Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4)

by Dave Jackson

  Greg got up and went to the archway into the front hallway. “Oh, hi, Nicole. I didn’t realize you were home.” He hollered toward the kitchen. “Hey, Tabby! What’s going on? I’m on a business call here and can’t hear a thing. Can you keep the kids quiet back there?”

  “Don’t worry,” Nicole said. “I’ll take care of it.” She headed for the kitchen and used her look-out-kids voice. “Nathan! Rebecca!”

  Greg went back into the living room and sat down in front of his computer, putting the phone to his ear. “Sorry about that. Wife just got home and the kids . . . don’t know what was going on. Where were we?”

  “You were asking about getting SlowBurn into vending machines. And my answer is, do it if you can. It would be a real coup. But the big beverage companies have those franchises sewn up so tight we haven’t broken in anywhere. Still, give it a try. Who knows?”

  Greg’s call with Arlo was over within a few minutes, and he let out a big sigh. Nothing seemed to work out as easily as he first envisioned it. He got up and wandered into the kitchen, where Nicole was paying Tabby while the kids bounced around her like Ping-Pong balls.

  “Please, please, Mom. Can we have a push-up? Tabby said we had to wait until you got home.”

  “Oka-a-ay. Becky, you get them out of the freezer. Nate, you get first pick of the flavor.”

  “That’s not fair! I don’t get nothin’ out of that.”

  “Rebecca, you’re not going to get anything—the word is anything—out of it, either, if you don’t stop complaining.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  Greg waited his turn, having endured the whole day—no, the whole week—without her help mediating such squabbles. Usually, he just ignored them, which seemed to work surprisingly well.

  Once the kids ran out the back door, he gave Nicole a peck on the cheek. “You’re home early.”

  “That I am, and . . .” She picked up her purse from the counter and opened it. “I brought home the bacon.” She held up her check between two fingers, barely pinching the corner as though it were newly printed money she didn’t want to smudge.

  Greg reached out and took it. The amount read $1,440. “Wow. Did you work a full week?”

  “Yep. I stayed a little late a couple of nights, and they’re still not withholding anything.”

  “That’s good.” It was good. He had a stack of bills to pay and the checking account was getting uncomfortably low. And for the first time all week, Nicole’s attitude had perked up.

  “And I don’t have to go in next week, at least not at first.”

  “I should hope not. Monday’s a holiday.”

  “That’s not it. Mr. Paddock’s got a project I can do from home. I don’t know how long it’ll last, but at least that’s what I’ll start with.”

  “That’s good.” So Paddock had taken his request about Nicole working at home seriously. And Nicole seemed to be accepting it. “You’d still use Tabby, though, right?”

  “Of course—or neither of us would get any work done. Mr. Paddock’s going to call me a little later when he has the project gathered together. I’ll get it then.”

  Greg nodded. If she was going to work for that guy, doing it at home was definitely better. “Hey,” he said, pulling his thoughts back to the present, “should we go out to eat? You know, payday and all that.”

  A pained look flitted across Nicole’s face as she shook her head. “Only you can answer that, but I don’t have any problem making supper at home.”

  It was an hour and a half later before the meal was on the table, partially because it had taken Nicole at least forty minutes to walk up the street to get her assignment from Lincoln Paddock. Greg wondered whether she could include that time on her time slip, but he kept his mouth shut, knowing that was a stupid question. Besides, by that time, the kids were cranky enough he didn’t want to add any more fuss to the mix. Hard as it was to accept that he wasn’t supporting his family right now, he needed to be grateful for Nicole’s help.

  That night when he crawled into bed, Nicole was turned away from him again, but he wasn’t going to allow that to deter him. He reached out and touched her shoulder, allowing his hand to slide down her arm in a gentle stroke that he repeated again and again.

  After a while, she flopped over to face him, and for a moment he thought he’d done something terribly wrong, but she reached out and threw her arms around his neck, pulling him to her fiercely, kissing his face and mouth as wild and awkwardly as a teenager. And she didn’t stop. They hadn’t experienced anything like it since their honeymoon. Only better—a honeymoon’s pent-up passion but the confidence and skill of experience.

  It was out of this world!

  However, later, when it was all over, and he was lying on his back in the dreamy afterglow, he realized Nicole had turned away again. He listened and thought he heard a sob and a few moments later, another one.

  “Nikki, you okay?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice sounded hoarse.

  He reached out and laid his hand on her shoulder, but she shook him off.

  “I’m fine, Greg. Just . . . go to sleep.”

  Chapter 28

  When Greg awoke the next morning, Nicole’s side of the bed was already empty. He rolled over and squinted at the digital clock: 6:24. Why was she up so early on a Saturday morning? They usually tried to sleep in a little on the weekends. He stretched and tried to go back to sleep, but reruns of their lovemaking the night before danced through his mind, chasing away any chance of more sleep.

  He padded to the bathroom, dashed some cold water on his face, and then wandered out to the kitchen in search of Nicole. He found her in the living room, sitting in her rocker, reading her Bible. The table lamp beside her was still on, suggesting she might have gotten up while it was still dark.

  “Hey, hon,” he said, slipping up beside her and massaging the back of her neck. “Last night was somethin’ else, huh?”

  “Hmm.” Her tone sounded noncommittal.

  “We shouldn’t wait so long.”

  No response.

  Greg retrieved the newspaper from the front porch and came back in to sit on the couch. He stretched out using the full width of the couch like a chaise lounge, but a movement from Nicole caught his attention. Had she just wiped a tear from her eye? Maybe she was just brushing away a sleepy.

  “Whatcha readin’?”

  “A psalm.”

  After last night, Greg expected everything to be smooth between them. But her short responses suggested a chill still lingered. He knew there were still issues—probably having to do with money. Maybe she was still questioning Pastor Hanson’s teaching on prosperity, and she was probably upset that she wasn’t up to speed on their financial situation. But did that have to create a barrier? He didn’t mind her knowing what they had in the bank. He’d just prefer to wait until the bottom line looked a little better before trying to walk her through it. And the fact was, he didn’t know how they were going to make it if his business didn’t take off pretty soon.

  Still, it wasn’t his fault they were close to the bottom of the barrel. He wished Nicole could understand that. Chuck Hastings was the one who shut down Powersports. If Chuck hadn’t pulled the plug, they’d be doing fine! Greg never would’ve taken that way out. He’d have found some way to make it work.

  He watched Nicole for a few more moments. Maybe he was reading too much into her mood. Could be PMS, or just groggy from waking up too early. He opened the Sun Times and read an article about the Deepwater Horizon/BP oil spill. “According to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, there is a 61-80 percent probability prevailing winds and ocean currents will deposit significant amounts of oil on Florida beaches and the Keys . . .” Blah, blah, blah. That was someone else’s problem.

  The rest of the day passed without any disagreements flaring up between him and Nicole. And the next morning, the same assistant minister preached again because Pastor Hanson was still on his Holy Land tour. It was a pa
triotic message for the July Fourth Weekend based on Romans 13, which started: “Everyone must submit himself to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God. Consequently, he who rebels against the authority is rebelling against what God has instituted . . .”

  Greg frowned. I’m supposed to be the authority established by God in my own house. Why can’t I make it work?

  The minister’s main emphasis was on honoring and respecting the government and being thankful for the freedoms they enjoyed in this country. But he did acknowledge that there were times when Christians “must obey God rather than men,” as the early disciples had told the authorities when they were arrested for preaching. “God forbid that we will ever face that in this country, but with the way some things are going, we need to be prepared.” The young pastor noted that Victorious Living Center supported missionaries and believers in other countries who faced that very test.

  Greg could see that. If someone was told he couldn’t worship Jesus or preach about him, he should definitely “obey God rather than man” and do it anyway. But did that exemption extend beyond preaching or witnessing? In the Bible, young Daniel had resisted eating the king’s rich food. And what about doctors and nurses who refused to perform abortions today?

  For some reason, Greg’s mind drifted to the brothers in Harry Bentley’s Bible study. As far as he knew, they were all patriotic Americans, but about half were African Americans and Ben was ethnically Jewish. What had “submitting to the authorities” meant for their ancestors? Would they have been right to resist evil authorities?

  Down on the platform, the minister was now praising the founders of our country for the freedoms they’d established. That was good. Greg felt a lump in his throat thinking about all that this Independence Day meant. But . . . hadn’t those revered American revolutionaries been resisting the very authorities the preacher had just said were established by God? Why was he now praising them for doing that?

  He glanced sideways at Nicole. And then there was the undercurrent of resistance Greg felt in his own home. What was his wife thinking as the minister preached about “submitting to the authorities”? Was she making any connection to their domestic situation? Was she thinking of herself as duty-bound to submit? Or was she thinking she was exempt—like the disciples, like Daniel, like the American revolutionaries?

  It was confusing, and something definitely was going on with Nicole, something he didn’t understand. But he wasn’t going to get into a debate with her about the morning’s message. They’d just have to work out their issues on a case-by-case basis.

  * * * *

  Greg shut down his computer and looked at his watch. Five o’clock already? “Hey, Nikki! We better get ready if we’re going up to Evanston to see the fireworks.”

  He wandered into the dining room where she was working on a photo album. “I’ll go out and put folding chairs and blankets in the car. You want me to bring the cooler in here so you can pack our picnic? Anything else you need from the garage?”

  Nicole sighed deeply. “You know what? I really don’t feel like dealing with the crowds or listening to those things boom and bang all evening. They give me a headache. Would you mind taking the kids without me?”

  Greg looked at her dumbfounded. She was the one who always wanted to spend more time together as a family. What was going on? But as he stared at her, she averted her eyes.

  “Please, Greg? I just don’t want to go. Okay?”

  “Well, maybe we should all stay home and play games or something, have our regular popcorn and ice cream floats.”

  Becky, who’d been digging in the coat closet to find the cap she’d gotten the year before, the one with stars and buttons and sparkling whirligigs, overheard him. “No, no. I don’t wanna stay home. We gotta go to the fireworks! You promised, Daddy! We go every year.”

  Nathan picked up the cry. “Yeah! You promised! I wanna go.”

  “Okay, okay. Calm down. We’ll go.” Greg turned his palms up in a helpless gesture to Nicole.

  She slowly shook her head. “Look, I’ll pack the picnic for you. I’ve got some cold chicken, and I picked up a tub of potato salad, but I just don’t want to go myself. Okay?”

  Greg shrugged. “If that’s your choice. I just thought . . .” He clamped his mouth shut. Fine. What was the use arguing about it? If she didn’t want to go, he’d take the kids himself.

  * * * *

  Nicole sighed deeply once Greg and the kids headed out the door. She leaned against the kitchen counter, her arms crossed. It was true, she really didn’t want to go, but she also needed to check with Lincoln Paddock about the job he’d asked her to do this week. Earlier when they’d met, he’d gone over all the details and then handed her a small black thumb drive. “Here, I downloaded the database you’ll need to use on this. Just pop it into your computer’s USB port and you’ll be good to go.”

  But when she’d gotten home and tried it, her computer could read the thumb drive well enough, but there were three database files on it, and she couldn’t tell which was the one she needed for Lincoln’s project.

  She went out onto the front porch where she could look up the street to see if Lincoln’s Town Car was still in his driveway. It was. That didn’t guarantee he was home, but it was worth a try. She ran back in and down to the basement where she pulled the thumb drive from her computer. Back upstairs, she stopped briefly in the bathroom to freshen her makeup before heading out the door.

  As Nicole walked up the street, she rehearsed to herself why she needed to see Lincoln right now. The words in her head were the defense she’d give if Greg challenged her. I had to see Mr. Paddock because he’s the only one who could tell me which database to use, and if I waited, he might be gone tomorrow or in meetings or in court all day Tuesday.

  But why didn’t you just phone him?

  Because, he’d need to see the actual file to be sure which one I should use. Legal work is too important to leave any chance for error. What if we sent out the wrong stuff to the wrong person?

  Then why did you stop in the bathroom to freshen your makeup?

  Nicole stopped herself. What a stupid conversation. She wasn’t defending herself in court. She wasn’t even arguing with Greg. Besides . . . a girl didn’t have to justify checking how she looked. She should always look as good as possible. Didn’t mean a thing.

  Stop it, Nicole!

  Why was she fixated on justifying herself as though she were guilty of arranging a secret rendezvous with Lincoln? That’s not what she was doing. No one was accusing her of anything. No one knew what had gone on in her head last night. Besides, what difference did it make? Greg had a great time. He even said so and without a flicker of suspicion.

  Walking up the sidewalk and around the cul-de-sac to the big house, she pressed the doorbell and heard the Westminster Chimes play inside the grand house. She waited . . . and pushed the bell again. He must not be home . . . but then the door opened, and a big smile spread across Lincoln Paddock’s face.

  “N-i-i-i-kki. Hey, didn’t expect to see you today. Wassup? As the kids say.”

  “Oh, not much really.” She pulled the thumb drive out of her pocket and held it up. “I was just having some trouble with this. I plugged it in and—”

  “Here, come on in. Where are my manners, leaving you standing on the steps.” He swung the door wide and stepped back.

  She followed him through the two-story high foyer, marveling again at the huge crystal chandelier until they stopped at the bottom of the sweeping curved staircase. “Do we need the computer, or do you want . . .?”

  She glanced up the stairs. Had he gestured that way with his head? Better take it a bit slower. “Probably the computer.” She handed him the small flash drive. “It’s just that there are three databases on the thumb drive, and I wasn’t certain which one you wanted me to use.”

  “Oh, no problem. Come on.” He beckoned
her down the hall to his office with its sweeping mahogany desk, shelves of books, and iMac with its twenty-seven-inch flat screen. “Here, sit down here”—he swiveled his high-back leather chair for her—“and I’ll pop in this thumb drive.”

  He rested his hand on her shoulder, and it felt so hot, Nicole could hardly concentrate.

  “Open Finder . . . there, click on WEK-23. That’s the thumb drive. There, it’s that file right there. See? It’s got the most recent date.”

  “Okay. Sure. Guess I could’ve seen that.” She reached up and put her hand on top of his.

  “Easy to miss. There, click on the drive again to eject it.”

  A woman’s voice yelled from somewhere else in the house, perhaps upstairs. “Lincoln, where are the clean towels?”

  Nicole jumped and pulled her hand away, clasping her other hand in her lap.

  “Ha, ha!” Lincoln laughed nervously. “My holiday guest. Sometimes she can’t find her own toothbrush when it’s in her mouth.” Lincoln leaned over to pull out the thumb drive, and then stepped to the door. “Towels are in the closet to the left of the bathroom, just like always, Karen,” he yelled back.

  Nicole stood up, rolling the desk chair back so fast it bumped into Lincoln. “Well, I better go. I . . . I need to get home.” She felt herself blushing and wondered if he could see blotches on her cheeks like often happened when her color rose. She took the thumb drive without looking him in the eye and headed for the door.

  “How are the kids doin’? You guys go to the city fireworks last night?”

  “No. Greg took ’em this evening, up to Evanston.”

  “Oh, that’s great.” He followed her down the hallway toward the front door. “Hey, why didn’t you go with them? I don’t want you to get so busy with this work thing that you don’t have any time for your family.”

  She reached for the latch on the front door. “Oh, it’s not that. I just didn’t want to listen to all those booms. Thanks for the help. I’ll get right on this job.”