Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4) (7 page)

     “Dogs? What if they got in fights? I don’t know how people do that, getting all tangled up in their leashes. We don’t even have a dog ourselves.”

     He shrugged. “I’m just brainstorming. Maybe you could do some kind of a craft with the kids, like making jewelry. You know, custom-designed jewelry. People could use their cell phones to send you photos of them in their favorite outfits, and then you could design jewelry to match their outfits. How ’bout that?”

     She finally put the dirty dish in the dishwasher and turned all the way around to face him as she leaned back against the counter, wiping her hands on a towel. “Slow down a minute, okay? Starting a home business is, um, certainly creative, but if we’re talking about me adding to the family income, I’m a paralegal, Greg. I
chose
that field. I loved it, I studied, might even become an attorney someday, but . . .” She held her hands out in bewilderment. “I . . . I don’t know anything about making jewelry or walking dogs or selling cupcakes. What exactly do you want from me?”

     Greg put up his hands. “That’s not it, Nicole. I’m not trying to put anything on you. It’s just that . . .” How could he communicate his vision? Maybe he needed to wait until God gave her the same vision, in His own time.

     Nicole blew out a large breath. “Greg, I’m not sure why you think I’ve got time for something else, anyway. Do you have any idea how long it takes to prepare the kids’ lessons? When you’re a teacher, it’s the same amount of work whether you’re teaching two kids or twenty. While they’re working on one lesson, I’m busy preparing the next one. All day long. I don’t see how I could take on anything else even if it was a good idea.”

     Greg sighed. “I’m not trying to make life harder for you, honey. I was just thinking, if we found the right thing, it’d fit right in with their education. Children used to be involved in the family business—farming, shopkeeping, weaving, you name it.”

     Nicole flipped the dishtowel over her shoulder and turned back to loading the dishwasher. “I know. But this is a different world we’re living in. No more sweatshops.”

     “Nicole!” He knew he should drop it, but he couldn’t let go. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m trying to come up with something good for them
and
for you. Just think what it’d be like—”

     “That’s the problem, Greg. We’ve got enough on our plate the way things are. And right now I’ve got a load of laundry still sitting in the washing machine from yesterday.” Nicole started the dishwasher and headed for the basement.

     Greg watched her go. Was that it? The end? But maybe she just needed time to think about it.

     Once he’d wiped the kitchen counters, Greg followed his wife downstairs. He could hear her transferring laundry from the washing machine into the dryer, but he went into the family room that doubled as the kids’ classroom, using a long, low counter he’d installed along one wall for desks. The flat-screen TV was at the other end of the room, the old sofa positioned in front of it. TV and school lessons sometimes conflicted, but not too often. Today the Cubs were playing the Pirates, but when he flipped on the TV, he got caught up in watching coverage of British Petroleum’s efforts to cap their Deepwater Horizon oil spill. A robot was trying to insert a siphon tube into the “top hat” dome to contain the leak. After attempting the same maneuver several times, it finally backed away, and all that could be seen was the wellhead with oil and bubbles spewing from it. A voiceover by a news broadcaster said, “We’ve just received word from BP officials that they think the metal frame on the tube has changed position, so they will have to bring the siphon tube back to the surface for refitting.”

     One more failure. For three weeks, oil had spewed into the pristine Gulf, yet everything they’d tried had failed to stop it.

     Greg knew how that felt.

     The commentator said BP had now spent several hundred million dollars attempting to stanch the flow and clean up the mess. The program broke for a commercial. Greg frowned. So, what did that mean? Was BP telegraphing their intentions to quit? They couldn’t do that. They had to keep trying no matter what the cost. Someone had to stop the spill!

     He clicked off the TV. “Nicole?” When she didn’t answer, he stepped into the unfinished portion of the basement. “Nicole?”

     “In here.”

     He found her in their storage locker sitting cross-legged on their old steamer trunk, looking at a family photo album. She closed it as Greg approached, but not before he caught a glimpse of the page she’d been studying. He recognized it—snapshots from their fourth anniversary. They’d stayed at the Drake Hotel that weekend, ate fabulous food, and went out each evening. What was the play they’d seen? Oh, yeah—
Gem of the Ocean,
at the Goodman Theatre.

     But it’d been on the Chicago River Cruise Sunday afternoon that he’d taken most of the snapshots now saved in the album. They’d supposedly been learning about the city’s architecture while the guide chattered on as the boat slid beneath drawbridges and skirted glistening skyscrapers. But it’d been Nicole’s “architecture” that held his eye. She sat in the back of the boat wearing a sleeveless pink top, sporting her long tanned legs in white shorts, the wind blowing her flaxen hair. She’d been so beautiful that day. In fact, as nearly as they’d been able to calculate, Nathan had been conceived that weekend. Thank goodness for the generosity of Mom Lillquist in keeping baby Becky for the weekend.

     The dryer beeped and Nicole stood up, putting the photo album back on the shelf. “Laundry’s finally done.”

     “Great.” He followed her into the laundry room. “Hey, whaddaya say we call your mom and see if she’s busy this evening? We could run down and see her, maybe take her out to eat at one of those Andersonville restaurants she likes so much?” Greg didn’t much care for Swedish food, but . . . “I’d like to make up for being gone Mother’s Day, for both of you.”

     Nicole busied herself pulling the warm clothes out of the dryer, then handed him the laundry basket. “Guess we could ask her, if she’s not busy.”

    
Quick thinking, Greg.
Maybe this would calm the waters.

Chapter 7

Chuck Hastings wasn’t in the office when Greg got to work Monday morning, and Ethel Newhouse, the office secretary, had no idea where their boss had gone. It wasn’t an issue to Greg. He had plenty to do checking the invoices and writing letters to the exhibitors and manufacturers that had taken part in the Waukegan Harbor show. He needed to tie up all those loose ends and get a leg up on the final arrangements for the Chicago show at Burnham Harbor. He looked at his calendar and realized he was already behind on several critical details.

     But by noon, his boss still hadn’t come in or phoned. “I even called his home,” Ethel said. “Thought he might be sick. But Mrs. Hastings said he left the house this morning before seven for some meetings . . . ‘like a bat outta Gotham,’ was what she said. I don’t get it. I thought it was a ‘bat outta—’”

     “That’s Delores, all right. To her, everything’s Batman.” Greg laughed. “Back when they were filming
The Dark Knight
here in the city, Chuck called in some favors so she could be an extra on the set, and she’s never gotten over it.”

     “
Batman
?”

     “Yeah, Batman lives in Gotham City, so
bat outta Gotham
.”

     “Oh!” Her eyes mimicked the oval of her mouth as she thought about it. “Well . . . anyway, she had no idea who Chuck was meeting, and I don’t either. There’s nothing on his schedule.”

     Greg shrugged and returned to his office. He had plenty to do, and his boss could certainly manage his day without anyone else checking up on him. But it was unusual. If anything, Chuck Hastings tended to micromanage his staff but in turn was unusually forthcoming, keeping everyone informed about what he was doing, new projects, and the company’s direction as if he were accountable to his employees.

* * * *

The next morning when Greg arrived at work fifteen minutes early, Hastings was already in his glass-walled office, sitting at his desk, talking on the phone. As Greg walked by, Hastings glanced up at him but looked quickly away without his usual wave.

    
Must have a lot on his mind
, Greg thought as he entered his own office and tossed his brown-bag lunch into the cabinet. His office did not have glass walls to the interior, only floor-to-ceiling glass out onto the parking lot and a small window in his door. He had just turned on his computer when his desk phone buzzed. It was the boss. “Can you come to my office?”

     Hastings was busily shuffling papers on his desk when Greg entered. “Have a seat.”

     Greg sat. “What’s up?”

     Hastings looked up, but his features sagged as he leaned back in his leather chair. “I spent all day yesterday having meetings with the bank, a couple of major investors in Powersports, and some of our creditors. Things aren’t looking good.”

     “But I thought nearly all the exhibitors we wanted for the Chicago show were booked—”

     Hastings held his hand up. “It’s not just Burnham Harbor. It’s the bleeping economy. And that stormy weather at Waukegan didn’t help any.” He sighed. “I dunno . . . Maybe we scheduled these in-water shows too early in the year, but I wanted to get a jump on the competition. In any case, attendance was way down, down by 38 percent over last year’s show, even with your hang glider and kites.” The pudgy man shook his head. “Once exhibitors get wind of such low attendance, some are likely to bail. I’ve seen it happen before. They’d rather lose their deposit and risk a breach-of-contract suit than mount a display, which of course has all kinds of other costs. We’ve only got one other show after Burnham Harbor, and I’ve already received three client cancelations.”

     “You have?” Greg frowned. “How come I didn’t hear?”

     “You probably would’ve, but when I realized we were in trouble, I started checking our key accounts. Like I said, three canceled and some of the others are so soft, I don’t think we have a show.”

     Greg’s jaw tightened. “Not good.” He turned to gaze through Hastings’ glass wall as Ethel and a couple of the other employees came into the office.

     Hastings noticed, too, and got up to draw the drapes. “None of them know yet.”

    
Know
? Know what? Greg watched his boss return to his seat.

     “I gotta pull the plug, Greg. Hate to break it to you this way, but I’m gonna let everyone go . . . except Ethel. I’ve already told the building landlord that we won’t be renewing the office lease. Current lease is up June first, so I had to pay a premium just to get a one-week extension to take us through the Burnham Harbor show, after which we’ll have one day to move out.” The man slumped in his chair and raised both hands. “I may try to keep somethin’ goin’ out of my basement, but only to remain in position in case this recession eases up next year. Ethel can help me with that. But even if I go out of business completely, I’ll need her to help shut things down.”

     Greg’s mind was spinning.
Wait
. . .
Pulling the plug? Letting everyone go?
“But everybody?” Greg’s index finger tapped his own chest. “You mean me too?” His boss nodded. “How soon?” It didn’t make sense. He’d known things were tight, but Hastings had been spurring on everyone to lock in more accounts, line up more exhibitors.

     “Sorry, Greg.” Hastings shook his head. “I really feel bad about it, but I can’t pay anyone beyond the Burnham Harbor gig. I’ve gotta close the doors the next day.” He shrugged. “Of course, anybody who’ll want to go sooner, can. But I can’t pay anyone past June 7. And as much as I’d like to, I can’t even offer anyone a severance package.”

    
Whoa!
Greg had to get his boss to back up on this thing. “Hang on a minute, Chuck. I thought the Waukegan show went pretty well. Didn’t you?”

     Hastings shrugged. “Depends on how you look at it. The slips were full, we had enough vendors, but attendance was . . .” He wobbled his hand back and forth. “And as you know, it’s not the number of people who come through the gate; it’s how many buy boats. And from what I’ve gathered from the exhibitors, only three sales were made during the whole show.”

     “But that’s not our fault! We brought ’em in, so that’s on the sales rep—the product, the pricing, whatever—but not us!”

     Hastings snorted. “But we pay nonetheless. If the exhibitors don’t sell, they don’t sign up for the next show. That’s what I’m trying to tell you! Huh. Maybe people brought their kids to see your motorized hang glider or whatever it was, but they didn’t come to buy boats. They had no intention of buying anything larger than a hot dog—and they didn’t.”

     Greg could feel his jaw working, pulsing the muscles at the side of his face. This couldn’t be happening! He swallowed. “Look, Chuck, what if we hold off on this decision, do some strategizing? I mean, you’ve put together a strong team here. Let’s work the brain trust and generate some viable alternatives.” Hastings was shaking his head, but Greg pressed on. “I mean, everyone works hard here, but if they knew Powersports was on the line”—he jerked a thumb in the direction of the inner offices—“I’m sure we could all dig deeper and give that extra effort that would make it go.”

     “It’s not you, Greg, and it’s not the other people. You’re all good employees. Give a hundred percent. I’ve got no reason to complain or put this decision back on any of you. But the bottom line is this . . .” Hastings’ finger stabbed the papers on his desk. “When the investors saw the financials for last quarter, they pulled their money, every one of the big ones. And when the others learn sales have tanked and exhibitors are bailing, they’re bound to pull the rest of our funding. It’s out of our hands. I don’t want to go into bankruptcy. This recession’s gotta end someday, and when it does, I don’t want a bankruptcy hanging over my ability to attract new investors. It’s better to pull the plug now and avoid more debt. As it is, we’re all gonna get the short shrift here. Even me!”