Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 02 - Time Is of the Essence Page 2

  “You can just leave them here by the door.” Debbie gestured to a spot on the floor covered with brightly colored thongs and slippers. She reached out as if to take my shoes and add them to that mess.

  “No,” I pulled my shoes away from her grasp. “I do not abandon my shoes by the door.”

  “Oh. Well,” she recovered and bounced into the living room. “This is the living room. We had the hardwood floors done, that’s a feature. Of course we’re keeping the rugs. The rugs were super expensive. My husband bought them from a business trip. I don’t remember where he was, but he brought these back, cool aren’t they? This is the kitchen.” She bounded ahead, her disappointment over my shoes apparently forgotten.

  She must have been head cheerleader in her not so long ago past.

  She poked her head back through the kitchen door. “Are you coming?”

  “I’m taking notes,” I explained as patiently as I could. Maybe not very patiently. I didn’t really need to baby sit this client, she wasn’t my client, she belonged to the Christophers.

  I glanced around the walls and floors. I was primarily looking for cracks and settling, anything I could see with my own, un-licensed eye. Tony, who is a real home inspector, agreed to come by on Friday and give his final blessing. But this house was in pretty good shape. Not that I said that out loud. Or wrote that down.

  I walked through the kitchen filled with shiny gadgets from the Sharper Image. Past the dining room, pristine and empty of everything except flocked wall paper and an eight chair dining table. Hanging over the short end of the dining table was a huge “painterly style” wedding portrait. Debbie looked lovely wearing a skin tight mermaid dress and a shiny tiara on her big-for-the-occasion hair. Her groom loomed over her, anyone would. His most distinguishing feature was his bright curly red hair that even in a portrait at least five years old (judging from Debbie’s hair and dress) was already slipping away to reveal a increasingly larger forehead.

  I stared at the photograph about a thirty seconds too long. Family photos do not help a home sale, too distracting. For instance, I wasted valuable time gazing at the wedding portrait and missed estimating the square footage of the room.

  “The hot tub is out here by the bedroom door.” Debbie muscled open the sliding glass doors and gestured like a docent, “top of the line, and it’s included in the sale.”

  I glanced at the hot tub. It was large, a six or eight person capacity. It hummed and vibrated on a designated, solid cement slab. The brown cover was firmly locked in place. Good, no hazard. I had seen the picture on the MLS of course, but it was good to check.

  “We keep it heated all the time,” Debbie explained. “That way it’s always ready for me.”

  The tub was shielded from the rest of the lawn area by a partially covered lattice. It looked very cozy and private.

  “Yes, very nice.” I turned to the bedroom just because there wasn’t another way back through the house.

  “This room I decorated myself,” Debbie said brightly.

  “Oh, it’s very,” I began automatically, and then I focused on the room. “Nice.” I squeaked. This room had not been included in the MLS pictures. Nor in any of the flyers the Browns showed me.

  Decorator Debbie had centered a high four poster bed against a lavender painted wall (shades of Norton, my client with the sherbet colored condo came immediately to mind). But the lavender wall paled against the monstrous master bed. She must have found this at the Hearst’s Castle yard sale. Each bedpost was a heavily carved turret of grapes, cherubs and swirls (my mother briefly owned a front door with similar carvings. It too was breathtakingly ugly). The headboard was carved in such high relief it looked as if a person could get seriously injured if they tried to lean against it. Maybe that explained why a profusion of pink and rose pillows littered the bedspread, to soften the blow against the headboard. A massive circle of dried flowers entwined with a confusion of silk ribbons hung over the headboard.

  The side tables held up a up a matching pair of white alabaster lamps carved in the shape of a farmer boy and a farmer girl topped with a in with fussy pink lamp shade fringed with – fringe. The lamps fought for space with the collection of china kittens and puppies competing for the remaining surface of the bed stand.

  Directly across the bed was a narrow gas fireplace that can be installed after-market so to speak. I made a note of that as well as the fact that the 60 inch flat panel TV installed over the fireplace had internal wiring.

  The wiring would stay. The fireplace would stay. I could not believe the Browns even considered the house in light of that bed. But I said nothing. I just made a note.

  If this had been my listing, I would have insisted this room be re-decorated. Hell, I’d recommend torching the bedroom and starting over. Not my listing. You can imagine my relief.

  “So you both use the hot tub?” I asked, not willing to trust myself to comment further on the bedroom decorating. Wait until Joan hears about this one. Sometimes Joan poses as my professional decorator, my professional stager or my professional Feng Shui expert. She’s not really any of those, she has a PhD in 19th Century American Literature, but she knows the goal, clean up the clutter, put fifty percent of the furniture in storage, paint everything white. Joan herself doesn’t live in a calm, clean house so she often acts against her own best taste when she carries out my requirements.

  “But a house for sale is not decorated to live in.” I always explain to her before she goes off to help. “We need to sell it, it’s a commodity. After it’s sold and you can replace all the books and magazines.”

  “Oh no, just me.” Debbie answered my idle hot tub question with a serious answer. “I like to relax at night in the hot tub and my husband likes to watch TV.”

  “I see,” I assume the large TV was his contribution to the bedroom, a way to distract himself from the floral chintz paradise.

  Debbie led me on through the rest of the house. She pointed out the shiny wood floors and the two additional bedrooms.

  “I sponge painted both bedrooms myself.” Debbie bragged.

  I looked for cracks, flaws and any imperfections that may affect the sale, lawsuits or home warranty.

  “Is your hot tub included in the home warranty?” I didn’t have a copy with me.

  “I think so, since we’re leaving it. We’re getting a new one when we find a house.”

  “You haven’t identified a new property yet?”

  “No.” The Cheerleader Debbie façade slipped for a moment.

  “Rod says we’re going to take our time.” She wrinkled her forehead, which is bad; it will leave permanent wrinkles. But I didn’t point that out, let her discover that when she turns thirty.

  “I do know that we’re leaving Rivers Bend. Rod is attending a conference right now and he may look around Houston for a new place.”

  “When will he be back?” I asked quickly. She hadn’t mentioned accepting the offer.

  “Oh, tomorrow and our agent will bring by the paper work.”

  “Okay, good, I hope you like the offer.” I said, but without any inflection. I swear.

  I brushed off the bottom of my feet before I slipped on my shoes. I waved to Debbie and thanked her for taking such good care of her house. If it were my listing, I’d strip off the floral wallpaper from the bedroom and paint over every sponged inch of the back bedroom walls and I would definitely move the TV out of the master bedroom. I don’t know where I’d put the bedroom television since there was an equally large television in the family room. There was also a small TV in the kitchen and a large TV in the bathroom.

  “Rod likes to be informed.” Debbie explained when she saw my gaze wander to the TV in the second bathroom.

  All I have to say: the larger the TV in the bedroom, the bigger the problem with the marriage. I have sold countless homes because of divorce and what do they all have in common? A super sized television in the bedroom. Check it out and see if it doesn’t play out. I don’t even have a TV in
my bedroom. And I’m not divorced. Not married either. I’m an Outlier.

  I was relieved to escape to my own Craftsman bungalow. It’s larger than the traditional floor plan but has the deep porch, and the prairie style windows. I have comfortable chairs in every room, including the living room that is decorated in mid-century style includes all the important amenities: a flat screen TV (not as large as the Bixby’s), and my favorite chair made of soft green leather. Leather is easy to clean. The ice cream spills wipe right off.

  My house is blessed with far too many built in bookcases. The bookcases are dark cherry wood and are made to house lengthy tomes of great importance like unabridged copies of War and Peace and competing biographies of Virginia Woolf, but instead I have stuffed the shelves with hundreds of ratty paperback mysteries that I buy by the grocery-bag full from the used bookstores in Claim Jump. I always think I’ll return them, but I never do. The colorful book range across my shelves like inappropriate relatives, and I love them despite their looks.

  The only thing my current man, Ben, said when he entered my house for the first time was that the bookshelves were as colorful and chaotic as me.

  But enough about Ben.

  I faxed over my findings from my fully functional home office. This room is lined with more bookshelves, holding copies of real estate manuals and too many files. My master bed and bath are upstairs. The bed inspires great activities thank you. There is also a guest room and guest bath for people who never stay.

  I killed some time packing for my trip to Claim Jump, and then watched one of my favorite shows: Buy Low – Sell High, on the HGN, Home and Garden Network, or as Katherine from my office calls it, Housewives and Gays Negotiating.

  She said it, not me. I was surprised she admits watching it at all.

  Anyway, I rescued the last pint of Ben & Jerry’s because otherwise it will go stale while I’m away, and watched the last half of my show.

  This show is better than fiction. The featured house is ready for an open house in half an hour. All the owners had to do was pick up three pieces of tissue off the back lawn, paint the bathroom a solid color and cover one long window with a valance made of plywood and cotton batting. I swoon over the thought of a seller who is not only willing to paint, but to managed to finish the job by the next commercial.

  I salivated and spooned my ice cream faster as the agent at the open house chatted with the swarm of ready (polite) buyers all of whom were pre qualified and were moved to compliment the clean yard and the fresh paint job in the bath.

  “Yes.” Testified a potential buyer, “I could see my family in this house.”

  “Oh,” exclaimed another potential buyer in an unrehearsed declaration, “I love that that long window valance. And look at that pretty second bathroom.”

  I could do that, hire actors to come to my open houses.

  Since this was television, there needed to be a crisis. After the successful open house, an inspector found radon gas leaking into the basement. Panic, dire voice overs. Commercial.

  The sellers can’t really eradicate radon, it’s a natural gas. It would be like saying you could clean up the natural tar on the beaches in central CA. I ignored that part of the show and tossed the empty Phish Food carton in the garbage.

  The next segment solved the radon issue (in that there were few solutions) and now multiple offers for the house flowed in. It was time for me to hit the road, but I couldn’t tear myself from this part of the show. Two couples made hard offers – over asking price. The couple who liked the paint job in the bathroom made a lovely non-contingent offer.

  But the final offer, the last offer, was a Full. Cash. Offer.

  I almost passed out.

  Real estate porn.

  It’s how I relax.

  For a trip to grandma’s I always take my red leather Dooney and Bourke brief case, the matching hard copy day timer, phone and my laptop. I loaded the car with un-apologetically casual clothes packed into an expensive and un-apologetically elegant weekend bag and matching beach tote loaded with a healthy collection of low-heeled shoes and I was off.

  It was all good. Until my phone rang.

  “I just hate him.”

  All was not good. My best friend, Carrie Eliot, rescuer of cats, dater of millionaires, was not happy.

  “You don’t hate him. You may be sorry you slept with him, but you do not hate him.”

  That’s me, the relationship doctor. Call me Dr. Phil. That I didn’t even know what to do about the man I just slept with is inconsequential. I’m good at telling other people how to live. Oh and where to live, I’m very good at that.

  I turned onto Lakeville road and headed east, out to the mountains. It would take me three plus hours to reach Claim Jump, so I had plenty of time to listen to Carrie’s woes. I must say, at least the quality of her problems has improved.

  “You don’t really hate him. He’s too cute to hate. It would be like hating a lost kitten.”

  “You’re right. But he’s been so distant since, you know.”

  “Since you had sex?”

  “Please,” her voice was pained. “Don’t be so crass Allison. We made love.”

  “Call it what you will – just call.” Wow, could I use that in my next ad campaign? Just call. A little makes a difference no matter what you call it, just call.

  No, too long.

  “And say what?” She demanded.

  “I don’t have the answers, I’m just trying to close sales.”

  “Well excuse me,” she dragged out the word excuse.

  “Have you been listening to old Steve Martin CDs?”

  “Patrick is a fan.”

  I liked him better for it.

  “So what’s the challenge?” I finally broke down and asked.

  In my world, the road to unconditional love is long, but fortunately mostly freeway.

  I helped Carrie deconstruct her relationship with the elusive Patrick Sullivan, scion of the Cooper Milk Empire, all the way to 580 with only three dropped minutes. She quickly called me back each time. She was serious about this boy and apparently we needed to chart the relationship trajectory right now, this evening. I wondered if she was using an excel spread sheet or just mind mapping the problem on the back of paper grocery bags.

  By the time I hit 580 from Napa, the afternoon traffic had cleared up a bit and I didn’t have to slow much on my merge. And Carrie was somewhat mollified and decided she wouldn’t break up with Patrick just to see what he would do (she read a magazine article that suggested a faux break up to gauge a man’s reaction. I encouraged her to not take that particular course. Patrick was shy, but he was not stupid.)

  “You’re lucky you have someone who loves you.”

  “But that’s the problem,” she wailed. “How you do you know if they love you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever been loved.”

  “You were once engaged,” she pointed out, unnecessarily, I thought.

  “And you know how that ended.” I said.

  “Yes, I certainly do. Hey, thanks for listening. Good luck licking your wounds.”

  Sometimes her kitty metaphors make me want to cough up a fur ball.

  Speaking of metaphors, I left Ben Stone – Rock Solid Service – a message on his business line because that’s the only one he checks consistently, and continued on my way northeast.

  The Nut Tree is back. But I have yet to stop by and see the new and improved version. It was one of those icons I always looked for as a child. When we passed the Nut Tree I knew I was almost half way to Grandma’s. Now I gauge my half way point from the more accurate Mace Boulevard exit that also sports enough fast food outlets to let me buy expensive fuel for my car and cheap fuel for myself before I cross the Yolo causeway and switch freeways.

  Ben called after my pit stop and fortunately, after my last bite was thoroughly swallowed. I did not want to talk to him with my mouth full, it would give him the erroneously impression that I eat all the time.<
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  “Where are you?”

  “Yolo Causeway.”

  “What are you doing in Sacramento?”

  “Going to see my grandmother.”

  “Chicken,” he summarized succinctly.

  “Oh, and the notoriety is great for you? Everyone wants a handyman who can break up drug smuggling rings?”

  That’s how we met, drug smuggling. Not us. Bad guys were smuggling drugs. We just found them. Here’s the problem: press, that was one problem. Here’s another problem, we have not moved our relationship much past sleeping together at my place. Sometimes Ben stays until the morning. Mostly he does not.

  Hell yes, I’m pissed.

  “Why didn’t you invite me?”

  “Well, when we stop meeting exclusively at my house and start meeting at your place then maybe I’ll consider sharing my grandmother’s house at Claim Jump.” I responded virtuously.

  Maybe.

  “Okay, point taken. When you come back I’ll take you to my house. I’ll even show you where the bathroom is.”

  “Ha, ha, very funny and I accept.”

  So now he was on the hook.

  “I’ll be back in town next week.” I always follow up with specific action steps. “You may want to start picking up around the place some. Maybe vacuum.”

  “I’ll get right on that,” he promised, not sincerely mind you, but at least he promised.

  “You do that, I’ll see you in a week.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Call away, I’ll only be gone for a few days.” A week, a few days, same difference.

  We signed off. Our relationship was too new to say silly things like cup cake or honey bunny or love you, love you more, that kind of thing. Our relationship is mostly business with some sex thrown in. We don’t date per se, in that he never takes me out to dinner.

  Carrie had already advanced to calling her loved one cream cake, but since her boyfriend is the CEO for the largest producer of milk in the county, cream cake was pretty appropriate.

  For Ben, I had nothing. Maybe that’s a sign. I wasn’t sure. I intended to discuss it with Prue, my grandmother, when I arrived.