Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4) (24 page)

     But Greg had swallowed everything Pastor Hanson said—hook, line, and sinker. Why? Why was he so eager to believe it completely and so impatient when she questioned it? Sometimes he’d talked about a bigger house or a new car, but she hadn’t known him to be driven by raw greed. Perhaps he was more worried about this job change than she realized. Maybe he was just scared and grasping something to hold on to.

     She wanted to help, not make things harder for him. But what could she do? Greg had been out of work for over a month now, and as far as she knew, he hadn’t made any big sales with his new SlowBurn business. He handled all the money for the family, so she didn’t know where they stood financially, but things must be getting tight.

     Greg was going to be gone the next few days at the SlowBurn conference. What if . . .

     Nicole glanced at the extension phone hanging on the wall above the computer. Greg was upstairs in the living room working and never used the home line for business. She dug through her purse until she found Lincoln Paddock’s business card, then went to the bottom of the stairs and listened. She could hear Greg talking on his cell. Good. Picking up the receiver to the house phone, she dialed Lincoln Paddock’s work number.

     She was surprised when the call went straight through to him. “Uh, Mr. Paddock? This is Nicole Singer, your neighbor from down the street.”

     “Oh yes. Hi, Nikki. What can I do for you?”

     So friendly! “Hi . . . I was, I was just wondering whether you might be needing some clerical help in the next few days. You’d mentioned—”

     “You’re kidding! What great timing you have. We just got in a truckload of work, and I had no idea how we were going to finish it in time. When can you start?”

     “Well, maybe I could help out tomorrow for a while if I can arrange childcare for the kids, but—”

     “That’s great. When can I pick you up?”

     “Uh . . . I’m not sure. Can I call you back on that?”

     “Sure. Just let me know, and if the morning doesn’t work for you, I’ll send the car whenever you can make it.”

     Nicole hung up and sat down slowly, almost gingerly, in front of the computer, her heart pounding and her head swirling as if she’d been spinning on a tire swing. What had she just done? She wanted to run upstairs and tell Greg, but what if it didn’t work out? What if she couldn’t do the work? And then there was the big question of what to do with the kids.

     She reached for the phone again and called the Jaspers. After all, this possibility had been in the back of her mind when she’d tried Tabby out as a mother’s helper. It would’ve been best to test how she did on her own for shorter periods. But necessity had a way of altering the best-laid plans.

     A sullen voice mumbled, “Hello?”

     For a moment Nicole thought she’d dialed the wrong number. “Is this the Jaspers? This is Nicole Singer.”

     “Oh, yeah. Hi, Mrs. Singer.” The voice brightened. “This is Destin. How you doin’?”

     “Fine. Is your mom there?”

     “No. She’s workin’.”

     Of course. “Any chance you could give me her work number?”

     “I can give you her cell. Will that do?”

     “Yes. If you would.”

     To Nicole’s great relief, Michelle answered her cell on the third ring. “Thanks for taking my call, Michelle. Sorry to bother you at work, but I was wondering whether Tabby would be available to babysit for the next few days, starting tomorrow. I figured I should ask you first before I talked to her.” Given Tabby’s young age, it seemed right to Nicole to ask Michelle first rather than speak directly to the girl.

     “Oh, I’m sure she’d love to, but Tabby’s down in Indiana at cheerleading camp this week. Won’t be home till Saturday evening. Maybe next week, though. She’s said how much she enjoys watching your young ones.”

     All the excitement drained out of Nicole. “Thanks, Michelle. Yes, next week might work. I’ll get back to you.”

     She sat there discouraged after they hung up, but then she got another idea and dialed her mother.

     “Hi, Mom. You busy tomorrow?”

     “Not at all, honey. You wanna go shopping together?”

     “No. Can’t do shopping. Would you be able to watch the kids for me for the next few days? I’ve got a temporary job offer, and Greg’s going to be away at a training conference. The easiest would be if you could come up here and stay over. Does that seem possible?”

     There was a brief silence. “Well, you know I love my grandchildren, but I don’t know if I can keep up with them for several days. They’re quite a handful sometimes.”

     Nicole tried to keep her voice upbeat. “Oh, you can do it, Mom. All you’ve gotta do is set firm boundaries. You sure knew how to do that for me.” She laughed.

     “I know, honey, but I was younger then. And you may not realize how much it takes out of a person.”

     Nicole did know. In fact, she’d started to realize it was part of the long-term exhaustion that dragged her down—kids all day every day, being teacher, wife, housekeeper, and now she had to run interference to make sure the kids didn’t disturb Greg while he worked. Whatever made her wish he could spend more time at home?

     Her mother finally broke the silence. “Well, all right, dear. I’ll give it a try for a few days, just to see how it goes.”

     “Oh, Mom, thanks so much. And it’ll only be for this week. I think I’ve got someone else who can do it next week, if the job lasts that long.”

     “Oh, but you’ve got to be careful who you let care for your children, sweetheart. I know you wouldn’t let a stranger watch them”—though the way her mom said it, she was probably afraid Nicole had called a babysitting service—“but there’re little things like letting them get away with backtalk or . . . or not obeying when spoken to. Kids are so sassy these days.”

     “I know, Mom.” Her mom had
always
been hard on sass, too hard. “This is someone I know personally and she’s watched the kids before under my supervision. It’ll be okay. Could I pick you up about seven-thirty tomorrow?”

Chapter 23

Greg shrugged into his sport coat, slicked his dark hair back on the sides once more, and checked his appearance in the full-length bedroom mirror. Light gray shirt open at the collar, dark gray sport coat, light gray slacks. Face still nicely tanned from his last Powersports boat show. Good. Casual but businesslike. He wanted to make a good impression when he arrived at the Hyatt Regency for the SlowBurn training sessions today.

     He needed to get an early start. He couldn’t leave Nicole without a car for four days, but hiring a taxi to take the twenty-five-mile trip out to Schaumburg would be pretty pricey, and he was becoming more and more conscious of their dwindling finances. But arriving at the Hyatt on a public bus would look pretty shabby. So he’d come up with a plan.

     Greg grinned to himself as he made for the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. All he had to do was take the ‘L’ on the Red line down to the Loop and the Blue Line out to O’Hare. Then he could catch the Hyatt Regency shuttle from the airport to the hotel in Schaumburg. It might take him a couple of hours, but if anyone saw him arrive, it would look like he’d flown in for the conference.

     He glanced at his watch. If he left in the next fifteen minutes, he’d easily be there in time for the SlowBurn training since it didn’t start until noon.

     “Greg! The hot water ran out again,” Nicole yelled from their bathroom.

     Oh, no! Not this morning. He didn’t have time to mess with the water heater. But he couldn’t leave the family without hot water. He took another swallow of coffee and called to his wife, “I’ll take care of it!”

     On his knees in the laundry room downstairs, he opened the little door at the base of the water heater and bent down. Sure enough, the pilot was out again, so of course the burner hadn’t come on. He’d relit the thing several times in the past few weeks. At some point he needed to figure out why it kept going out. Was it set too low? Was there an adjustment? He didn’t know.

     He shined a flashlight around the interior of the firebox. The burner was heavily scaled with rust, and the area around the small orifice for the pilot light glistened with . . . water? Sliding his hand underneath the water tank, he felt a small puddle, no larger than a jar lid, but it was definitely wet. Water must be dripping on the pilot and putting it out. He’d have to find where the leak was coming from, tighten a fitting or close a valve or something.

     But he didn’t have time to track that down this morning.

     He went through the relight sequence and reached the propane lighter in until the pilot caught, waited sixty seconds, turned the valve to On, and the burner roared to life.

     Whew! Fifteen minutes wasted, and he should probably clean up a little, but if he still hurried . . .

     He arrived late, and the standard room he’d reserved turned out to cost him $149 per night even with the conference discount. As the receptionist at the front desk took his card, he almost stopped her to ask if anyone from the conference was interested in sharing a business-class room to save a little money. But of course the hotel people wouldn’t know that, and he didn’t wanted to look cheap, so he let her swipe his card.

     Handing five bucks to a bellhop to take his bag up to his room, he asked the concierge where SlowBurn was meeting.

     “They’re in the Copper Room.” The man pointed. “Past the stairs, third door on your right.”

     Forty or so women and men had already gathered, a light lunch buffet along one wall of the conference room, when Greg slipped in and found a seat at a table in the back. Arlo was up front making announcements. He paused momentarily and nodded his recognition of Greg. That felt good. At least someone knew him and was glad he was there.

     Each place along the long narrow tables held a leather-covered tablet, a pen, and two cans of chilled SlowBurn. Greg gratefully opened one of his cans and took a swig. Ahh. Refreshing. Should be easy to sell the stuff. But Greg hadn’t yet figured out how.

     The afternoon proceeded with one of the SlowBurn executives from New York reviewing the history of the company and the development of the secret formula for the drink—stuff Greg had already read online. Then a middle-aged African American couple from Florida told how SlowBurn had revolutionized their lives and how they were now living the high life in a waterside villa with a private boat slip in which they’d parked their new forty-eight-foot yacht. They both had BMWs and were on their way to Alaska for a three-week vacation.

     “We just wanted to stop over here in Chicago and wish y’all the best from your SlowBurn family in Key West. You’re welcome to drop in and see us any ol’ time, ya hear? And please forgive us for duckin’ out, but we have a plane to catch.”

     Greg watched them go. Really? Lucky stiffs.

     That evening at the awards banquet, Greg sat at a table with seven other Chicago area reps. All of them seemed gung ho and doing well. He tried to match their enthusiasm, but his claims felt like dust in his mouth. Could the others tell?

     At the banquet that evening, Arlo was again the emcee, which gave Greg a point of connection, but Arlo hadn’t done anything more to recognize him during the day other than shake his hand and say he was glad Greg had made it.

     “And now,” Arlo said, “it’s time to recognize all the hard work you’ve been doing recently.”

    
Yeah, yeah, yeah
, thought Greg as he took another bite of his chicken cordon bleu. The conference was supposed to encourage and train the reps, but so far Greg hadn’t learned anything new that would turn his business around. In fact, in comparison to all the other success stories, he was beginning to feel downright discouraged. Maybe SlowBurn wasn’t his ticket to success after all.

     Arlo’s words broke through his gloom. “Greg Singer, come on up here. Greg’s our rookie salesman of the cycle with three, no it’s four reps working for you now, isn’t it, Greg? And he’s only been on the job for two weeks. So, everybody, put your hands together for Greg Singer!”

     Greg could feel the heat rising up his neck, turning his face red as he slid his chair back and walked toward the front. He never expected this . . . and wait a minute, he didn’t have four reps working for him. He had Mattie Krakowski, Ben Garfield, and Destin Jasper—an elderly lady, a dumpy-looking retiree, and a teenager. As far as he knew, not one of them had sold more than one or two cans of SlowBurn. And there was no fourth rep. But he was already walking toward the platform.

     At the front, rather than take Arlo’s proffered hand, Greg leaned forward and whispered, “I only have three reps, not four.”

     “Ha, ha, ha!” Arlo’s voice boomed through the microphone to the whole group. “Greg’s trying to tell me he only has three reps.” He threw his arms wide. “How can that be?” And then he slapped Greg on the back. “It’s because the man’s so modest, he forgot to count himself. Here, this is for you.” He stuffed an envelope into Greg’s left hand and shook his right hand. “So let’s give it up for Greg Singer, rookie rep of the cycle.”

     Greg’s face was burning up. He acknowledged the group’s applause with a nod and small wave and hurried back to his seat.

     “Believe me, ladies and gentlemen”—Arlo’s voice followed Greg—“in this business there’s no room for modesty, because we’re all winners. Isn’t that right? Greg’s a new winner, and some of the rest of us are old winners, but we’re all winners, so we don’t need to apologize for anything.”

     Greg took his seat and scanned the big smiles from others around his table.

     “Congratulations, Greg. You’re doing great,” said the older man to his right.

     Greg nodded and turned his attention to the next award recipient—the first rep from Rockford, Illinois, was celebrating his one-year anniversary. But while he listened to Arlo describe the woman’s accomplishments, Greg looked down and opened the envelope between his legs. It held a beautifully printed certificate with his name on it and a crisp hundred-dollar bill.