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

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