Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out (13 page)

“I was worried
,
so I came back up
,
” he
finished.
He held out his hands to Cassandra who only g
azed
right
through
him
.

He shrugged and took a place next to me on the
marble
bench.  “Chilly
,
” he
commented.

“Yes, very
,
” I confirmed.

“An accident is a good thing.”
Cassandra
paused her
rhythmic
movement
.  “Is
n’t
it? Just an accident
?
”

“Except it may be due to negligence.”  Ben glanced at O’Reilly, who was rapidly becoming the de-facto attorney in this little drama. 

O’Reilly waved his hand.  “No evidence,
we’ll probably have to de
al with
the
claims adjuster,
OSHA, the taxes,
and
there is next of kin to contact. 
Cassandra do you have any numbers to call?
Do you know the number for your insurance agent?
”

She shook her head. 
“
We can look on his phone.”

Except
the parts of
his phone not smashed to pieces were soaked in
Sauvignon
Blanc.
Was it just bad luck
for poor Fred
? And what about Trisha Gault
?
I was ready to mouth it to Ben but he was completely focused on his old paramour.

I know, I should feel sympathy for the woman, she was trying to make it on her own, trying to float a very expensive venture
all by
herself
, so I should rally and support her
in a sister
s
-
in
-
business kind of way.  But
I couldn’t erase
her play for my fiancé
. With
every passing week, I felt more and more possessive
towards that
man
.  I was not interested in sharing
anymore. I wanted all the Ben sympathy for myself
. 

“
Any in reserve?
”
  O’Reilly asked just as quietly as Ben.  The sisterhood may be dissolved, but I sensed a brotherhood rapidly forming.

I
glanced around
the t
asting room with new eyes.  The beautiful hard wood ceiling
was
made of polished
hand fitted
teak
.  The curved glass
transoms
over the front entrance
were custom
made
,
the perfect
F
rench oak barrels filling the main central room
were imported from the best cooperage in the country.  It was all
ready for the
zinfandel
currently fermenting
in big bins out back
.  The
pricey
merchandise, the matching tee and sweat suit sets, the Reidel wine glasses etched with the
Prophesy Estates
logo, the tasteful
local
art.  Yes, that would
all cost.  She
had
installed mature
landscaping;
I knew she paid for a fully functioning marketing plan as well as a gorgeous web site and optimization therein.
Plus
,
she had just made
a promotional video complete with Hollywood effects.
W
ithout even reviewing the numbers
,
even
I could have
told O’Reilly that no, there was
probably
little to none in reserve.

“
Everything
was
necessary,
”
Cassandra came to consciousness just briefly enough to defend her purchases.

My phone buzzed.
  I checked
the name
before I answered.

“Are
you
still there?”  Carrie
sounded
calmer.

“Where are you?”
  I eyed the trio and moved outside to the patio
where it was just a bit warmer, the cement still held the heat of the day.  The caterers and Hog Island oyster guy were long gone, the tent was empty
,
it
looked
forlorn in the gathering dusk
.

“We’re eating at the Madrona Manor, it was close by. Have you ever been here? It’s just beautiful.”

Of course they just stopped by the very romantic Madrona Manor. It was a perfect place to recover from a very romantic lovely, deadly, winery opening.  For a second I felt pure envy for my friend and her lovely, romantic life.

I glance
d back through the glass doors.
Ben
stroked
Cassandra’s
hand;
Peter had left
his chilly perch and hovered
as closely to Cassandra as he dared.

“What do you think?”  Carrie persisted.

I knew Carrie wasn’t talking about the wine.  “
The
police told
O’Reilly it looked like
an accident, that’s what Cassandra said
too, and she was first on the scene
.
I don’t know about this other woman, Trisha.” I purposefully turned my back on the cozy scene in the tasting room.  “Ben hasn’t been able to talk.  But the police haven’t said anything about shutting the place down.”

“We won’t let anyone in the back rooms, no tours.”  Carrie paused.  “Is she okay
?
”

“With
all the men in the place
hovering over her, I think she’ll pull through.”

I believe
that selling your own house is somewhat akin to removing your own appendix.  Sure
,
you can do it
if you have the training and the nerve
,
b
ut
it’s hard to
make the perfect incision when you can’t really
see your own stomach
.
See where I’m going with this?

My house is perfect except
those days when
I
am overwhelmed by
a crisis in confidence.
A mere twenty
-
four hours before we had the unfortunate accident at Prophecy Estates
I
needed to over improve everything in my home and made a
nother
emergency call to
Stacey, my best and fastest stager.
  Because
everyone
know
we want our house
to look perfect for strangers. 

“I know you took out some of the books.”
I wasn’t too sure how
Stacey’s
black and white checked swing coat combined with the sunny yellow and orange print blouse with au courant ruffles was flattering,
but it was the latest thing.  I would look like a poorly designed hot air balloon in that get- up.  But I did envy
her shoes:
she wore
bright yellow patent leather platforms.  Aw
e
some.

“But you need to take out the rest. Leave the art books, those match the sofa
,
”
s
he continued dispassionately.

“I shipped up a van load of books already
.
”
I blocked the remaining books from her view
.

“You need more color
,
”
s
he counseled
,
gazing
at
the preponderance of built in shelves
that lined the living room (and the bedroom, although I didn’t point that out)
. 
“All these empty boxes, shapes, squares: not good.”

“I bought the house because of those shelves
,
” I
pointed out
.

“
And they
won’t do you any good selling the place
, none are big enough for a flat panel TV
.”  She was both professional and severe. She knew what I
inflicted on my own clients and I could tell by her expressio
n she was
thrilled to make me eat my own
words
.

“Where are you moving?”
 
S
he finally asked.

“Claim Jump, it’s in the foothills, just above Auburn.” 

She nodded.  “Wasn’t there some sort of odd murder there?  And a fire?”

I shrugged.  “Nothing really happens up there, those were just quirks.”

She rolled her eyes and marched up to my bedroom to complain about the comforter spread. “Really Allison?
” 
S
he cried.
“
Red?
In the bedroom?
” 

“I
was planning to
change that
,
”
I called up,
knowing
I’d probably do nothing of the kind
.
The very thought of another trip to Bed, Bath and Beyond exhausted me.
I
shoved a cookie into my mouth
and glared at my empty living room.

I bought
my house
at the bottom of the market, although it didn’t look like the bottom at the time
because the only way to identify the bottom is during the bounce back up
.  But I was
lucky;
I found something affordable and perfect.
I
stomp through
hundreds of homes a year,
and I always come away with the renewed conviction that
mine was always the best. 
Until now.
  Now I had a contender in Claim Jump.  I could feel how disappointed my house was with me.  Shuffling it off to another
owner without a backwards glance. Maybe I should throw a party for the house, would that make it feel better?

I made up for my lack of enthusiasm
and
dispirited agree
ment
with eve
ry one of Stacey’s suggestions,
with a flurry of
cleaning
Su
nday morning, right up to twelve
-
thirty.

“What are you doing?”  Carrie slammed the front door behind her.

“Scrubbing the tile with this grout whitening stuff I found
at Bed, Bath and
Beyond
,
”
I called out.  I was still dressed in
an old Chico State sweatshirt and
stained yoga pants, the product of an abortive attempt to be healthy
that occurred
sometime in the distant past
.

“Scrubbing the grout?  This from the woman for whom housekeeping
is
little more than tossing a dish cloth up into the corners of the ceiling and calling
it
spring cleaning?” 

I noticed she did not
immediately join me in the shower to
view my beautiful tiles nor did she offer to help
scrub. I had an extra toothbrush
.

“This is different.”
My voice reverberated against the bath tiles.
I worked on the next three inches of grout. Who knew this could get so grimy?  It must be Ben’s
fault;
his job was dirtier than mine.

“How is it different?”  She demanded.  Her voice was closer.

“This time I’m not living in the house, I’m selling the house. It has to look like a model home
,
un-
touched by human hands
, un-trod by human feet
.”  I vigorously scrubbed the next four inches.

“That didn’t seem to ph
ase you when you and Ben bought Lucky
Master’s house.” She leaned in the doorway, one foot casually crossed over the other.

“Ben bought it.” I took great pains to make that distinction. “And of course
the condition of the house
didn’t matter, that’s not what matters at all.”

She
waited a
beat, giving me the opportunity to hear what just came out of my own mouth, but
I was
on to her.  “I’m an
exception. The average buyer always focuses on the trivial, the unimportant.  So I need to
organize
the closets and scrub the grout.”