Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4) (25 page)

     What?

     Greg glanced from side to side to see whether those sitting next to him had noticed. No one was paying any attention.

     Wow! When Arlo had first described the SlowBurn business to him, he’d emphasized the many rewards a person could earn with increased sales, but he’d never mentioned this little perk. A hundred dollars wasn’t much, but it certainly lifted his spirit.

     The award ceremony continued for another forty-five minutes until it seemed half the people in the room had been recognized for one thing or another. As Greg watched, he noticed other people pull a bill out of their envelope too. A few waved theirs at those around them, but no one seemed surprised to have received it.

     There were no scheduled events after the award presentations, but for the first time, people began to reach out to Greg, congratulating him, calling him by name—even though he’d been wearing a nametag all day—welcoming him, and asking what part of the city he was from. Everyone seemed so friendly as the group moved like an amoeba out of the Copper Room, down the hall, and into the bar where they began ordering drinks.

     Greg didn’t drink alcohol, but he wanted to remain sociable, so he had a Coke and schmoozed with the others. He soon saw that the tradition was to buy drinks for all those standing around you with your hundred-dollar bill. His Cokes were three bucks, but some of the mixed drinks others ordered on his round were three or four times that much.

     An hour later he slipped up to his room with only twenty-three dollars of his award money remaining in his pocket.

* * * *

When the conference was over on Friday, Greg headed home congratulating himself that he hadn’t succumbed to the pressure to take advantage of the full financial management program SlowBurn was offering. Greg had always handled their own money at home and was sure he could do the same for his new business.

     He had, however, agreed to the company’s tax package. The SlowBurn executive said it would help him decide whether it would be most beneficial for him to operate as a sole proprietorship or incorporate as an S-Corp. “Taxes can be a real headache. There are monthly taxes, quarterly taxes, and annual taxes. And you don’t want to get behind or mess up any of them because you don’t want to attract an audit from the IRS. I can help you get it set up right, and later, if you want, you could do it yourself.”

     But the tax assistance package for the first year was fifteen hundred dollars. Greg signed up but hadn’t paid any money. “This’ll just reserve you a spot in my schedule,” the executive said. “If you don’t want to follow through, you can always cancel later.”

     The guy sitting across from him on the shuttle from the Hyatt to O’Hare left his newspaper when he got off, and Greg picked it up and took it with him.

     Once seated on the ‘L’ on his way into the city, he opened it to catch up on the news of the last few days. He flipped from page to page until one headline caught his attention: “Unemployment Benefits Extension Nixed for Nearly 1 Million.”

     Greg frowned as he read. It didn't say unemployment benefits would be eliminated. It just said they wouldn’t be extended for people who were already receiving them.

     Was he one of the unemployed? He’d never thought of himself that way, but at least until he started making some money, it would seem he could qualify. Maybe he should find out. He’d certainly had enough unemployment tax deducted from his checks over the years to qualify for something. But the idea of admitting that he’d lost his job, was unemployed, and didn’t yet have a source of income was really hard to face. It felt like admitting defeat.

     Still, an unemployment check would bring in a little money, more than he’d made so far. But he’d heard that to receive unemployment benefits, you had to actively search for work. Was he willing to do that while SlowBurn was still a possibility? Did he even have any viable leads? The idea made him feel defeated.

     So much for coming home from a rah-rah conference that was supposed to fire up all the SlowBurn reps. He felt flat, like a glass of ginger ale left out overnight.

     In the Loop, he transferred from the Blue Line to the Red Line and headed north toward home. It was the middle of rush hour, and he had to remain standing until the train got to Ravenswood before a seat opened up. He couldn’t let Nicole see him this way, nor the kids either, though they probably wouldn’t understand.

     The thought of his family cheered him up, especially remembering the Father’s Day surprises they’d had arranged for him. They really did love him.

     Nicole met him at the front door with a breezy kiss on the cheek. “Welcome home, honey. Sorry to run out. I was just ready to take Mom home. Go say hi to the kids. They’re down in the basement.” She called over her shoulder, “Mom, you ready? We gotta go.”

     Frida Lillquist came out of the master bedroom and down the hall to the foyer pulling a small, rolling suitcase. She smiled when she saw him. “Oh, there you are, Greg. We were going to take the kids along, but they didn’t want to leave their show. Now that you’re here, they can finish it.”

     “Hi, Mom. Good to see you.” Greg reached for her case. “Here, let me take that. You have a sleepover?”

     Nicole’s mother chuckled. “Hmm, something like that.”

     “Hey, I can take that. It’s light.” His wife grabbed the luggage from Greg as though they’d been running a relay with it. “Go on down and greet the kids. I’ll be back in a half hour or so. Supper won’t take long when I get back. I bet you’re tired.”

     Greg watched them go. Well sure, it made sense for Nicole to invite her mom to stay over while he was gone. Maybe she’d been lonely. Strange that she hadn’t mentioned it when they spoke on the phone the other night though.

Chapter 24

True to her word, Nicole had supper on the table within thirty minutes after getting back with the car. Spaghetti with Nicole’s homemade sauce. Not exactly a “welcome home” meal, but plenty of it and Greg was hungry. “Did you kids have a good time with Grammy?” he asked.

     “Uh-huh.” Becky pursed her lips and slurped in a long strand of spaghetti, earning a frown from her mother.

     “Who cooked this meal?” Nate looked around the table as if a chefs’ competition was in progress.

     “I did, silly.” Nicole pinched him playfully.

     “You’re a good cook, Mom.”

     Greg smiled at the little ritual Nathan had adapted from his mother’s positive reinforcement techniques when the kids did a chore without being reminded or otherwise did something noteworthy. But he was curious about Mom Lillquist’s visit, which puzzled him because Nicole hadn’t mentioned it on the phone. “How long was your mom here?”

     “She came over on Tuesday, and she was so helpful. I’ll have to tell you all about it—but later, okay?”

     Greg got the
later
message and let it rest. In fact, he forgot about it until after the kids were in bed. “Oh, hon, look at that sunset,” Nicole said as she came into the living room where Greg was on the computer.

     Greg turned toward the front window. Deep reds and burnt purples outlined the dark clouds in the west.

     His wife rubbed his shoulders. “Let’s go sit on the front steps. I want to hear about your conference.”

     Greg looked back at the computer screen where he’d been studying the members-only page describing the financial management assistance SlowBurn offered its reps—for a very steep fee. He saw nothing new on the page he hadn’t heard at the conference. He clicked out of it, glad he hadn’t put down any money.

     “Sure, why not.” He got up and followed Nicole out the front door. A tree had once inhabited the parkway right in front of their bungalow, but it had died and the city had removed it several years ago. Sometimes Greg groused that they hadn’t yet replaced it, but the gap in Beecham’s tree-lined canopy allowed the Singers to view sunsets over the roof of their Hispanic neighbors across the street.

     They sat on the steps in silence, taking in the gnarly sky as its last embers died.

     Nicole reached out and touched Greg’s arm. “I wanted to tell you why Mom was here. Remember how I had Tabby—Tabitha Jasper—come down to be a mother’s helper for me a couple of times?”

     “Yeah. You were thinking of doing some work for that lawyer guy, right?”

     “Yeah.” Her voice brightened at his recollection. “Well, when I called to see if Tabby could come over this week, I found out she was away at a cheerleading camp in Indiana. But Mr. Paddock had some paralegal work for me, so I called Mom, and she seemed happy to come over.”

     “Did he call you?” He knew his question carried a sharp challenge in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. He had no problem with Mom Lillquist caring for the kids, but . . . he’d already suspected this guy was hitting on his wife.

     “No, I called him. Why?” Her hand dropped away from his arm.

     “But why? Why would you call him?”

     “Because . . . because you were going to be gone this week, and I thought it would be a great opportunity to test picking up a little work. I’m sure we can use the money until . . . while SlowBurn gets going.”

     She had him there, but money wasn’t the issue right now. Still, it stopped him for a moment. “So what did you do? He drop off some typing for you or something?” At least Nicole’s mom would’ve been home when the man came by.

     “No. I went down to his law office, fifty-first floor of the AON Center. He’s with Watkins, Ellis, and Katz.”

     Greg chewed on what Nicole had just told him. “AON? So he’s in a real firm, not a back room in his limo company’s garage?”

     “Of course not.” Nicole said it with eye-rolling tolerance. “It’s a big firm, Greg, over eight hundred attorneys plus hundreds more support staff. It’s legit, big. Turns out Lincoln’s a junior partner, which makes him pretty important in a firm that size. Know what I mean?”

     “Yeah.” Greg thought about it some more. “So what did he have you do? You go to court?”

     “No. I spent all week preparing a bunch of boring contracts. But at least I was back in my field.”

     “Contracts about what?”

     “Greg, client/attorney privilege!” She punched his shoulder. “You know if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

     “All right, all right.” The tension was broken.

     “Here.” She handed him a folded slip of paper. “This is the good part.”

     He opened it and by the light coming through the screen door saw it was a check from Watkins, Ellis, and Katz for $1,152. “Wow! How much were they paying you per hour?”

     “They paid me thirty-six an hour, but on a fee-for-service basis. I had to sign a waver with HR stating that I had not been hired and am responsible for all my own taxes, etc. But if I continue, Lincoln said they’ll put me on the payroll.”

     “
If you continue
? Uh, Nikki, I appreciate you doing this, but you’ve got the kids and all. I can’t let you start supporting us—”

     “Well, is SlowBurn paying the bills yet? You don’t tell me anything, but I haven’t heard you crowing about any big sales. And I’m sure you would if they were coming in like you said they would.”

     Ouch, that hurt. “Not yet. It takes time to establish a business. You just don’t understand these things.”

     She stood up. “Is that right?” She turned on her heels and slammed her way through the screen door, calling back, “I may understand a lot more than you think.”

     Greg sat in the dark, the neighborhood now illumined only by the peach-colored streetlights and the glow from the windows of other homes along Beecham Street. There, he’d gone and done it again. But she was so sensitive . . . too sensitive. He didn’t like feeling as if he had to walk on eggshells around her.

     Still, he knew she’d been trying to help. He nervously flicked the check in his hand. If she only realized . . . wait. Greg looked at the amount again: $1,152. That nearly met the cost of his training conference—$695 for the seminar and three nights at the Hyatt Regency at $149 per night, plus tax, minus the $23 he’d saved from his reward. He calculated it all in his head. Not exact, but almost.

     A hot breathlessness settled over him. Was this a gift from God?

     Maybe . . . maybe not. But one thing was certain: It was a gift from Nicole.

     He got up and strode into the house.

     “Nicole! Nikki? Where are you?”

     He went into the bedroom. The door to the master bath was closed, but light came from below it and he could hear water running.

     “Nicole? Hey, honey, I’m sorry. You did a great thing, and I was being a jerk. Can you forgive me? Nikki?” He waited a moment and then tapped lightly on the door. “Nikki, please open the door.”

* * * *

Nicole recognized that Greg’s advance was his way of wanting to make up, but she just wasn’t ready for it yet. After several minutes, she opened the bathroom door. He was still standing at the door, but wordlessly she slipped passed him. She could feel her husband’s eyes on her as she got ready for bed, but after several long, silent moments he left the bedroom. Crawling between the sheets—earlier than usual—she turned out her bedside light and faced away from his side of the bed.

     She could hear him being none too quiet as he shut down his computer, locked the doors, and shut off the lights. A few minutes later, she heard the TV go on downstairs.

     Her chest tightened. Maybe they should get some marriage counseling. Seemed like every time one or the other of them did something, it was the wrong thing. Didn’t seem to matter what she did, no good deed went unpunished. Like trying to earn a little extra money to help out in this time of need. She reviewed the last four days working with Lincoln. Everything had gone so smoothly. Even when she didn’t know what to do or did something wrong, he’d been so understanding and patient, always appreciative of her efforts.

     She’d even identified someone she thought had been one of the two girls standing up in the back of one of Lincoln’s limos as it sped down Beecham Street. The woman worked in HR and had been the one to explain the form Nicole signed. In the office, everything seemed all business, no flirting between anyone. Maybe she’d misjudged Lincoln. Maybe he wasn’t a playboy.