Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith by Catharine Bramkamp Page B

have to do with it?”
    “Oh, nothing.” Patricia turned her attention back to her computer screen. The daily postings from the news (she prefers the awful and grotesque) kept her riveted.
    “Did you hear about the winery worker who died while he was cleaning the bottom of one of those huge, stainless steel tanks?”  She leaned closer to her monitor. “Damn, there’s no picture.”
    If I had more time and energy, I’d be really worried about Patricia.

Chapter 5
     
    That afternoon, I let Ben back into the house. He stopped in the living room and took it all in.
    “ I’m going to take care of this mess today.” I quickly reassured him.  Either he wasn’t worried about the mess, or he was so accustom to the state of the house, he no longer saw it. 
    “She painted .” Was all he said.
    “I insisted.”
    He nodded, “Good for you.  She painted the walls in this dark burgundy when we first decorated the house.”
    The idea of them decorating a house together gave me a sudden pang. How did she get to be so lucky? Who was she?
    “She toned it down to lilac by the time I came on the scene.” I said. 
    “She thought of herself as very artistic.”  He glanced up at the bedroom, then at me.
    I nodded.  I had already hired cleaning professionals of the more haz-mat variety. They had wrought a miracle with the walls and ceiling. The carpet was replaced by Wednesday afternoon. Everything else, the spread, mattress and all the clothing and shoes Beverley had left scattered around the bedroom floor, had to be thrown away.
    I had no idea why Ben was drawn to that room, but that’s where he headed, up the stairs.
    I trailed behind him on the carpeted steps. The one thing that kept me from falling head over heels for this man was that I was certain I’d end up the major breadwinner. He had a handyman business, Rock Solid Service, and he was good at what he did. But my income was higher. My grandmother says I’m crazy.  Now my assumptions had been proved wrong. Now what do I do?
    “I take it you have plenty of money .” I addressed his back which was easier than looking him in the eye. This was clearly not a subject of which he was terribly fond, otherwise he’d flaunt it like every other rich guy I came across, or God help me, dated.
    He slowed on the stairs, but he didn’t turn around to face me.
    “Does it matter?”  
    “ Only that I may not need to support you.” I replied to his stiff back.
    He nodded and continued to walk to, yes, the master bedroom. I followed him.  He turned slowly around the bedroom taking in the bare walls and the new bed spread and pillows. (We couldn’t get everything out.)
    “Where did you put the art?” He asked.
    “What art?” I replied.
    “You didn’t see any art when you viewed the house?”
    “Not the first time .” I said.  “I have the photos. They’re on the web if you want to confirm.”  I had replaced the photos of the downstairs, but kept the photo of the unsullied master bedroom.  And there was no art on the walls. Not now and not then.  
    “No, no .” His voice was quiet, hurt.  “She must have sold the art. Why did she sell the art?” He said it more to himself than to me.
    “How much art?” I asked.
    He frowned at the walls, as if they had eaten up his investments. “We, she, had a pretty good collection. We bought much of it together.”
    “Better to buy jewelry .” I said. “Take it with you.”     
    I wasn’t good at art. The two of us met over art and the controversy it produced. Who knew art was controversial?  I’m of the school where art should be pleasant and match the living room furniture.  I’m not on very sure footing when it came to a discussion about post-modern, modern or pre-post-modern painting. 
    Now, jewelry I understand. Carrie told me about the Romanoffs. She learned about them at one of her JC lectures. That family took all their jewelry and hid it in their clothes before their escape. Precious