Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4) (20 page)

     “Starter kit it is, then.” And they filled out the necessary forms.

     Starter kits usually came in a special box, but Greg had loaded enough individual cases in the back of his Cherokee to fulfill a silver order. “Can I just give you enough individual six-packs to equal a starter kit? You don’t need it in a special box, do you?”

     Ben agreed, took his product, and they shook hands.

* * * *

Greg arrived home eager to tell Nicole he’d recruited another rep. Didn’t say one was an old lady with very little sales potential, one was young kid, and the third was an experienced older salesman too cautious to risk much, but he had three reps working for him. That ought to count for a lot. But Ben’s caution had triggered a concern in the back of his own mind—
he
hadn’t yet sold any product directly to consumers—but that would come. First, he’d needed the time to recruit his team.

     “Nicole!” The back door slammed behind him as he came in through the kitchen and went to the top of the basement stairs. “Hey, Nicole, guess what.”

     “What?” came her feeble voice from the bedroom behind him.

     He turned and peered through the doorway. “You okay? What’re you doin’ in there?”

     Nicole raised herself up on her elbow in their bed. “I think I’m sick. Same thing as Nathan.”

     “You sure?” He started across the room toward her and then stopped. He couldn’t risk getting sick too. “Oh, yeah. I can see from here you don’t look too good. How’s Nate?”

     “A little better, I think. He’s still upstairs.”

     “Becky? Does she have it too?”

     “Don’t think so. I let her go down and watch a video. You might check on her.”

     He nodded. “Okay, I will. Whadda you think it is?”

     Her eyes drooped, almost closed. “Probably just the flu. I haven’t thrown up yet, but . . . I’ve got chills, headache. Just feel rotten.”

     “Gee, I thought the flu season was past. You sure it wasn’t something you ate?”

     “Maybe, but we all had the same spaghetti and salad I made last night. Everything was fresh. You’re feeling okay, aren’t you?”

     “Sure.” But the moment he said it, a queasy feeling hinted at nausea and a wave of light-headedness came and went. Had to be the power of suggestion. He hadn’t felt anything before. “I’ll go down and check on Becky.”

     “Thanks. Can you go see how Nate’s doing too? Make sure he’s drinking. He lost a lot of liquid through the night.”

     Greg sighed as he left the room. Half the family sick? Not good. Not while he was trying to launch his new business. But with Nicole sick too . . .

     Becky seemed to be totally content watching
Beauty and the Beast
, no flu symptoms, and happy not to be doing schoolwork. “When’s lunch, Daddy?”

     “I don’t know, honey. You’ll have to ask Mom.” But as he headed back up the basement stairs, it dawned on him that Mom probably wouldn’t be up for cooking.

     Upstairs, Nathan was on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling. Greg approached cautiously as if the germs were ready to pounce on him. The boy looked pale, but when Greg peered into the large plastic bowl next to his bed, there were no signs it had been used.

     He sat on the foot of his son’s bed, just out of the boy’s reach. “How you doin’, buddy?”

     “Pretty good. Where’s Mom? I called her, but she didn’t come up.”

     “I think she’s sick too. She might’ve been sleeping when you called. You need something?”

     “Guess not. Just wanted her to be here with me.” He looked at his dad hopefully. “Can you stay?”

     “Stay? Well, maybe for a little while.” Greg sat on the end of the bed for several minutes and finally reached out to stroke his son’s forehead. When Nathan drifted back to sleep, he slipped into the bathroom and thoroughly washed his hands, then scurried downstairs and quietly sat down at his computer to register Ben Garfield. Next he’d make some lunch for Becky and himself, but then he really needed to get out of the house and sell some SlowBurn.

     Greg blew out a big breath, toying with a pen on the desk. He had to deal with this situation rationally. He felt badly that Nicole and Nate were sick, but how would they have managed if he’d been away at an office? This was just the flu, not an emergency that would’ve required him to stay home from work. All families had to cope with the flu from time to time, and they had to do it without disrupting the whole family’s schedule.

     The big issue right now was making sure he didn’t get sick. As the breadwinner for this family, he needed to make getting his business off the ground a priority.

     Getting up from his desk, Greg slipped quietly through the master bedroom to wash his hands again in their bathroom. When he came out, he tiptoed past the lump in their bed that was Nicole. But halfway down the hallway he heard her feeble voice. “Greg . . .” She sounded terrible. “Can you come back? I need you.”

Chapter 19

By Friday, Nicole and Nathan were back on their feet, and so far, neither Becky nor Greg had caught the flu. But Greg felt uptight and frustrated over the amount of nursing he’d had to do. How could he start a business from home when so many domestic demands impinged on his time?

     He felt guilty for resenting the help he’d given his family, but what was he supposed to do? Weren’t these the kinds of obstacles God was supposed to clear out of the way so they could get his blessing? He was certainly doing his part.

     Greg was in the middle of filling out his online registration for the SlowBurn training for the week after next, when Nicole came in and stood beside him. “Yeah?” he said without looking up from the screen.

     “Just wanted to let you know, I need the car this afternoon to do the shopping that I missed the other day.”

     Greg remained focused on the computer. “You’ll be taking the kids, won’t you?”

     “I’m still not a hundred percent, Greg, so I thought it’d be faster if I left them here, but I—”

     “Nicole!” Greg lifted his hands off the keyboard like a pianist ready to pound out a major chord. “If they’re around here, then I’ll have to be dealing with them while I’m trying to work.”

     “No you won’t. I’ve already arranged for Tabitha to come over.”

     “Tabitha?” He finally turned and looked up at her. “Who’s Tabitha?”

     “Tabby Jasper, the girl from down the street I had over for a mother’s helper the other day.”

     “Oh . . . oh yeah. Okay. Thanks.” He turned back to his computer. “Just tell them to stay out of my office and keep the noise down.”

     She started to leave, but then turned back. “So now it’s
your
office, huh?”

     “Come on, Nicole.” He leaned back and rolled his eyes. “Yes, this is
our
living room, except when I’m working in here. Then it’s my office. Okay? I’m trying to start a business here so . . . so we don’t have to move to Florida or Canada or—”

     “
Florida? Canada?
Why would we have to move there?”

     “I don’t know. Someplace where they manufacture more boats than they do in Chicago so I could get back into that business.”

     “Well, I don’t want to move either.” Nicole started out again. “Like I said, I’ve got it covered with Tabby, and I’ll tell her to not let the kids bother you.”

     “Thanks.”

     Tabby arrived about three thirty, and Greg heard her apologize for being a little late in getting home from school. But as promised, Nicole carefully instructed her to not let the kids disturb him. “I’ll take them outside,” Tabby said.

     Greg almost called out, “Appreciate it!” but then realized he wouldn’t even be overhearing this conversation if he were in an office.

     On the other hand, every office had its own conversations . . . and politics and meetings and time-wasting reports and other distractions. He really should be more grateful. The best of both worlds would be a real in-home office with a door and a space of his own. That’s what he needed. When they got their new house, he’d make sure he had a large office with plenty of light, maybe on the second floor, situated where the noises of household life wouldn’t disturb him. And there ought to be an access for clients, perhaps not a separate entrance but at least a way to bring them into his office without walking through the domestic clutter of a home with young children.

     But they weren’t there yet, and they weren’t going to get there if he didn’t get his SlowBurn “burning.” So how could he make do with what they had? He began brainstorming. There was quite a bit of space upstairs, but no way to carve out another room, and at their age, both kids needed a separate bedroom. What if he took over the dining room and closed it off? No, Nicole would never go for that, and he didn’t really want to do that either. The back porch might be an option. But that would involve enclosing it, winterizing it, and providing heat—several thousand dollars to do it right, and then it still would be kind of cramped. What about an office over the garage? It would be expensive to add another story and get heat and air conditioning installed, but that would be fantastic. What if—

     The back doorbell rang. He glanced out the living room window. Tabby and the kids were out front playing hopscotch, so it wasn’t one of them. He got up and went to the kitchen door.

     “Destin, good to see you. You looking for your sister?”

     “No, Mr. Singer. I brought my money.” The teenager held out a check.

     “Hey, that’s great. Come on in.” Greg took the check. It was a bank draft for the full three hundred dollars. “This is great. I hope you have some way to haul your cases down to your house, ’cause my wife’s got my car, and we’re talkin’ over two hundred pounds of SlowBurn here.”

     “Uh, really?”

     “Yeah. Seventy six-packs, 420 eight-ounce cans.”

     “Oh gee, I don’t know where I’d put all of that. Is there any chance I can take what I need right now and leave the rest with you?”

     Greg shrugged. “Don’t see why not. Come on out to the garage.”

     They separated Destin’s cases into one stack, while he took one case with him down the alley to his home.

     “Good luck,” Greg called after him. “You can pick up the rest anytime.”

     Just as he was heading back into the house, he heard the garage door to the alley go up. Nicole must be returning. Feeling encouraged that his third rep was launched, he waited to help his wife bring the groceries into the house.

     “Thanks,” she said when he showed up and reached for a couple of grocery bags. “I have about as much energy as a drained battery.”

     “You go on in and take a load off your feet, honey. I’ll bring everything in.” He watched as she stepped through the doorway and walked slowly toward the house. Yeah, he needed to be more sensitive to the toll this job transition was taking on his wife.

* * * *

Sunday, supposedly a day of rest. But Greg felt anxious about taking a whole day off from building the clientele he needed for SlowBurn. Well, maybe when he got to church he could track down the two guys who’d canceled on him and reschedule a time to tell them about SlowBurn. And when he got home, he’d make a few other calls.

     Pastor Hanson’s message was on “Speaking Life into Our Dreams.” Greg perked up the moment he heard the title. That’s exactly what he needed. He had a dream and the blessing seemed so close. What did he need to do to speak life into it?

     The pastor’s primary text was Proverbs 18:21: “Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love it will eat its fruit.”

     Pastor Hanson stepped around to the side of his clear plastic pulpit—a custom, Greg had noted, which preceded his identifying a false teaching. “Some people would say this proverb deals only with the hurtful words one could say to or about someone else. And that’s a valid understanding as far as it goes. James, chapter three, for instance, reviews what a fire of evil the tongue can stir up. A malicious and false testimony can literally lead to someone’s execution while the words of a faithful witness could save his life. However”—he allowed a pregnant pause—“the context for this verse suggests something more.”

     The polished preacher returned behind the pulpit and picked up his Bible. “The verse just before this morning’s text says, ‘A man’s stomach shall be satisfied from the fruit of his mouth; from
the produce of his lips he shall be filled.’ In other words, what you say can bring fruit sufficient to fill your stomach, to fill all your godly desires. Do you want to be healthy? Luke nine-six says Jesus and his disciples ‘went through the towns, preaching the gospel, and healing everywhere.’
Everywhere!
If you were there and sick, you would’ve been healed. But he also said, ‘I am with you always, even
unto the end of the world.’ So Jesus is here now and that same healing is for you now.”

     Pastor Hanson’s voice rose. “Which means this promise in Proverbs is also for us
now
. Just speak life! Do you need a new house? This same Jesus who went before you to heaven to prepare a mansion for you there, wants to see you living in a beautiful home
right now
, and He wants you to move in. Speak life into that dream, and the blessing will be yours!”

     Greg glanced sideways at Nicole to see how she was responding. She moved her finger across the page of her Bible under the words of verse 20—once, twice, three times—as though she was trying to digest their meaning. He craned his neck to read them himself. “
Wise words satisfy like a good meal; the right words bring satisfaction.
” Not exactly what Pastor Hanson had read from the New King James.

     “What version do you have today?” he whispered.

     She flipped it over and pointed to the cover:
The New Living Translation.

     Hmm. No one could construe that translation into a promise for getting a mansion. So which was right? Greg sat up stiffly. He couldn’t say Nicole had spoken death over their prosperity, but she’d been hesitant to embrace the pastor’s teaching that promised financial success.