Pink Slipper Read online

  Garrett’s assistant, a French babe he introduced as Sophie Billaud, handed out notebooks, workbooks, and pens. Sophie wore pure black, a straight short skirt, a summer sweater, spike heels, and looked like sex on a stick. She must have been all of twenty-five.

  Bud and Roger seemed to enjoy getting an eyeful of her. They followed her progress around the room with unabashed obviousness.

  Appropriately enough, she wore her deep brown hair in an elegant French twist. She was the kind of woman men loved to ogle and women loved to hate. I was no exception. She walked with a slight sway to her hips and spoke with a soft French accent. She’d score at the top of any man’s checklist.

  Ryne began his presentation. "You can go where you want to go, do what you want to do, and be the person you want to be."

  I wanted to be anywhere but here and anyone but me.

  Ryne gave a course overview and told the inevitable success story. He might have been aiming the story at me, but I didn’t look up from my "note-taking" to verify. Instead, I surreptitiously studied the classroom so I could fill Alice in, let her know what I had gotten for her money. As for course content, I had the book, didn’t I?

  Ryne finished his introduction, pressed a button on his computer, and looked up at the screen on the wall in anticipation. The screen remained blank.

  I shot him a quick look.

  He frowned. He did some fiddling.

  "We seem to be experiencing technical difficulties," he said. "Bear with me a moment." He fiddled with his software.

  I sighed. He had no idea how to fix the problem. This was too amusing. Some people had no technical sense.

  The crowd grew restless and began whispering to each other. Roger shot Bud a look indicating he should help Garrett.

  I had a favor to repay. Besides, I didn’t want to be in class all day. I zipped out of my seat before Bud could move. "Let me take a look." In less than two minutes I diagnosed the problem and had Garrett’s presentation up and running.

  I sat back down.

  Ryne offered his thanks with a heart-melting smile. "There’s a girl headed for greatness. She embodies the spirit of one of my main points—helping others get what they want. In my case, a presentation that works. Many thanks." And he had the decency, too, to look a little humble.

  "It’s an engineer thing," I said, smiling.

  * * *

  A lot of the day was pretty boring. It went something like blah, blah, blah, hope. Blah, blah, blah, success. Blah, blah, blah, greatness. But the Institute fed us a delicious chicken lunch in their corporate dining room. I sat with Roger and Bud. They pried my cell phone number out of me and made me give a solemn promise to show up to one of their JCG meetings. They didn’t even give me the chance to cross my fingers or wiggle out by any other means.

  In the afternoon session, we had to fill out pages in our workbooks. It involved a lot of soul-searching that I won’t go into.

  But, for those who really want the gist of the entire Greatness seminar, here’s what I learned from my adventure, with my personal spin included, of course:

  Hope is humankind’s greatest asset. And it’s free! A big bonus right now to Roger, Bud, and me. Because we couldn’t afford it otherwise.

  To succeed, you must talk positively to yourself. The secret is to feed yourself a bunch of upbeat pabulum so as to trick your psyche into actually achieving greatness or maybe just delusions of grandeur.

  Goal-setting is an absolute must. Having an intelligent, clearly defined plan for life, career, family, and love satisfies the logical left brain (mine is never sated, let me tell you) and frees the right brain up to be creative.

  Help enough other people get what they want, and you, too, will eventually get what you want. The problem with this one was that number "enough" was not defined, was left empty like an algebraic variable. How would I know when I’d helped "enough"?

  This realization led me to an uncomfortable conclusion. I was convinced that the "enough" number of people I would be required to help would run in the millions. That was just the way my luck went. Some people would have to help just one other person. Me, I’d have to do something nice for every single person who lived in Seattle, and maybe a few who weren't even born yet.

  Successful people live balanced lives.

  To have "making money" and "happiness" as goals is fine.

  Finally, be careful what goals you set and what dreams you dream, because you just might attain them! Where was the downside of that?

  At last, Sophie handed each attendee an iPod shuffle preloaded with Ryne’s recorded greatness lectures and messages to give us pep talks when our own positive self talk melted into self-loathing. Help for when life knocked us down. And then, the seminar was over. The lights went up. The doors flew open. We were free, free, free, finally free!

  Roger and Bud offered me a ride home. They seemed nice, but how well did I know them? I opted for the bus, graciously thanking them for their kindness.

  "At least let us walk you down," Roger said.

  Fine by me. That street musician might need a little protection from my anger anyway.

  Ryne stopped me as I scooped up my stuff and headed for the door. "Did I make a believer out of you yet?" He cocked a brow, amused, I guessed.

  "Hardly. I’m a tough case. Changing my opinions takes time and hard evidence." I paused. "You might have said something at Starbucks."

  "Such as?"

  "Your name."

  "It wouldn’t have changed your opinion of my workshop, would it?" He studied me, smug in his rightness.

  "No, I guess not."

  "Honesty’s better, don’t you agree? Now we know where we stand."

  "I guess that’s true." Fine for him to say when I’d been the one making a fool of herself.

  "Thanks for fixing my computer. I, for one, appreciated your engineering expertise today."

  There were people standing around, waiting to talk with him. Enthusiasts who would praise him and ask him to autograph their workbooks.

  I shrugged. "It was nothing. Easy heroics." I taunted him with his own words, but his eyes danced and he smiled, obviously amused, not affronted.

  "You’ll listen to the messages on the Shuffle?" he asked, oblivious to the others hovering around us.

  "If that’ll make one less person I need to help get what they want so I can get what I want, then yes." I flashed him my flirty smile.

  He laughed. "It will." He pulled his business card out of his pocket and handed it to me. "I’m on LinkedIn. Feel free to connect with me."

  I nodded. I definitely would.

  "Look, call me if you have any questions," he said. "About the workshop, about anything. If you need help, I’m available."

  Puzzling, very puzzling. He probably saw me as a great big skeptical challenge. What else explained this behavior? I mean, he’d walked out on me at Starbucks.

  "Sure." I tucked his card in my purse and walked away, joining Bud and Roger at the door.

  Street music guys must work shorter shifts than inspirational speakers. My nemesis was gone and replaced by a pathetically bad accordionist when Bud and Rog dropped me off at the bus shelter. Ten minutes of earsplitting music and I thought maybe the city was right to aspire to professional quality music on the streets. Even the city needed goals. See how much I’d learned?

  But probably the city’s desire was more fiscal than aesthetic or out of love for the arts. No doubt they lost bus revenue when citizens were subjected to offbeat, out of tune, off-key music. At this point, hitchhiking looked pretty good, the possibility of running up against a serial killer aside. Or just walking to another bus stop.

  Still, I hoped that Guitar Man had made his license fee.

  By the time the bus pulled up, I’d already connected with Ryne on LinkedIn. And I had never been so glad to gulp diesel fumes and escape back to Dad’s house.

  Chapter 5

  Job-free days: 37

  July Unemployment Log

  Applic
ations to date: Applied for another VISA. In case of a financial emergency. Just backup, that’s all. Hey, I didn’t ask for this. They sent it to me in the mail and begged me to apply. And they didn’t worry that I don’t have a job, so why should I?

  Thoughts for the day:

  Set goals by following "greatness" goal setting procedure. Let my mind run free and wild and write down absolutely everything I want to do, be, or have.

  Goals:

  1. Find a soul mate, a perfect man to marry.

  2. Force Willie to get off his tail and get my claim processed.

  3. Restore bungalow.

  4. Secure the perfect job. PS Make sure that Howard knows I expect six figures, bonuses, and stock options.

  5. Spend an hour each day exercising in pursuit of the perfect body and good health.

  6. Eat at least one ounce of chocolate per day. This might mean adding a few extra minutes to the exercise routine. But at least it’s a goal I can meet. Better make that two ounces. Otherwise I’ll be cutting back on my chocolate consumption, and what’s the good of that?

  7. Tour Europe using my frequent flier miles gained using newly acquired credit card.

  8. Someday, possibly, maybe, listen to the Breakthrough to Greatness messages.

  * * *

  It was Monday, which meant rather than sleeping in, I had to meet my contractor, Gus Thomas, out at the bungalow to discuss the next step in restoring my home to livability. Dad and Julie were in California for the week. The Lexus wouldn’t be out of the shop until Thursday. Since the bus didn’t run in a convenient path between Dad’s and the bungalow, I was forced to drive Dad’s ancient pickup, which I called the beast. But, the way I figured it, it would blend right in with Gus’s beater.

  Gus was already parked and waiting for me in the driveway when I pulled up. It was another sunny day in the Jet City.

  From the front, my house looked fairly normal, which gave my heart a little lurch. Face it, I was homesick, or just sick period thinking about the destruction around back.

  The front lawn was turning brown, pretty normal for this time of year. Only the well-to-do or the transplants in this town actually watered their lawns in the summer. The rest of us just let them go dormant. Which seemed oxymoronic to me. Just the time of year when you wanted to run barefoot over soft, green lushness, and I might add, when you weren’t likely to step on any slimy slugs in the process, you got stubbly dry grass and dust. Summer water rates were plain outrageous, and believe it or not, August in Seattle is generally dry and warm.

  Still, the blackened side lawn was over the top, even for Seattle. Deep tan to light brown, in the normal range. Black, not so acceptable. Probably it wasn’t just dormant. Probably it would need reseeding. The driveway had decided to match the grass on the blackness scale and up it one. Was there a product that would remove melted auto parts from concrete?

  I jumped out of the truck and gave Gus a wave. He came over and put an arm around my shoulder, very fatherly like. Gus was near to sixty, a big, beer barrel of a man. Thin gray hair, a smoker’s rasp. He could lift a refrigerator on his back if the need arose. That was the rumor, anyway, though I’d never actually seen him do it.

  I think I grimaced as I looked around because Gus said, "Don’t worry. We’ll fix her up good as new. Better even."

  I nodded as Gus led me around back to point out the work that had been done. "We got her boarded up good and tight now, as you can see. Don’t worry about the looks. Just temporary. Let’s go inside." He led me back around to the front door.

  I didn’t really want to go inside. The sight of all that ash and charcoal made me shudder, brought back the trauma, reminded me that my main childhood nightmare had become reality. But I bucked up my courage and unlocked the door to let us in.

  "Watch out for the holes in the floor," Gus said, chuckling.

  "Yeah," I said, "Do you think a basement with a two-story ceiling counts as a feature?"

  Gus laughed again. "Good that you’ve got a sense of humor."

  Yeah, right. The house smelled better than the last time I’d been in it, not so musty and burnt. That’s not to say it smelled good. It could use some air freshener, a little potpourri.

  Gus pointed to the walls. "You’ve already seen most of the temporary studs. Once we got the interior debris removed, we had to brace her in a few more places than I originally thought. Here and here. This little wall that used to be there, turned out she was a load bearer."

  I saw dollar signs swimming before my eyes.

  "It’ll need to be rebuilt," Gus continued. "But for now, we’ve stabilized the structure. It’s safe for workmen, and looky-loos like us." He grinned.

  Gus had been very kind, removing as much of my stuff as he could in the days after the fire when his workmen were removing the debris and doing the initial bracing. Plus he’d let me in to take a few pictures for my scrapbook. So I wouldn’t forget the fire, as if I could.

  Every time I saw the damage, it struck me as surreal. Some things had been totally destroyed, and others barely touched. My downstairs bathroom looked completely normal, not even ashed or sooted, like the smoke had made a point of avoiding it. The dining room was intact, although it needed scrubbing and repainting. The living room connected to it looked pretty good, barely touched, as if the wind had whipped up through open windows and huffed the smoke back through the kitchen.

  "Let’s head back outside and take a look at the blueprints in the daylight." Gus guided me outside to his truck where he spread the papers out on the hood of his truck and pinned them down with his meaty hands. "She’ll be better than ever now we’ve got a clean slate. Look on the bright side, that fire did our demolition for us. Now we do whatever you want with space. Long as we put the load bearers back in, we’re great."

  And the floor, and the ceiling, and the roof.

  He smiled. "Positive attitude, girlie."

  "You haven’t taken the ‘greatness’ seminar, have you?" I asked him.

  "What?" He gave me a puzzled look.

  Okay, maybe not.

  "We’ve rearranged her for more practicality, taken your desires to heart. Here’s the island you wanted."

  "How much will it cost me?"

  He laughed. "Probably nothing, once the insurance pays up."

  Insurance was a sticky topic. "Um, yes. You know, Willie’s delaying things a bit." I paused. "I haven’t actually received anything yet."

  "Oh, don’t worry about that. They’ll pay up soon enough." He patted my hand in a paternal fashion. "If you’re worrying about me and my fee, don’t. I can wait. You just pay for the materials and we’re good to go."

  Good old Gus.

  "Sure," I said and sighed. "Gus, this whole fire still doesn’t make sense. I had the entire house inspected before I bought it a year ago. The wiring was new. I hadn’t cooked in the house for days so it’s not like I left the oven on."

  I hadn’t cooked for weeks, maybe a month, but that was due to the remodeling effort, not, for once, my lack of culinary skills.

  "I didn’t leave no tools plugged in. And that’s a fact," Gus added helpfully to cover his butt and protect his own insurance rates.

  "Of course not," I said. "Anyway, Willie said the inspectors found multiple combustion points. It’s like my kitchen just suddenly and spontaneously ignited."

  Gus cocked his head. "Those investigators, they don’t know everything. All that varnish dust we kicked up as we sanded the floors, that stuff’s got ‘light me’ written all over it. One little spark could set the whole deal off. Hell, a little static electricity would do the trick and caboom!" He clapped his hands for emphasis.

  I started.

  "Sorry." He gave my hand another pat. "Don’t you worry. There won’t be another fire. Once the new kitchen is in it’ll be completely safe and up to code."

  Very reassuring. But the engineer in me couldn’t let go. Where would a spark of static electricity come from if no one had been home?

  * * *
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  After Gus left, I wandered next door to Mrs. Vanhorn’s house. She’d left for England to visit her sister in London the afternoon of my fire. I’d waved to her as she pulled away in a taxi just before I left for the store that fateful afternoon.

  Since I’d assumed I’d be living next door and it would be no problem, I’d agreed to water Mrs. Vanhorn’s flowers and feed her cat, Fluffy. Fluffy was sort of a misnomer as she was a short-haired breed, Mrs. Vanhorn being allergic to cat hair. But Fluffy was evidently named after Mrs. Vanhorn’s dearly departed favorite aunt, Druscilla, who evidently didn’t have a brain in her head and was therefore nicknamed Fluffy. Which, in my opinion, was better than being called Druscilla any day. The cat should have been grateful.

  The good thing about cats, at least, is that they are not gluttons and so you can put out dishes of food for them, enough for two or three days at once, and it will last them. They won’t hog it all down at once like dogs will, which cut down on the number of trips I had to make.

  I let myself into Mrs. Vanhorn’s kitchen, filled Fluffy’s food and changed her water. Fluffy trotted in and curled around my legs.

  Somehow Mrs. Vanhorn’s kitchen blinds were askew. I shot Fluffy a condemning look. "Naughty girl!" I picked her up and stroked her. "Climbing on the blinds is forbidden, I think."

  I walked over and straightened them. Mrs. Vanhorn had a primo view right into my charred kitchen. I knew our kitchens faced each other. But my kitchen looked right into our joint fence. While hers was on enough of a tiny rise and angle so that she looked straight down into mine. She could see me scrubbing my pots and pans, and doing whatever in there.

  Note to self, have Gus move the window! As I looked at the line of sight again and made a few mental calculations about placement, I noticed the lid to Mrs. Vanhorn’s metal ash can next to the fence was off. She kept her fireplace ash in a 30-gallon metal garbage can on her side of the fence, saving them to put on her garden. She claimed ash was good for the soil. If that was true, my soil must be a gardener’s heaven now.