Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith (10 page)

I took his inert arm and steered him away from the core of the crowd
.  “You already gave to the De Young. Planning on more?” 

“
Yes, Beverley and I are founding members of the Lost Art Museum, I’m donating to them as well.”

“Founding members for the Lost Art Museum?  Please, tell me someone thought that
designation was ironic.”

He smiled, a little.  “Yes, the donor levels are Founder, Pathfinder, Explorer, Map Reader, that kind of thing.”

“I didn’t think he had it in him.”

“The director, Fischer?  He doesn’t
, my mother suggested it.”

“Why do I think your mother is some kind of superhero?”

“She is, on her own tightly controlled planet. She is the Little Prince; she lives in her own world, and so, is the queen. Since you asked, there’s an event at the Lost Art Museum. I thought we’d go, and I could ask if anyone came across pieces of Beverley’s collection.”

The word
pieces
was a good one. I paused for a moment to swallow my shrimp again. I remember the last time the Executive Director of the Lost Art Museum and I spent time together was during a particularly difficult period that involved controversial art, my own difficult clients, and the Executive Director’s poor - now late - father. That exchange didn’t end well, either.

“
Come, we can look at our panel again.” Ben cajoled.

“
And the new bathrooms you paid for.”

He nodded.

“Sure, send me the invitation.” I acquiesced.

I realized, that since we first met, I spent too many nights worrying about whether or not I could afford Ben. Despite my grandmother Prue
’s insistence that I should only marry for love (that’s another story), I was still wary.  Discovering that Ben could, after all, actually support himself left me feeling awkward and embarrassed about my own doubts. Did I secretly want him to need me financially? Was that my only contribution to the relationship? Nope, I was also excellent at getting him into trouble.

Carrie and Patrick arrived. Carrie, bless her heart, managed to look much better than the
President/CEO’s secretary at about 1/100 of the cost.  Carrie wore the same red dress she had worn to seduce Patrick. Judging from the way Patrick held her arm and casually pulled her close as they talked, the dress was still working.

Carrie accepted a flute of sparkling wine and smiled winningly at the President and CEO who hurried over to greet Patrick, who, in turn, nodded solemnly and looked official.

Patrick Sullivan, born into money, understands his place and his job. He doesn’t  relax until he is far from the public eye.  Carrie assures me Patrick really is great fun. She reported that he accurately mimics the full Steven Martin
Wild and Crazy Guy
DVD without missing a single joke. He even owns a banjo and a fake arrow that he wears on his head in the evening. 

I should ask him to recite my favorite scene from
Picasso at the Lapin Agile
.

Ben blew in my ear
. “Hey.” 

His color was a bit better. When a fundraising volunteer gets too close, Ben retreats. I wondered if he contracted hives during the PBS pledge week. Maybe, he left town.

“Having fun yet?” I asked.

“How much should I give them?”

“Let’s wait until after the dinner; you still need to critic the menu.”

“Patrick.” Ben reached around me and shook Patrick’s hand. Ben, we may add here, was not wearing a tuxedo; he wore an old suit, not so old that the general population would notice, but it was old enough so that I noticed, and people such as Martha Anderson and the secretary draped in sequins, would notice. I sensed this was an old habit.  I wonder if his attitude bothered Beverley, who
reported always made a grand  entrance, while Ben clearly enjoyed playing the role of awkward escort: wrong suit, wrong shoes, indifferent tie. Very passive aggressive. 

I hadn’t the heart to point out that the old suit gambit only made every woman in the room want to take him home and reform him, or at least make him change
. And watch him do it. 

We fell comfortably behind Patrick and Carrie’s wake. They moved together as if they were already a royal couple. Carrie’s dark hair contrasted dramatically against the red dress. Even in her high heels, her head barely reached Patrick’s shoulder. She looked delicious. Without her rival, Carrie had clearly come into her own. Since she began her career in Rivers Bend as a secretary for the Senior Center, this must be sweet indeed.

Ben leaned into me. “They work well together.”

Carrie approached the spangl
ey, part-time secretary. In contrast to Carrie’s simple beauty, the secretary looked contrived.  She smiled carefully at Carrie but stayed focused on Patrick, the main man.

Mistake. Carrie told me time and time again, the women often have the last say in donations, especially when it came to large amounts. Even if the husband is the CEO of a large corporation, it’s the wife who often controls the funds. Carrie smiled easily at the secretary, confident that she had the upper hand. But, for how long?

I moved restlessly away from the scene and glanced at the now open doors to the ballroom.

Ben sensed my move
. “Good, let’s sit down.”

“You should be working the room and making new contacts
.” I mocked him.  Actually, I should have been in the mood to make new contacts. In my business, every event, every chamber mixer, every party is the right opportunity for relationship marketing, for connecting, for making sure people know, love, and trust you. Sorry, know, LIKE, and trust you.

I wasn
’t feeling trustworthy.  I was not feeling likable. A waiter directed us to one of the head tables, and I plopped down in front of my place card. We were seated with Carrie, Patrick and a nice young man representing Flex Paint - the big donor table. Not that the donors here tonight were large people, they just had large amounts of money. I enjoyed thinking about the idea of a big donor. Donors should all be the same size as Martha Anderson, how delicious. 

“And
what do you do?” I leaned over, flashed my own considerable assets and managed to render the Flex VP mute for a full fifteen seconds.

Sometimes, I’m good; sometimes I
’m bad.

“
We donate the paint for all the mobile homeless shelters.” He blurted out after his long pause.  He grabbed his water and drank. I offered to pour him wine from the bottle at the table. He gratefully accepted.

Carrie and Patrick arrived at the table, and we exchanged a flurry of polite greetings. The salads arrived, not served by the staff of the Homeless Prevention League, thank goodness.

Carrie twisted the wine bottle on the table and noted the vintner. “They donate to us as well.” She glanced around. “I wonder if there’s more.”

Our cocktail waiter, Vice President in charge of shrimp, Harold, joined us along with the other staff member, the young woman.

Carrie smiled at the woman and rose to give her a hug. “You look adorable in a tux.” Carrie said warmly.  “How have you been?” 

The young woman glanced at Patrick, then over at our Flex Paint representative. “Oh, we are devastated by Beverley’s death, of course; she was so young.”

Ben and I murmured something appropriate. I think I said, “so tragic”.  At least, I hoped it was appropriate. I poured wine for the rest of the table and gestured to the nice professional waiter for more.

The young woman’s name was Anne. I thought it was fairly appalling that the two of them had to act the role of servants at a formal event, but I’m not conversant with the various methods of charities. Perhaps all staff members at a non-profit are treated like servants.

We worked our way through the house salad and were allowed to swallow a couple bites of our main course, dried chicken poorly disguised by blanket of  white sauce, before the President and CEO commanded our attention. I was working up enough enthusiasm to talk to the Flex Paint gentleman, and he was getting up enough nerve to look me in the eyes, so I was disappointed at the interruption.

The President and CEO, Steven Baker, graciously acknowledged the major donors, who were called up in alphabetical order, to accept a tall, acrylic statue (in the shape of a flame) from the hands of the secretary who simpered like a low-rent Vanna White. She pushed an appreciation award into Patrick’s unwilling hands, he nodded to her and hurried back to his seat.  He set it down and stared at it, balefully.

“Maybe, they should give you a bottle of donated wine instead.” Carrie suggested.  She patted Patrick’s arm sympathetically.

Ben grinned.

The President then delivered a lengthy tribute to Beverley, listing among other attributes: her work with the homeless, her ability to find them work and things to do, her visits to their shelters, and her work on the board.

As with anyone who had recently left us, the positive attributes were conflated, and any flaws were excised. Still, I shifted in my seat and played with the butter knife. Great, he had a perfect ex-wife; that always gives the current girlfriend confidence.

“As you are aware, we have an opening on the board.” The President said jovially.

Patrick glanced at Carrie, but she was politely focused on President and CEO Steven Baker. She is a good audience.  

Finally, after canonizing Beverley Weiss and her many achievements, the President invited Ben to come and accept a larger size glass flame award to commemorate Beverley’s work with the League.

“Bigger than yours
.” He whispered to Patrick on his way back to his seat.

Patrick smiled
. “Sucks for you.”

“And now, as we have in previous dinners, it
is my pleasure to introduce Professor Marcel Von Drake.  He has been our program speaker for five years now, and you always ask for his return. The Professor is one of our HPL Shelter residents, and he is grateful for your continued support.  He is here to tell his story. Professor?”

The professor looked the part of an aging academic, he was round and portly and barely fit into the rented tux someone had tucked around his body. But he did carry an aura of authority, as the man with all the answers. Not what I’d expect from a homeless person. I believe that was the point.

Judging from his speech, the professor had an ax to grind with most of the civilized world He did complain with panache, I will give him that.

Patrick shifted in his seat as the man spoke. He poured more wine into first Carrie’s glass, then his own. He gestured with the bottle toward the other tablemates, but they shook their heads, entranced with the vibrant message the speaker delivered.

“I can’t believe he’s not working in some college.” Carrie whispered.

“He was with a very small, liberal arts college
.” Anne confirmed.  “He had to leave; there was some scandal, so he can’t get a job anywhere. That’s part of his challenges.”

“
He is an awfully good speaker. I wonder if he’d come to our Rotary meeting?”  Our Flex man said.

At first, I thought Flex was the name of a paint store, - for houses (of course I would think that). I learned Flex Industries actually makes coatings for optics, very high end.  That’s all the information I have because the awards and lectures
had interrupted my burgeoning conversation with the Flex man.

Carrie sipped at her full wine glass and continued to politely listen to the lecture, or rant.

Patrick leaned over to me and whispered. “Maybe, he wasn’t too stable, or rather he’s not too stable.”

“How can you tell?”

“I heard a lecture on the psychopathic mind last year.”

“Good heavens, why?”
  I whispered.

“We support a mental hospital in San Francisco
.” He replied shortly.

The professor did have style. He threw out his hands, bellowed, and ranted against society
. He accused us all of being shallow and of not paying enough attention to the pain and suffering all around us.  He clearly hadn’t attended Thanksgiving with my family.  

The professor made a segue into the invisibility of the common man and how it takes so much to get noticed, and that is all anyone really wants
- to be noticed.

“Okay
.” Harold leaned over to Anne and whispered something in her ear. She leaned into him for a second longer than necessary, but he didn’t seem to notice. She nodded and moved quickly from the table, dragging the tablecloth and upsetting her wine, but Harold caught the cloth just in time and righted the glass. Anne staggered over something, recovered and edged around the ballroom.

Harold picked up the offending object. It was one of largest purses I have ever seen, brown vinyl, and riddled with zippers and flaps. He set it carefully on her chair.  

Anne snuck down against the wall and quietly moved behind the speaker.

“
Fifteen minutes of fame. Everyone will have fifteen minutes of fame. There are whole magazines devoted to exploiting and celebrating everything that is mundane!”