Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out (31 page)

“Do you want that?” I led her upstairs to our three bedrooms to Patrick’s five
and his parent’s 35 or something like that
.

“Live in the bachelor pad?”  She drew in her breath
.  The master bedroom and sitting room stretched across the back of the house, roughly the same size as the kitchen and great room.  The guest bedrooms mirrored the two front parlors and overlooked
Main
street
.  From Carrie’s room we watched
Summer
dash from the theater and wave
wildly to someone down the street.

“I don’t think so, but what do I tell Patrick?”

“Just what I said
.
Just
what you said.
  You tell him that you need a place that
is US
not you, not me, us
,
”
I said as if I came to that decision with no sleepless night
s
or
any
angst. 

“You don’t know how great it is to be left alone
,
”
Carrie sighed
.

“How is Cassandra?”
Summer must have seen
who
she wanted because she retreated back into the
t
heater
building
.
  We trooped back downstairs.  Carrie didn’t ask about the widow’s walk and I was still reluctant to venture up there, sage smoke aside.

Carrie
stepped out to the
front
porch.  The light was low and
yellow
, illuminating the false fronts of the buildings lining Main Street
.
“
She’s not
good, she slipped back into a coma.
  Made the paper
this time.
Trish Gault is better
,
but apparently not up for interviews, at least I haven’t heard anything
.
” 

A
whole
motorcycle cavalcade roared up
Main
S
treet
drowning out
the rest of Carrie’s conversation.

“Won’t Patrick miss you?”  

“I’ll be fine,
as long as I take Patrick’s c
alls.”  She pulled out her phone.  “And Kathleen’s texts and Claire’s texts, and their emails and
instant
messages.  She waved her phone.  Who decided this was an easier way to live?”

“It’s easier,
just
not better.”

“He’s gone down to
the city every day for the last two weeks.
Some times he stays over night.”

It smacked of an affair, but I knew Patrick at least well enough to know that wasn’t true. 
“
Isn’t he on the board of directors
o
f
something down there?”

“He’s on the board of a mental hospital, I don’t know the name.”

“Odd philanthropic choice.”

Carrie moved back inside and headed to the kitchen.  She pulled out a bottle of white from the wine refrigerator.
“The family
has supported the hospital for years, it’s just one of the things they do.” 
She opened the bottle while I hunted down the glasses.
  I keep moving them, looking for the optimal wine glass storage spot.

“I’m work
ing
hard to focus
on what
is really important, I don’t want to fight over the trivial.”

The
doorbell
rang and I reflexively glanced at my watch.
Joan had only called half hour ago,
who
could this be? Yeah, like there isn’t a long list of possible visitors.  I certainly wouldn’t be lonely here.

“
This is f
abulous!”  Joan greeted me with an enthusiastic hug.

“Did you call from your car?”

“Of course, I knew you wouldn’t turn me away.  Do you still have that troublesome listing up here?  I’ll take that one tomorrow.”  She dragged her
wheeled
orange suitcase over the threshold and parked it by the door. 
“
I read that this
town has the highest per capita bookstore rate in the
s
tate. Show them all to me now!” 
Joan marched through the front rooms
with an approving nod
and zeroed in on Carrie.  “The runaway bride!”

“Just taking a break bride.”
  Carrie found a third wine glass and handed it to Joan.

“Norton and I will never marry, too much work.” 
Joan accepted the glass of wine and downed it.  “You forgot to mention how terrible late afternoon traffic is.  I left at 1:30 for God’s Sake!”

“
It’s all over now
,
”  I
assured her.
 
“
We will shop for books
in the morning,
take care of the
open houses in the afternoon
and we have Saturday night in hopping, exciting Claim Jump, just know that everything closes by nine o’clock
, so we’ll have to be pretty efficient
.” 

My phone buzzed.  The
F
uries wanted to know if
Cassandra’s
accident
would
affect the wedding next week.
A minute later
Ben
texted that everything will be okay, the wedding
guests would
not
have to know
anything about Cassandra or the accident
.  Chris Connor was still searching for
a way to investigate Prophesy Estates
but
had
not
been able to locate
Beth. I
didn’t
know
her last name either so I
suggested Chris contact
O’Reilly
directly and sent over hi
s information. 

We decided to eat at seven
. As
I locked my front door (city habits)
,
I noticed the lights were
still
on in the library.

“Check this out
,
” I
gestured to Carrie and Joan.
“
These two kids
are putting together a used book
store
/ lending
library
.  It’s
mostly for
the
children
who still
attend the
elementary school down the street.” I pointed to
the side street a block up from the house. 

“Don’t you have a county library?”
Joan
asked skeptically.

“How charming.” Carrie responded immediately.

“We do,
it was
moved across the freeway to the modern part of town, which was great, wonderful, but the kids can’t get there safely by foot, so Scott and Sarah decided to
provide books for elementary students
here at
the
old library.”

We
marched
up the
short way
to the historic building.
Both Scott and Sarah were in attendance and as I knew
they would
,
Joan
and Carrie
were enchanted by the building
.
Scott and Sarah
recognized and greeted Carrie
;
Carrie had helped Sarah with her grandparents last spring.  She and Scott chatted while Joan and Sarah fell deep into conversation.  I was left out of both
conversations
, but I didn’t mind. I listened with half my attention, there
was something nagging at me,
something I had observed but
couldn’t
recall now that I needed to dredge it up.
Something about Melissa
staying
at my Grandmother’s house?
  Did I initial every page on the sales form so my own escrow would go smoothly?  Was Patricia even up to the task
of running another escrow
? She
was
distracted
,
and
disturbingly
vague
, off her game
.
I wandered off
to the floor to ceiling bookshelves
to s
ee if there were any books
I hadn’t read.

“I
’
m thinking of writing a book for children.”
Sarah said it loudly, with more than a little hubris.

“That’s harder than it looks
,
”
Joan caution
ed
.

My phone buzzed.  A te
xt from Marcia, Marcia,
Marcia
:
the grout in the
m
aster
b
ath looks like it needs replacing.

“Does not.”
I texted back.

“
It must be
, that’s why I
thought
of it.
” Sarah’s voice was eager and terribly sincere
b
ecause
Sarah was essentially
terribly
eager and
extremely
sincere.  “
You have no idea!
The kids
bring in
these
book
s
to trade, books
their parents
bought at
Safeway or Grocery Outlet, and they are horrible
! 
Bad
plots,
bad characters and
poorly written.
One series
features
v
egetables quoting scripture, I mean, honestly
a
monkey could write better books than
some of the
books we have
piled in the back.”   Sarah
ch
attered on about children, style,
syntax
.  I tried to see her through Joan’s eyes - a blue eyed
,
naturally flaxen hair
dreamer, who
had
never
once stepped out of the boundaries of her
hometown
.
And I may add, had only a high school diploma to her name.
Joan must hear this kind of thing all the time.  To her credit she did not immediately roll her eyes at Sarah’s ideas, although I was considering
doing so.

“I cannot bear to circulate
these grocery
store
books
, but I can’t reject them either.”

“They burn at 451 degrees
,
” Joan tossed off.

Sarah paused.  “I can’t burn the books.
We just recycle them for now.” 

Finally Joan
capitulated. She must field
this dream hundreds of times over the course of her work.  She
is a professor for
both
the
undergrad and
for
the MFA program at the local State
University
that will remain
nameless
because the climate is
so mired in politics and blatant favoritism that
when
professors
finally do make tenure, they respond by committing
suicide.  Joan assures me that
is
a joke.

“Send it to me
,
” Joan said, pain already in her voice, the rejection already
assured
.

Sarah
clasped her hands.
  “Really?  You’d look at it?   I could use feedback from someone who wasn’t trying to be nice and just encourage me.”

“I’m not trying to be nice.” Scott abandoned his conversation with Carrie
to join his wife
.  “I think you’re good.”

Scott was
a lovely young man, but
not exactly a literary critic
. I did not offer that assessment.

“
D
on’t worry, I don’t
have an encouraging bone in my body.”  And to make her point clear,
Joan
repeated her
stock phrase
,
“
Even if you do publish, you won’t make any money.”