by Dave Jackson
“Look, they need a break too. Public schools have spring breaks, don’t they?”
“They already had it back in April.”
“But you didn’t take time off, did you?”
“Well, not really, a day here and there. But . . .”
“There you go. The kids need a spring break. And the good thing about homeschooling is, we’re flexible. We can schedule our spring break according to warmer weather.” He could see she was running out of excuses, but he had to be careful. Try to close the deal too soon and it could backfire in a swirl of hurt feelings. “Look, if you really don’t want to go, we don’t have to. I might be able to get the cottage for some other time. It’s just that it’s available now, and I’m free till Wednesday, so think about it, please?”
Nicole threw her hands up. “Oh, I guess so. But you really don’t understand what I was talking about the other night.” She closed her eyes. “How much do we have to pack? Do we have to bring bedding and food and everything?”
He hadn’t thought that through. He’d only envisioned taking personal clothes. “Okay. I hear you now.” He held out his hands to calm her. “The place is supposed to be fully furnished, outfitted kitchen, cable TV, boat, everything, so I’m sure they have bedding. They use it for hosting manufacturer reps and big customers. But if it’d make you more comfortable, we can bring sleeping bags just in case. As for food, Lake Villa’s real close. We can zip into town for food.”
“Greg, that’s okay for groceries, but what about things like salt and pepper, coffee, sugar—stuff I could bring from home so we wouldn’t have to spend the—”
“Maybe it’s already there.”
She rolled her eyes.
Greg knew he needed to compromise. “All right. What if we all calm down and go to Red Lobster for now. Then we’ll come home and pack—on the minimal side—and head up there first thing tomorrow morning?”
Relief flooded over Nicole’s face, and Greg knew they had a plan.
* * * *
The cottage was far more beautiful than Greg had imagined—high cathedral ceilings, open beams, floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace, and the lakeside was all windows. And it was fully equipped with everything but fresh groceries. They didn’t have to use their sleeping bags or even bring in the box of condiments and assorted staples Nicole had packed. In fact, when Greg went by Bob Kruger’s to pick up the key, Bob told him that when they left all they had to do was strip the beds they’d used and the maid service would take care of everything, including cleaning the cottage.
A few clouds gathered Monday morning after they arrived, but the temperature still reached 70 degrees before noon. The kids couldn’t wait to run down to the lake to wade in the cold water, but Nicole remained unusually quiet.
“You okay?” Greg asked as he helped her put away the groceries.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She sighed and started making sandwiches for lunch.
Greg didn’t believe her. He’d hoped that by the time they got to the cottage the tension from the day before would evaporate. Maybe he needed to give her more time. “Uh . . . well, as soon as lunch is over, you think it’d be okay for me to drive around to the east side of the lake to pick up some bait?” Wait a minute! What was he doing asking if he could go buy worms? Still . . . “What I mean is, Bob said there’s a resort over there where I can get some bait. Thought we could take the boat out when I get back and let the kids catch some fish.”
“They’d probably like that.”
“How ’bout you? You wanna come along?”
She wrinkled her nose and poured glasses of juice. “Think I’ll just sit on the dock and read. Catch a few rays, like you suggested.”
“Sure, that sounds good. Though you could read on the boat, and we could all be together.”
Nicole shook her head. “I just need some alone time. Besides,” she glanced toward the big windows, “if it clouds over, I don’t want to be stuck out there on the lake.”
“Suit yourself, but you’d better bring a jacket or . . . ah, forget it.” Greg wrapped a sandwich in a paper towel, picked up his Pro Bass cap from the table, and headed for the door. “The place I’m headed is called Jack and Lydia’s. Be back soon.”
Greg slammed the door of the Cherokee and took the narrow road a little faster than he intended. Women. Why were they so hard to figure out?
Chapter 3
Greg eased up on the gas as he drove along the narrow road around to the east side of Deep Lake taking bites of his sandwich without noticing what kind it was. What was going on with Nicole? Why wasn’t she enjoying this mini-vacation? Wasn’t that what she wanted? He was the kind of guy who couldn’t abide tension. He had to figure it out. Her happiness was his responsibility, after all.
Distracted by his thoughts, he nearly missed the sign announcing Jack and Lydia’s Resort. He turned in and found a parking place between the scattered buildings. The older ones looked like converted barns and sheds, the newer ones like a cheap motel. He got out and headed for the end of the main building that had a sign over the door announcing Office.
Greg stopped on the steps and gazed down the hill where a four-wheeler, piled high with fishing gear, oars, and life jackets, chugged its way down the steep path to the lakefront. The ATV was so old and dirty Greg couldn’t even recognize the model even though Yamahas, Hondas, John Deeres, and every other brand were on exhibit at the sport shows he organized. He watched the driver, who was wearing a “Jack and Lydia’s Resort” T-shirt, roll the ATV out on the dock that extended into the lake and come to a stop beside the rowboats tied up along the leeward side. A man and boy, who’d been walking along behind, began unloading their gear and putting it in an aluminum boat.
Back on the grassy shore under towering cottonwoods, Greg noticed folks gathered around picnic tables or tending their smoking grills. A real family place. Maybe he’d bring Nicole and the kids over for a picnic in the next day or so.
He stepped into the office. Empty. “Hello, anybody here?” No answer, and no bell button on the counter to call for help. A refrigerator and a Coke machine lined the left wall while racks of life jackets and oars hung on the other. The wall behind the counter was covered with snapshots of bass and northern pike that guests had caught from the lake. In the middle of the display hung a mounted largemouth bass with a kaput clock embedded in its side. At least it told the correct time twice a day.
“Hello!”
The door in the corner opened and a short, stout woman with a haggard face entered the office. “Thought I heard someone out here.” She spoke with a faintly European accent, perhaps Polish? “How can I help ya?”
“How’s the fishing?” Greg had worked in outdoor sports long enough to know this wasn’t like a drugstore where the clerk didn’t know or care what you wanted so long as your money was green. He’d shoot the bull with her for a few minutes first, then get around to buying his bait.
“Crappie been bitin’ pretty good, and the bluegills are workin’ their beds. But we haven’t seen much bass action this spring. Not sure why.”
“Hmm. And the northern? This lake got any?”
“Oh yeah. There’s a few. Fellow pulled in a twenty-eight-incher the other day. Fat as can be. Full of roe, I ’spect.” She raised her eyebrows. “You want a boat?”
“No. Just some crawlers and wax worms if you got ’em.”
“Right there in the fridge. Help yourself.” She turned aside as though talking had wasted her time. Maybe this was more like a drugstore than he realized.
* * * *
Nicole recognized the sound of the Cherokee’s engine stopping outside the cottage. Greg was back. She sighed, expecting him to come in and ask her again to go out in the boat, like he hadn’t heard her answer the first time. But she didn’t want to bob around out there for the next three hours. In fact, she hadn’t asked to come on this “vacation” where she had to continue making meals and doing housework but without the conveniences of home. It’d taken the whole time G
reg was off getting bait for her to feed the kids and clean up the kitchen. Only now had she been able to sit down and gaze out the window on the lake.
The view was mesmerizing—a few clouds scuttling across the blue sky, the lake even bluer, birds flitting from lush bushes into the overarching trees—but she was going to enjoy it from the comfort of the leather couch where she could curl up to read her romance novel. Otherwise, she’d end up putting worms on hooks.
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 Powersports 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 exhibiti
on 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.”
