenues to the beach and the Pacific. Behind us was the bay but you can’t see it from here.
He stood next to me, very close, which could be a good thing, or he was just crowded against me. Different languages in different intonations flowed around us.
“You have an odd mind.”
“You don’t even know. Do you watch cartoons?”
“Read the funnies every morning, more cheerful than the front page.”
“Do you miss Calvin and Hobbes?”
He drew in a breath, a movement that showed more emotion than anything I saw yesterday at the funeral.
“Every day.”
I cautiously inched to the left to take in another part of the city view.
“This must be gorgeous at night.”
“It is.”
“How did you get up here at night?”
“Party, during the opening ceremonies. And no, I don’t recall why I was invited. Oh yes I do, it was my grandmother, I came as her date.”
I nodded, now that made sense.
“Would you live in the city?”
“I did as a kid, we lived, he glanced around at the panorama spread out below us, “can’t see it from here.”
“The only thing you can’t see is Pacific Heights.” And the bay, we covered that. “Where the fabulous Danielle Steele lives.”
“Yeah.”
He must have lived in the gardener’s
shed.
“Grandma liked the wine country better than the city, Mom stayed in the family house. I moved to be with my grandmother.”
“I’ve thought of doing that.” I mused.
“Where does your grandma live?”
I smiled at his affectionate grandma, instead of grandmother. “Claim Jump.” I said.
“Gold Country.” He responded immediately. I was impressed he knew the town at all. Claim Jump is not on the highway 80/50 route to Tahoe, everyone is familiar with those towns if only to memorize rest stops and fast food outlets. Claim Jump is just east, off on highway 49, not a popular route since, well, 1855. Plus Claim Jump never grew past 5,000 residents. Long story, another book. Anyway, I was impressed with his grasp of California geography.
“So you’re native?”
“Born and raised.”
“I bet your parents made you tour every mission down the coast.” I said.
He smiled at me. Not a formal smile but a drop dead killer, melt-me-smile.
“Every damn one of them, including a couple that were just foundations in weeds.”
I smiled back. “Me too.”
And that’s it. Really, that was the whole exchange. We smiled like idiots at each other for about a minute, sharing in that peculiarity of a California childhood that includes eating crushed acorns in the first grade (to learn about the native Indians) and building a mission – any mission – out of sugar cubes in the fourth grade. My nephews informed me recently that the fourth grade mission assignment is far easier now because there are whole mission building kits for sale in the craft stores. Good for them. But I think it takes the sport out of it. Maybe the sugar cubes were deemed bad for the children. Certainly the missions were bad for the natives.
Our mutual reminiscence was interrupted when his phone vibrated, and mine made that chirping sound to tell me that I had a message. We both needed to make our way back outside the museum to take the calls.
“How about lunch before we leave?” He finished with his call, just as I was returning mine and leaving a message.
“Where?”
“The overpriced museum café would be the closest thing.”
“Okay, but I’m buying to thank you.”
“Okay then,” he agreed.
Sometimes summer can be as simple as eating lunch outside in the warm sunshine, watching children play on the green grass – in and around the huge outdoor sculptures. I observed the tourists, the families and those mothers still finding every moment, an educable moment.
“It’s a Claus Oldenburg honey,” a mother lectured her toddler. “The safety pin is supposed to be that big.”
“Any children?” He had followed my gaze.
“No. You?”
“No, my nieces and nephews are enough.”
“Mine too.”
We left right after lunch and he courteously dropped me off at the Ocean View property and even carried the painting back inside, and carefully placed it – wrapped – down in the cellar. After all it had just lost $50,000 in the journey, it could stay in the basement since I hadn’t figured out where the hell to display it.
“Well, good bye, I’ll be back to fix the bathroom if you’re still interested.”
“Yes, I’m very interested. When can you get to it?”
“Don’t know, give me a call this weekend.”
“Okay, I’ll do that.”
He shook my hand; no big squeeze like the game we played at the funeral, but a polite exchange: colleague-to-colleague.
Yes, I know. It sucked.
When a person dreams about lime green patent leather pumps that are very shiny with pointed toes and high heels so sharp they could double as ice picks, what does that mean?
I had no clue at all, but I did have all Sunday morning to consider the symbolism because I had floor Saturday.
The definition of “Floor Time” in real estate is that you, the Realtor, have an assigned times every month during which you must hang around the office and direct calls to other agent’s voice mails. My turn was this Saturday morning. Floor time is right up there with open houses, excitement-wise. But here is the reason we keep doing it, the myth of floor time.
Here’s the myth; a potential buyer or seller will randomly call your office and be convinced, by your brilliant selling skills, to list or buy, that afternoon. Or, better, someone dressed in faded jeans and riding a motorcycle, waltzes in and asks the Realtor on floor if there is any buildable land in the area. And Realtor says sure, and immediately loads the scruffy, bearded guy into her Mercedes and drives him all over central Marin County. He says he’s looking for something for his mother. Turns out he’s really purchasing enough acreage to plant Skywalker ranch out of reach of LA.
True story.
Doesn’t happen anymore.
I busted my considerable ass to get to the office at 8:30 knowing full well that even if there was another George Lucas driving around, he was still in bed. But that’s what Inez wants, so here I am.
Rosemary followed me into the office. Rosemary stomped in for her open house signs. She flung a bright pink scarf edged in silver over her conservative navy jacket.
“Like it?” She flipped the ends of the scarf in my direction. “I picked up quite a few in Thailand; they have beautiful things there! You should go Allison.”
Rosemary is only older than me by about 10 years but because she’s lost and gained about a thousand pounds since I’ve known her, she looks about fifty. Do I point that out? Never.
“How did your new herb regime work on the trip?” I asked.
“Oh, just a few hassles at customs but they worked fine. The box was difficult to carry in some areas, you know, but it was mostly excellent.”
Rosemary was currently in a health phase that involved Chinese herbs. These herbs must be stored in a special compartmentalized wood box and every morning Rosemary is supposed to finger each herb selection and ingests the herbs that smell best to her at that time. The box is very big and heavy. But totally worth carting around humid Thailand.
“So it worked out in Thailand.” I encouraged her.
“Well,” she rolled her eyes and adjusted her sari/scarf. “Some of the herbs did stick together a bit in the humidly. Sometimes I couldn’t really smell them you know? So I had to guess a bit. But they loosened up with a chopstick I found at the bazaar. Oh Allison, you must see the shopping there! Just fabulous!”
“So where are they now?” Rosemary usually slaps the big box on the front counter and startles Patricia every morning. Patricia has been crankier than usual these last three months – must be the herbs.
“Oh, you didn’t hear?” Rosemary pulled up the sleeve of her jacket and displayed three-gun metal colored bracelets digging into her soft fleshy wrist.
“I met this wonderful man in the Frankfurt airport, you know they herd you into these waiting areas where there is nothing to do for hours and it’s barbaric – no restrooms, no concessions, just terrible, the Germans, honestly. Anyway, I told him all about my herbs and he told me all about his magnets. Have you read about these?”
I shook my head, but I knew I’d learn. The phones were silent, not even a wrong number to interrupt Rosemary.
“No I have not.” I admitted.
“Oh, magnets are fabulous, they cure arthritis, back pain, headaches, and all sorts of emotional problems. I haven’t had trouble with my feet since I started wearing them. You should try them. There’s a web site to visit.”
“I’m sure there is.” I echoed politely. It’s at this point in any conversation, the point where the generous believer delivers the web address that I completely rebel. Another site to look up on the everlasting Internet. I always listen politely and pretend I’m memorizing the URL when I’m really ignoring it. I only have so much time.
Rosemary’s phone chirped a disco tune that I couldn’t place, and she disappeared into her office.
Much to my surprise, the office phone rang and I snatched it up. Rosemar
y poked her head from her office, just out of morbid curiosity.
“New Century Realty.” I chirped in my best phone voice.
“Is this Allison?” My mother’s suspicious tone wafted over the phone line. I shook my head at Rosemary, who of course was hoping it was a call on her property and as soon as she realized it was not, she ducked back into her office.
“Yes, mom, this is Allison.”
“Mary Jane!” Mom’s voice kicked up another three octaves. She may have been a member of the high school chorus, I couldn’t recall, but she was working well into the soprano range. “Her doors!”
“Mom, you need to calm down. What about Mary Jane?” Mary Jane was the mother of a grammar school friend of mine. I don’t see the friend, but I still see Mary Jane at the Club. I liked her, and mom rarely called to deliver good news.
“She was attacked last night – I cannot believe the police didn’t catch them, she was hit on the head, right in her home. In her home!”
“Mom, is she okay?”
“I wouldn’t have called you this morning if something had really serious happened to her,” she retorted.
Now we were at semi-serious. Fine. “Mom?” I prodded.
She took a noisy breath over the phone.
“Mary Jane was home alone, Fred was out. Why Fred was out on a weekend night I don’t know, his card group meets on Thursday and this was Friday . . . ”
“Mom.”
“She said someone knocked, she opened the door and that was all she remembered.”
“How is she?”
“They’re keeping her overnight for observation. Fred is beside himself and the police don’t have any answers and you want to hear the worst of it?”
I waited because I knew exactly what the worst of it was.
“The doors are gone!”
“Her front doors are gone.”
Completely gone! The Gilberto doors, and she had the ones with the carved giraffes. I can’t believe they are gone!”
I could.
A door a night, that’s all we ask.
Death Revokes The Offer Page 11
