Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith (27 page)

I greeted him at the door as of we hadn’t woken up together
. “Merry Christmas.” I kissed his cheek.

“
Merry Christmas.” He pulled me into another breathtaking bear hug. I snuggled into his chest and was prepared to spend the rest of the afternoon in his arms - corny, but completely true.

“
Come on, let’s get a glass of wine and exchange gifts.”

My gift to Ben was large and - un-wrapable, so
it was hidden behind my chair and draped with one of my throws.

I poured him wine, set out an assortment of cheeses and crackers and then, when he was settled, I pulled out his gift and whipped off the shawl. 

“Ta da!” I said with a flourish.

He squinted at the picture. He didn’t move, he stayed in his seat and simply stared. 
             

“
Is it okay?” He was too quiet.

He set down his glass.

“Allison.” He reached out and gently touched the frame, he pulled the painting closer so he could study the swirling blue and purple brush strokes.

“Where did you find this?
”

“It’s a Bo Freeman.”

“Isn’t that’s the guy who bought the house?”  He didn’t say his house, which  I found comforting.

“Yes, and he’s the artist of that painting you bought years ago, I recognized a sketch he made.”

“But he’s,” Ben trailed off. I could tell he liked it and was surprised by it. I loved being able to surprise him.

“He’s very popular now
.” I agreed.  “Which is why he can buy a house for his sister with cash, but I didn’t think that would change how much you appreciated his work.”

“That you’d remember
.” He stood to set the painting safely on a far wall, but where he could still see it.  “Should I ask how you managed it?”

“No. Your job is to accept it.”

“Okay, I have something for you.”  He handed me two flat envelopes.  Did I want a small box with a ring nestled inside? Isn’t that the Christmas fantasy?  It is, but not on my list. Maybe on my mom’s list – for me.

I opened the first envelope. It was a colorful brochure featuring a charming Victorian Inn and five sets of theater tickets.

“Ashland, next September.” Ben explained.

“
And this?” I held up the second envelope.

“
Open it.”

It was a gift certificate for $1,000 to Bloomsbury Books in Ashland.

“I’ve never been to Ashland.”  I touched the brochure, the picture of the Victorian style county Inn was almost impossibly perfect. And a $1,000 for books! I blinked back sudden tears.

“I guessed that. We need to get you out more,” he agreed. “And, it would be nice to watch drama on the stage, not in our lives.” 

“I agree.” I would love to have normal, but I don’t know what that looks like anymore. And Ben probably rues the day he showed up at my listing in Marin, ready to fix a guest bath room and instead, discovering me.

“It certainly hasn’t been boring.” He read my thoughts.

“Not boring, dangerous, but not boring.”

He picked up his wine and sipped.
“I miss you when you’re not with me.” 

“
You’re with me, now.”

“
Nice,” he responded sarcastically. “Really, I don’t think I want to be apart from you.”

“Remember, we agreed to postpone any feelings conversations until Valentine’s Day?” I reminded him. I didn’t want to ruin a lovely moment with too much talk.  

“It doesn’t get any better than this.” I insisted, hoping to forestall anything he may suggest that would change my suddenly precious status quo.

But, if we don’t throw in something new once in a while, there would be no story.

“You haven’t been here,” he gestured to my living room, taking in the whole house in his comment, “much.”

“Your house is pretty comfortable
.” I said innocently.

“You could stay there
.”

“I have been
.” I pointed out. Was I purposefully obtuse?  Why, yes I was.

“No, stay there
. with me.” He struggled. “All the time.”

“Move in with you?” I repeated dumbly.

He nodded, relieved that I guessed.  “Yes.”

* * *

My favorite day of the holiday season is the day after Christmas. Everything is over save for the shouting. The stores are still clogged with amateurs, but they are all corralled into Customer Service lines, loaded with returns. That frees up the rest of the store for the real shoppers. 

I was pleased Carrie managed to spring herself from the Forbidden Palace, and meet me for lunch.

Owen Spencer had signed the purchase agreement papers, first thing in the morning. He even presented me with the updated  paper work from his mortgage broker who, I’m sure, will be as happy as me to see the last of Owen Spencer.             

After lunch I planned to spend my certificates from the New Century Party and the family Christmas, at the bookstore.  I’m only telling this so you don’t think, after everything that’s happened, that I’m completely pathetic and have no happy moments.

There is a particularly good Japanese restaurant in town, Nagasaki, where Carrie and I met for sushi and decidedly un-holiday food.

I walked into the restaurant and took one look at my friend, with her flushed cheeks and stereotypically shinning eyes, and I knew that my announcement about the house, Ben’s delight over his gift, my very brief contact with his family, was all going to be dropped like the egg in our soup.

“Patrick proposed.” Carrie announced as soon as the waiter had retreated with our order.  She dug into her purse, pulled out a velvet ring box, opened it, and pulled out the ring.

It was (this is my best guess) a
seven carat, canary yellow diamond, flanked by like, seventeen clear diamond baguettes. The light caught the center stone and splintered shards of light around the restaurant like an erratic disco ball.  Three women across the room looked up. All eyes immediately went to the ring. It was like lighthouse in a fog-shrouded coast. The other women lurched forward, drawn irresistibly towards the light.  Carrie was too pleased with her bauble to shoo them away.

She gestured to the other patrons
. “Come, look.”

“Oh my God
.” Exclaimed one woman. “That’s the size of,”

“A creamer
?” I suggested.

“A hubcap.
” Said the other one.

“That’s not very romantic
.” I defended my friend. “It’s more like the size of,” I floundered for a word. “Satellite dish.”

Carrie slipped on the ring.  “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

“Oh my.”  I said, wishing for my Dragon Roll right now because I could use something in my mouth to keep it from unattractively hanging open.

Carrie
held her hand out, her fingers splayed to better see the ring. “He has great taste.”

I looked at my friend, how happy she was, pleased with her gaudy bauble which meant far more to her than the giver would probably ever understand. I noticed that of all Beverley’s acquired jewelry, there wasn’t one diamond. 
Not a single ring.

“He does have excellent taste
.” 

She looked up from the ring, startled. “Thank you. You’re not disappointed are you?”

“About the ring?”

“No, about me getting married before you, because you’re older.”

“That has nothing to do with anything.” I snapped then stopped. I did feel older: mayhem, bad people, and my relatives during the holidays will do that.

“I meant… ” Carrie was saved by the waiter bearing a pink bottle of sake.

“I’m sorry.” I apologized. This is about her. It should be all about her.  

Carrie gestured to the wine glasses and the waiter poured. The rice wine was sweet and cold.   

I toasted her with my glass.

She clicked her glass against mine.
“I ordered it before you came in, I thought it would be more festive. You do feel festive don’t you?”

“It’s a beautiful ring
.” I said. “You deserve the ring, the man and the life, better than anyone I’ve ever known.  And yes, I feel festive.” Once I recovered from the shock.

“You found the murderer didn’t you?”  She took a sip of her wine.

I nodded.

“Was it Professor Von Drake?”

I stared at her, my sake half way to my mouth. How did she do that? Every once in a while she popped off with the answer. She is far more intelligent than she even gives herself credit for.

“You do realize, you sent me right to him, burdened with blankets that I have half a mind to give you the receipt for.”

“But you won’t.” She toasted me with her sake. Her ring caught the light and glared painfully into my eye. I blinked.

“And I didn’t ever think it could be him, I mean, the professor was so charming, really lovely to me, he said I reminded him of Beverley.”

“And you took that as a compliment?”  Our first course arrived, and we slurped salty miso soup between sips of sake.

“No, but I did use the professor’s comment yesterday when Patrick and I were  discussing the honeymoon.”

“Damn you’re good.” I said admiringly.

“Allison
.” She set down her soup bowl and leaned forward. “I would never have sent you to the RVs if I thought anything was wrong. I didn’t really figure it out until later. When all the excitement over the ring and the engagement died down a bit, Patrick and were talking about the murders and what was involved, and that’s when we came to the conclusion that it was the professor. Patrick had a lot of insight about erratic behavior.”

“It was also in the paper that morning
.” I pointed out.

“Yes, but Patrick said he was always uncomfortable with the way the professor was so easy to anger, and how he got worked up about the lack of recognition, things of that nature. Plus, we thought that maybe since Beverley hired some of the Homeless Prevention League clients to do odd jobs, she probably hired the Professor to come during Thanksgiving to paint.  And when we thought about it a bit more, we realized that the professor probably had help.”

“Probably.” I hadn’t thought about that, he had made his work sound like a solo act. Of course he would, he was working on being the star, any of the little people who had helped him, and I didn’t really want to think of it any further than that, would remain unnamed.

And they would be still free, but leaderless.

“Now, you can start the new year clean.” Carrie encouraged. 

I thought about Ben’s proposal, no less weighty for lack of jewelry. Did I want to move in? Rent my house? Change my life?  Did he want to move into my house?  Should we get a place together? That’s what I would suggest to any other couple, but I rarely take my own good advice.

At least, and I’m going to give myself full credit for this, I did not react badly to Ben’s proposal, in that I didn’t dismiss him, didn’t say, give me time, let me think about it. I was pretty straight forward. I said, “great, I would love to have you to myself 24/7. Your place or mine?”

It was the perfect response. It bought me some time, because the question, your place or mine, is fraught with complications.  It’s going to take a bit
of time for us to figure this out.

For Carrie, there are no questions. The princess will be drawn into the family compound and I hope that won’t be the last I see of her.

“Will this change our friendship?”  I asked.

She made a face.  “Never.  Besides, Patrick likes Ben, we’ll be together, a lot, I think.”

I couldn’t help it, Carrie’s diamond drew me in, as if it was one of Rosemary’s magnets.  “It’s amazing.”  I said, absolutely sincerely.  Carrie is going to have to return to the gym, she’ll need to work out so she can pick up her hand.

“We’re holding an engagement party on New Year’s Eve. You and Ben are invited of course.” 

“Of course.” I said. Damn that thing was the size of well, one of my fake rings, or all of them, put together.

“It’s at the French Laundry.” Carrie said. “Patrick reserved the whole restaurant.”

The French Laundry is so exclusive and expensive that even I hadn’t been there. The three star restaurant is located in Yountville in the Napa Valley; where the rich live, and the wines are pretty good, but this is from a Sonoma county resident, we only grudgingly appreciate of any wine not from our own vineyards.

Anyway, a person, any person, can’t
just walk into the French Laundry off the street and order dinner. A person must make reservations two months to the day in advance, and if that person is  planning on eating more than bread, he or she should check the equity line of credit on the house, to make sure dessert is covered. 

“New Year’s Eve? Are you kidding me?”  I blurted out, because all that last information went through my brain faster than it took to explain it to you.