Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4) (3 page)

     She watched him climb out of the Jeep. She didn’t really know what was going on with Greg these days. He worked hard. He loved the kids, and she thought he still loved her, but . . . it was like they lived in parallel universes, filling the same space but not really connecting. Wasn’t always like this. His every action used to be related to her if not focused on her. Those were the dream days, but lately she felt . . . what? Ignored? Not exactly. But unappreciated. Taken for granted. As for intimacy, well, it certainly wasn’t what it used to be. She hoped he wasn’t having an affair like the scuzzball in her novel.
No, no
. She shook that thought off. As good-looking as he was, she’d never seen her husband flirting with other women.

     “Nicole, you still in here?” Greg stuck his head in the door. “Changed your mind about coming on the boat with us?”

     She rolled her eyes. Her predictions had been accurate. “Thanks anyway. I’m staying right here. The kids are already down at the beach, but I told them to stay out of the water and off the dock until you got there.”

     “Okay. Guess we’ll see you later.”

     His head disappeared and he was gone.

* * * *

A gusty breeze out of the west kicked up a chop on the lake, but by motoring around the point to the north end of the lake Greg and the kids found some flat water. And it wasn’t long before the red and white bobber on Nathan’s line went under and stayed.

     Greg scooted close to his youngest, eager to share the experience. “Hey, Nate,” he said in a low voice, “I think you better wind in your line.”

     The boy lifted his pole.

     “No, no. Don’t lift it like that. Just give it a quick jerk, then start turning the crank nice and steady.”

     But they were interrupted by a squeal from Becky. “I got a fish! I think I got one!”

     Greg hadn’t even been watching Becky’s line. “Then wind him in, just like Nate’s doing.” He looked back at his son. “Are you cranking?”

     “I can’t, Daddy. It won’t come,” Nathan whined.

     Greg put his arms around him and helped, realizing he’d either hooked something pretty big or it had entangled itself in the weeds, but by this time Becky had a flapping bluegill on the surface beside the boat. “Swing your pole over this way so I can grab the line.”

     Nathan’s fish was a bluegill too. And when they finally landed it, it proved to be the largest Greg had ever seen, almost like two hands sandwiched together. His son was so excited, he was trembling.

     The hour that followed was not like those first few minutes of excitement, but by the time they headed back toward the cottage, they had enough fish for a good meal. More importantly, he’d provided his kids with an outing they’d remember. But Greg knew better than to ask Nicole to clean the fish.

     “You forgot your phone,” Nicole said when he’d finally put everything away and brought a pan of nice fillets up to the cottage.

     “Sorry. Were you trying to reach me out on the lake?”

     “No, your boss called. Something about your Waukegan show. Seemed real upset. Said you should phone him first thing.”

* * * *

The call from Chuck Hastings at Powersports Expos sent Greg and his family home from their vacation a day early. Two major exhibitors had pulled out of the upcoming in-water show at Waukegan Harbor. Though it only ran Tuesday through Friday of the next week and had been small from the beginning, the deposits the departing exhibitors forfeited weren’t enough to cushion the financial hit to Powersports’ bottom line. Their large indoor shows in January and February had done well in earlier years but were floundering with the recession. To stay afloat, Greg’s boss had begun experimenting by adding smaller in-water shows scheduled for May and June. ATVs and snowmobiles were out, of course, but most large marinas were happy for Powersports to bring in a slate of exhibitors and vendors for a few days that could attract a couple thousand visitors and perhaps a few new boat owners. But the profit margins on those shows were so slim, Hastings couldn’t weather any cancelations.

     “They’re all blaming the economy,” Chuck had groused when Greg called him back, as though it was news. The Midwest had been hit hard. “So get your butt back in the office, Singer. I need you to bring in some last-minute exhibitors. Empty slips and empty docks make the whole show look bad. Waukegan’s a big sailing harbor, but get Lund and Tracker back in there. They did okay at the Chain o’ Lakes show, didn’t they? And we don’t have any dealers representing them, so there shouldn’t be any conflict. And how ’bout Ski-Doo and Sea-Doo? I don’t see them listed. We’ve been cuttin’ it far too close to the bone lately. We’ve gotta start erasing some of our red ink.”

     The kids raised a royal fuss about going home early, but Nicole didn’t say much. At least he’d tried to do something nice with the family, hadn’t he?

     Back in the office on Wednesday morning, Greg could feel the tension in the air. Obviously, Hastings had communicated his anxiety to the other employees. Everyone knew the year hadn’t started on a strong financial trajectory, but how could one bad show throw the whole company into a panic? Greg made the calls his boss had suggested, but most of the manufacturers cut his pitch short, said it was too late to manage logistics and do advance publicity, didn’t make good marketing sense. A few said they might’ve managed to come if the show was closer to home, though Sea-Doo was built in southern Illinois, which didn’t seem that far.

     But the distance excuse gave Greg an idea. He started calling closer boat manufacturers. Starcraft and Thunderbird were in Indiana, but Starcraft reminded him one of their dealers was already exhibiting at Waukegan, and Thunderbird said they’d finalized their show schedule and budget six months ago and couldn’t change it.

     By late afternoon, Greg headed for Hastings’ office. After explaining why his initial suggestions fell through, Greg reported on his own efforts. “The good news is, I came up with a couple other possible exhibitors, Rinker and Fluid Fun. Fluid Fun’s out of Bristol, Indiana.”

     “
Fluid Fun
?” Hastings’ face clouded. “Don’t they sell kayaks? We’re
Power
sports Expos, Greg! Don’t mess with my brand.”

     “I know, I know, but you said we had to do something . . . how ’bout Rinker? They have some hot boats, and they might come.” He paused until he saw interest kindle in his boss’s eyes. “Only thing is, they want us to get them a fifty percent discount on the exhibit slip. Like I said, it’s a slow—”

     “Yeah, yeah, a slow year. Problem is, it’s a slow year for us, too, so slow I feel like hiding every time Ethel comes in here to discuss the financials.”

     Hastings dropped his head, shaking it slowly as he stared at his desk. After a moment, he looked up. “Well, don’t just stand there. Go sign ’em up for whatever they’ll pay—but not Fluid Fun. We need to fill those other vacancies with boat people—anybody. It’s bad for the spirit of the show if slips are empty.”

     By Thursday afternoon, Greg had signed up two more exhibitors, Extreme Cycles, a motorcycle dealership from Milwaukee, and Slingshot, manufacturers of kiteboards and wakeboards.

     “What?” his boss roared. “This is May, not January. Besides, we don’t do motorcycles. I learned a long time ago that cars and motorcycles are a different ballgame. And what’s with these boards? They’re not
power
boats!”

     “Neither are sailboats, but they’re exhibiting. And actual wakeboards require a powerboat to pull them. But that’s not why I signed Slingshot. Kiteboarding has become a very popular extreme sport, especially along the beach just north of Waukegan Harbor. Slingshot’s willing to put on an exhibition right outside the breakwater.”

     “But we’re not selling surfboards and parasails for a few hundred dollars. We want people who’ll buy boats for twenty, thirty, a hundred thousand dollars.”

     “But their exhibition will attract hundreds of people.”

     “I don’t know, Greg.” Hastings shook his head. “And why motorcycles?”

     “Because there are a lot of clubs up that way. They’ll set up in the parking lot. It’ll keep things happening. And they are
power
machines. Make a lot of noise.”

     “Oh yeah, just what sailors want, a lot of noise.”

     Greg pushed on. “And I’ve got one other idea. Now don’t laugh, but what about ultralights?”

     Hastings’ eyes bugged. “Ultralight what? We don’t do
light
anything!”

     “No, I mean ultralight aircraft.”

     “Man, Singer, I think you’re losing it. This isn’t an air show . . . wait, you mean those things that are like a hang glider with a motor attached?”

     “Yeah, and some of them use the same two-stroke engines that are in the ATVs and snowmobiles we exhibit in our winter shows. It’s a pretty extreme sport.”

     Hastings frowned and chewed on his lip for a few moments. “But what are they gonna do, fly over?”

     “Better than that. Get a load of this. You know the jetty that extends out into the lake just south of the marina? Basically serves as a breakwater, but it has a paved road along the top of it. Anyway, if the weather cooperates, they’ll land and take off from that strip.”

     “What? It’s not long enough, is it?”

     “It’s over four hundred feet, and these people claim the model they’re bringing can take off and land in less than a hundred.”

     Chuck Hastings nodded. “Okay, okay. If they’ll pay full price as an exhibitor.” He stared off at nothing for a few moments, as though trying to imagine what it might look like to have a plane take off as part of his show. Then . . . “How about vendors? Make sure everything’s covered. I want you to head up to Waukegan in the morning and see that this event has some pizzazz. Make sure the media’s lined up. Don’t rely on any secondhand promises. I want TV cameras and reporters and live radio onsite. See if you can get one of the local stations to broadcast from the show all day, like that talk radio we got in Milwaukee. Better yet, see if they’ll come down and do this show. Whatever, but don’t get any political kooks.”

     “Tomorrow? But I—”

     “I know, you weren’t supposed to go up there till Monday. But don’t worry, I’ll come on Tuesday for the opening. If everything’s going smoothly, maybe you can come home early, soon as the show’s over. I’ll use some of the other people to wrap it up.”

     It was all Greg could do to not slam the door. No use arguing. Greg knew he had to do it or get busted. But now he had to go home and face Nicole.

* * * *

When Greg told Nicole he had to go out of town over the weekend, her face melted like a candle in a hot oven. “Sunday’s Mother’s Day, Greg! We’re supposed to take my mom out to dinner!”

     “I know, honey, but this just can’t be helped.” How many times had he told her that lately? “But hey, I can’t spend it with my mother either.”

     “Of course not. Your parents live in California, so they aren’t expecting it. But we’d already arranged this with my mom. I made a reservation at Maggiano’s and everything.”

     Greg felt a claw in his stomach. The truth was, Mother’s Day hadn’t even crossed his mind, which meant he’d also forgotten to send his mother a card and didn’t have anything for Nicole either. He’d have to think of something for her, but right now, work took precedence. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ve gotta drive up to Waukegan early tomorrow morning, but Hastings said maybe I wouldn’t have to stay the whole week.”

     “Greg . . .” Her voice turned pleading. “What am I supposed to do? Call Mom and cancel? She’s looking forward to it.” Nicole’s mouth tightened and she suddenly straightened. “No. You know what? I’m still gonna take her out to dinner! So I get the Cherokee. You’ll just have to rent a car.”

     The idea pulled him up short. With Powersports short on cash, he’d been imagining the brownie points he’d earn with his boss if he drove his own vehicle to Waukegan. And it kind of needled him that Nicole wasn’t asking if he’d leave the car—more like a declaration. After all, who wore the pants around here? Still, Greg hated having to choose between his wife and his work. For the sake of peace . . .

     “You’re right, honey. I’m really sorry to miss Mother’s Day—for your mom, and for you too. The least I can do is leave the car like you suggested. I’ll rent a car for the weekend at least. You can have the Cherokee.” There. Hopefully that would restore some peace to the ol’
hacienda
.

     “Thanks.” Her voice was flat as she turned away and headed for the basement with a laundry basket.

     “Tell you what,” he called after her, “if things fall into place over the weekend, I’ll come home Sunday night to see you and the kids before going back on Monday. Sound good?” No answer. Huh
.
If this was peace, it was a grudging peace at best.

     When he crawled into bed that night, Nicole turned her back to him even though they would be separated for the next few days. He sighed silently. How different things had become from when they were first married.

Chapter 4

Frida Lillquist was sitting on the bottom step of her six-flat apartment building Sunday morning when Nicole parked the Cherokee out front. That seemed strange to Nicole, especially since her mother looked dressed for church.

     “We’re running a little late, so stay in the car,” Nicole said to the kids as she got out. “Mom?”

     “Oh, good. I was worried you might have run into traffic.”

     “Not traffic. Just getting the kids out the door by myself.”

     “Where’s Greg?” Mrs. Lillquist still hadn’t stood up as Nicole approached.

     “Oh, he’s up in Waukegan. Had to work this whole week. Mom . . . are you okay?” She reached a hand out to her mother.

     “I’m all right, I think. I just turned my ankle and plopped right down here on the steps.” She pulled herself up with Nicole’s help. “Uh! I sat down kind of hard on my tailbone, and it dazed me for a few minutes, but I think I’m okay.”