Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4) (26 page)

     Her thoughts drifted back to the zoo trip. Their time together had been so pleasant, like in the office, but on a far more personal level. What kind of a man was he, really? Why wasn’t he married?

     She drifted into a dream where she was sitting in the back of a gondola, leaning into the gentle arms of Lincoln Paddock. Instead of propelling them through the Venetian canals, the gondolier was giving them a private tour on the Chicago River, pointing out all the dramatic buildings, describing their history or builder in a most intriguing manner. As they bobbed gently along, a much larger tour boat passed, filled with people. The bullhorn voice of its guide was also describing the city’s architectural wonders. Nicole choked as she caught a whiff of the boat’s diesel exhaust just as she recognized Greg sitting in the back of the tour boat—just as he had years ago when they’d taken the same tour, only this time he was alone, head down.

     Why had she ever thought that trip was romantic? This was real romance.

     A large wake from the tour boat rocked the little gondola, threatening to capsize it . . . and Nicole woke up.

     But it was just Greg getting into bed.

     Her heart pounded as she broke out in a heavy sweat. She remained facing away from her husband, wondering if he knew, fearing she might’ve said something in her sleep. But she hadn’t been talking in her dream, so what could she have said to give herself away? She’d just been enjoying the ride.

    
It was only a dream. You can’t control what you dream about, can you?

     But the thrill of it clung to her, and she welcomed it like a warm blanket on a chilly day. It was only a dream, but Lincoln’s arms had been so comforting.

     Once her heart slowed until she could no longer feel it thumping in her chest, she willed herself back to sleep . . . perhaps to dream again.

Chapter 25

“Nicole, we need to talk.” Greg shuffled barefoot into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes from a restless night.

     His wife turned from the stove, her mouth open, and the color seemed to drain from her face.

     “I mean,
I
need to talk about what I said yesterday. I’m sorry.”

     She took a deep breath, and color slowly returned to her face, but she said nothing, just turned back to flipping the pancakes on the griddle.

     “Look, I’m trying to apologize here. Can you at least say something?”

     “Sorry. My mind was someplace else. You’re apologizing for what exactly?”

     Grrr!
She was going to make him retrace every detail. He took a deep breath and dove in. “For jumping all over you about taking that job. I should’ve been more grateful, but—” No, he shouldn’t add a
but
. “I’m just grateful. Period. Hey, you probably didn’t realize it, but the amount of your check almost covers my exact expenses at the training seminar. I think it was God’s provision. Don’t you?”

     She didn’t answer for a moment. “Your four days cost eleven hundred dollars?”

     “Yeah. Things like that aren’t cheap, but God provided by giving you that temp job. So it didn’t set us back at all. Isn’t that great?”

     Nicole turned to face him, arms crossed, spatula in hand. “I guess. But Greg, you’ve been so private about this whole SlowBurn thing I have no idea how it’s going. I mean, you’re busy every day, but is it getting us anywhere? And what’s our money situation? You never tell me about that. I’m totally in the dark. Do you think I can’t understand, or I can’t add and subtract?”

     “No, no, honey. It’s not that. It’s just that I’m tryin’ to take care of you and the kids, make the money, and, you know, keep the car and the house in good repair so you’ll be safe and comfortable. You know, my responsibility as your husband to provide and protect. It’s a division of labor. I mean, you work hard taking care of the kids and the house. I don’t want to burden you with the financial end of things—”

     “Argh!” Nicole threw her hands up and waved her spatula like a fly swatter. “Greg, that’s so . . . so last century, so
Father Knows Best
.”

     “What d’you mean? We weren’t even born then.”

     “But our parents were, and I’ve seen some of those old reruns.”

     Greg leaned back against a kitchen counter, shaking his head. How did they get to this place in the conversation in so few minutes? He’d come in here to apologize, sincerely, but they ended up fighting again. “Look, you may call it last century, but Pastor Hanson says I’m supposed to be the head of my family, and that’s what I’m trying to do. But it’s a little hard with a wife who won’t submit to her husband like the Bible says.”

     Nicole stared at him, and then her lips tightened into a hard line. She turned back to the griddle where the last six pancakes had burned on the bottoms. She scooped them off and threw them in the trash with a vengeance. “All right. You handle the money, and I’ll run the house . . . with your
permission
. But I told Mr. Paddock I’d be back next week to finish the big project he had me on. And I’ve already arranged for Tabby to watch the kids next week. So you don’t have to worry about that. Is that okay?”

     “Of course. Of course.” Finally, a way out of the rat’s nest. “In fact, that’s what I came in here to tell you, honey. I’m grateful for what you did. In fact, if that’s something you want to keep doing, it’s okay by me.” Oops, had he gone too far? “I mean, for a while, on a part-time basis. Right? But can you keep it to half days?” He didn’t really want her to be working for Paddock at all, but at this point he wasn’t about to explain why. She’d just call it groundless jealousy.

* * * *

Pastor Hanson was gone on Sunday, leading the summer five-star Holy Land tour. The Victorious Living Center sponsored three Holy Land tours each year—one during the Christmas season with special attention to Bethlehem and a retired astronomer who talked about what the Wise Men may have seen in the Middle Eastern sky, one during Easter week that focused on Jerusalem and the events of Holy Week, and a summer tour with more time spent in the Galilean countryside where Jesus focused so much of his ministry. Greg really wanted to go on one of those tours, but such an expense would have to wait until SlowBurn got on its feet. He’d found some other tours online for half the price, but they didn’t include Pastor Hanson as guide and expositor.

     The pastor’s absence on Sunday was a mixed blessing. An assistant minister gave the message on Psalm 23, which didn’t raise any of the challenging issues Greg and Nicole seemed to end up disagreeing over. On the other hand, Greg had hoped Pastor Hanson would give a definitive teaching on family roles that would help Nicole understand the responsibility he was trying to shoulder in their home. The pastor often made side comments like, “Of course, as heads of your family, you men need to lead the way into prosperity. Don’t leave it to your wife to do. That’s not her responsibility.” But what Greg wanted him to do was preach a complete message on the issue that would put it all into perspective. Maybe that would convince Nicole.

     Nevertheless, on the upside, the trip home and Sunday dinner were a peaceful and welcome relief from Sundays’ usually tense conversations.

     They were just getting up from the table when Greg glanced out the front window and noticed Destin Jasper walking by. He dropped his napkin onto his plate and hurried to the front door.

     “Hey, Destin. Got a minute?”

     Destin turned. “Oh, hi, Mr. Singer.” The boy came sauntering back, and Greg went down the steps to meet him.

     “So how’d it go this last week? You get around to all the houses on the block?”

     Destin looked down at the sidewalk. “I got to most of ’em, but . . . not everyone.”

     “What’s that mean? Who’d you miss?”

     “I didn’t talk to the houses on either side of you. I rang the doorbell for the two-flat”—he pointed to the red brick building just north of Greg’s place—“but the woman who came to the door couldn’t speak English, so I just nodded and said, ‘
Hasta luego
.’ I’ve had two years of Spanish in school, but that’s all I could think of.”

     Greg nodded. He’d never really been able to connect with those neighbors either, but Destin’s lack of initiative was getting to him. “And the family on the corner?”

     “Never got there.”

     “And how much did you sell at the other places?”

     “Two six-packs, but I gave out eight samples.” He said it as if that’d been a great accomplishment.

     “You gave out eight cans and sold twelve. You think that’s big business, Destin? You think you’re gonna make your five hundred bucks or whatever you’re shootin’ for like that?”

     “No.” Destin’s head hung lower.

     “Me either. You better get your butt in gear, young man. And pull your pants up while you’re at it. You tryin’ to look like some kinda gangbanger or hip-hopper?”

     “No sir.”

     When Destin did hitch his pants up, Greg realized they hadn’t been that low, just a little loose in the seat. Instinctively, he pulled his own pants up.

     He calmed his voice. “Look, I don’t want to be all over you about this sales thing, but I’m gonna have to let you go if you don’t start selling.”

     Destin looked away. Greg had no idea whether he could fire someone. He hadn’t really hired anyone. They weren’t technically his employees, just recruits to sell SlowBurn. And just because Destin hadn’t sold much yet, didn’t mean he wouldn’t find his groove in time. Besides, Greg reminded himself, Destin had already paid for the SlowBurn he was trying to sell.

     “You think you can do any better this next week?”

     “I don’t know, Mr. Singer. I got basketball camp startin’ Wednesday, so I’ll be going down to—”

     “Hey, there’s your opportunity.” Greg laid his hand on the kid’s shoulder like a coach. “That’s your chance. I’ve said it all along, your main asset is that you are a young athlete, and that’s gotta be the biggest market around.”

     “I don’t know, Mr. Singer. I’ve studied the schedule. They keep us busy just about every minute we’re not sleepin’. I don’t think there’ll be much time for sellin’ anything.”

     “Ah, you can find the time. How long does it take to tell a teammate SlowBurn’s the best energy drink in the world? They see how it lights your fire, keeps you goin’ when they’re draggin’, and they’ll be begging you for a can. Heck, they’ll wanna buy a case.”

     Destin laughed nervously and grinned, as if regaining some of his confidence. “I know I won’t be able to take whole cases with me, but maybe I can write up orders and deliver them later.”

     “
Now
you’re thinkin’ like the businessman I know you can be.” Greg slapped Destin on the back to send him on his way. “To be effective, you have to turn over every stone. And if you need any help, just let me know. I’m always here for you.”

     Greg stood there looking after Destin as he walked up the street, a bit more of a bounce in his step. Would the kid break through? Had he given the boy the right balance between reprimand and encouragement? Who knew? Greg shook his head. He hated to admit it, but as a boss, he was expecting his team to do what he hadn’t yet been able to do—sell SlowBurn. But like he’d just told Destin, to be effective, he had to turn over every stone.

     Looking past Destin, he noticed the shiny black Town Car parked in Paddock’s drive, and a thought struck him.
Every stone!
That was one stone he’d passed up earlier, but maybe it was time to see what might crawl out.

     “Hey Destin, hold on a minute.” He jogged up the street to join him. “When you were going house to house, did you talk to Lincoln Paddock, the guy who lives there?” Greg pointed to the McMansion.

     Destin looked worried, like he feared another chewing-out. “Well . . . I didn’t actually speak to him, but I talked to the woman who works in his house. I think she’s his maid or cook or somethin’. She said she does all his shopping, and she’s certain he wouldn’t want any.”

     “Didn’t want any, huh? But you didn’t speak to Mr. Paddock himself?”

     “No. Don’t think he was home.”

     “That’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I think I’m gonna go talk to him right now.”

* * * *

 When Greg came back, Nicole thought her husband seemed particularly lighthearted. He ran in and out of the house a couple of times during the afternoon, obviously busy with something. Then he sat down and worked on the computer.

     Sunday evening supper at the Singer house was usually root beer floats and popcorn in front of a video—though ever since Greg lost his job at Powersports, he’d been too busy to join her and the kids. But to her surprise, he shut off the computer and came down to the basement family room to watch
Finding Nemo,
laughing with the kids at all the right places in a movie they were enjoying for the umpteenth time.

     Nicole followed him in amazement when he helped pick up the popcorn bowls and empty glasses and headed up to the kitchen.

     “Hey, honey,” he said as he put them into the dishwasher, “you want me to put the kids to bed this evening? You’ve probably got things you need to do to get ready for tomorrow.”

     “Well, sure, but
tomorrow
? What do you mean?” She always had things to get ready for the next day.

     “You know, getting ready to go to work a bit earlier. Sorry. Should have mentioned it sooner. I was talking to Paddock this afternoon, and he said he had to go out to the Skokie courthouse tomorrow morning to represent a client. He asked if he should send a car for you, but I told him you could take the ‘L.’ I figured it was generous enough for him to offer you some work without becoming obligated to him for a ride.”

     Nicole felt her breath catch. “You were talking to Lincoln Paddock?”

     “Yeah. Business stuff.” Greg grinned. “He took two cases of SlowBurn!”

     She breathed again. “He bought two whole cases?”