Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out (26 page)

She walked off to open the umbrellas on the far two
tables
.
“That still doesn’t answer the question.” 

“What can anyone bring to the relationship but themselves?”
The umbrella stuck, I
abandoned the crank and pulled on the edges of the canvas to loosen it.  That worked, it opened up so suddenly,
I
lost my grip.

“Then what are
we
talking about?”

She stopped and watched me wrestle with the last umbrellas, the final one opened as easily as hers. I felt unreasonably triumphant.  “I honestly don’t know.”

At the
appointed
time, no one showed up.  A half hour after the appointed time
, most
of the guests were still
trickling in, mistaking the waiters for butlers, mistaking me for the maid.  I
ferried purses and wraps to Prue’s guest room and unceremoniously dumped everything on the bed.  The sorting could happen
later;
perhaps I’d be indisposed by then and unable to help
. The shower would end up very late indeed
unless
M
other
N
ature did her job and drove the guests out with
excess heat. 

My only no-show
was Cassandra
herself.  I was reluctant to invite her in the first place.
True, she
owned the winery
where we were holding the wedding
and she
was technically “someone” in the valley.  But she was
more
Ben’s
friend than Carrie’s
, and
as such, not really in the wedding shower circle. But I felt it was best not to piss her off, so the invitation went out.  And she didn’t show.  No RSVP, no nothing.

“Where’s that Cassandra
, the winery owner
?
I saw her name on the guest list.”  Kathleen
, dressed in a baggy jumper and short sleeve tee,
eyed me as if
Cassandra’s
absence
was
my fault
.

“I think she’s crushing the red this weekend so it will be
finished
by next week, that could be why she’s not here.”

Miffed that
I was backed into mak
ing
excuses for a woman I did not wish to help
,
I carefully snaked through the guests making sure everyone held a drink,
that
the hired wait staff was sufficiently circulating the hors d’oeuvres and that Emily was happy. The
tables were set out in the central patio,
thirteen
tables of eight.
I don’t know if the napkins matched the bridesmaid dresses, but they looked festive against the red table clothes and blooming yellow, pin
k
and red
dahlias
. 

“I don’t know, you know last year was cloudy and overcast, and
it was April!”  I heard a whiny voice sliced through the general noise. 
“
I know,” agreed another woman, her voice pitched an octave lower.  “
We’re thinking of the Carolinas next year, Hawaii is just too over run.”

Chris Connor
’s
number popped up, but I had to ignore it.
Rod Nelson was delivering an ad hoc cooking demonstration when he should have been plating lunch.  I shooed the dozen or so devotees
to the patio like bad children watching TV when it was so nice outside, then
asked the
chef
to demonstrate
setting up a hundred or so perfect luncheon plates.
I noticed Emily glowering
in the living room. I pried her from the shadows and pushed her into the light.

Fortunately Emily was the only reluctant guest.  I quickly surveyed the crowd and saw
no stragglers
, no hapless
women
wedged
into a corner
hidi
ng her lack of social skills by
pretending to text other, nicer friends, but really playing solitaire
.  The
noise level was just about right.  Patrick’s mother
discovered Emily and
drew her into a conversation.
Emily relaxed a bit and, I hoped, would soon enjoy herself.
I recognized a few faces from the pages of the Rivers Bend
P
ress, those Junior Leaguers who
score a picture
in the
paper because they overbid for a case of Screaming
Eagle
or Wind
Runner wine during
the
last
charity
wine auction.

Carrie was surrounded by
well
-
wishers
.
I had revived her color
with Mary Kay pow
d
er and blush.  Her bright
blue
dress was an excellent choice as a foil for all the pink and orange as well as for her long dark hair.
She
looked pretty and
her eyes
(finally)
sparkled with excitement. 
P
ink and red wrapped gifts were piled in
the
corner
in the living room
where Emily
usually
put the Christmas tree. It was
all good
.
For
a minute.

I wedged into a corner
of the patio
to be
as
unobtrusive as I could. I had limited time before Carrie figured out that I
might
be working during her shower.
I checked my voice mail first.

“We need the TDS right now!” Marcia yelled.  “I asked for it two hours ago
,
where is it?”

I held the phone for a second. Took a breath, regretted not snagging a glass of sparkling wine and returned her call. 
“Our escrow coordinator would have
emailed
that over to you this morning
,
”  I
assured
her. My call waiting beeped
.

“Can you hold?” I tried to keep my voice
even;
it wouldn’t do to break down in front of the indomi
tab
le Marcia, Marcia,
Marcia
.

I hit
the office number.
“Patricia, where
is
the TDS for my house?”

“It’s not there?  Wait, oh, here it is
, I stuck it in the wrong folder
.”  She waited.  I waited. 

“Can you
send
it to
Marcia
at Green, Green and Green?”

“Oh, sure.”  Patricia clicked off.

I flipped back to Marcia. “I
t
should be coming. Call me if you don’t get it in the next five minutes.”

“Well it’s about time.”  She huffed.

Carrie spotted me.  I smiled
,
waved and
pocketed the
phone
.
I passed by three women amiably debating the virtues of Napa versus Sonoma
w
ines, five women discussed the best place in which to put up relatives during the holidays and I
circumvented the
three older women
speculating on
the date when
Carrie would
produce the
first baby.
A
ll
were
happily munching on the
hors d’oeuvres
and waving their perfectly color coordinated napkins
over their meticulously colored lips.

I joined Emily and
Patrick’s mother
. 
Mrs. Sullivan (Senior)
emanated
a kind of generic beauty that was hard to describe or
specifically
identify.
She was beautifully dressed in a dark rose silk dress and matching scarf.  I joined the two of them in time to hear her say “Lovely girl, Terry.”

“Carrie
,
”
Emily and
I
corrected. 

“You know she came to us at Christmas.” The woman frowned trying to remember why. I knew why
,
but loathed to bring it up.
Carrie had been in the wrong place at the wrong time
.  A
very
desperate woman had beaten
her
senseless
.  The only good thing to come of it was how badly Patrick took it, making him realize he
loved
Carrie
and couldn’t live without her.  Patrick’s way of protecting Carrie
at the time
had been to
spirit
her
away
to
the family compound.  We refer to it as the Forbidden City.
It
appeared that
Mrs. Sullivan
herself
may
spend too many days
alone
behind the protective walls
of the family compound
. 

“Mother!”  Kathleen pounced and wedged her
angular form
between
her mother and me
.  “You’re making new friends, how excellent.  Let’s get some yummy food okay?”

She didn’t even look at me, but
guided her mother
away
without a second glance at
me and
Emily
.

“I never,” Emily sputtered. 

My phone vibrated in my pocket, despite the jokes, it wasn’t that exciting.
“I think we’re ready for lunch.  Can you start inviting the guests to sit down?”

Emily
nodded and I quickly moved
out of the patio and
to the dark living room.
Carrie glanced around for
me;
I waved reassuringly and hustled to
Emily’s hiding place.

Worried that the caller would drop to voice mail, I answered as soon as I was out of ear shot, not bothering to scrutinize the caller ID.

“We have an offer
.”  Marcia
’s
strident tones blasted over the phone.  “How soon can the owner respond?”

Seriously?  “Pretty damn quick, what’s the offer?”

I watched the guests
take their seats and
Rod’s five assistants
began serving.  Rod
himself served the head table.
N
ice touch. 

Marcia
reluctantly
revealed
the offer
.  It was fair
,
so
I
automatically
countered
.  She responded she’d
have to get back to me. That was fine,
she had
24 hours for a response. 
I wondered, just briefly
,
if Marcia had paid attention to who exactly
owned the house.
Maybe not.

Carrie
approached me carrying a plate loaded with a disturbing number of green things.  She glanced at my expression and then
looked
down at her plate. “Don’t worry, there are plenty of round foods for you.”

I still adhere to my round food diet
:
p
izza, cookies, tortillas, wine (round glass)
,
I strived to eat only
foods that were round.

She
patted me on the arm.  “This is going well, Kathleen
,
Claire and
Patrick’s
mother seem
very
happy.”

“I hope s
o.”
I surveyed the guests.
Most of
the women in attendance
were like a who’s who of th
e Sonoma County Polo Club. In fact,
I could have held the party
there;
most
of the invited
would
have been
members and could
have contributed to the event by hauling up their own wine from
their
on-site
private cellars.
A
rich person is not any
more a business lead than an average person. Which reduces my wow factor
at these events
considerably.  And Ben, lord
,
that man
dredges up
amazingly odd
friends. Sometimes the friends are
just
odd, stoners from his days at private school, and sometimes they are well connected.  A case in point,
about four days ago
Ben
suggested we hold our wedding out at the
G
rove.