Pink Slipper Page 6

  I called Willie anyway, told him what had happened, and gave him a piece of my mind.

  When I finished my tirade, Willie said, "Look, Lees. I understand your concerns. But if you’re innocent, what do you have to worry about?"

  "Did you not hear me, Willie? Gibson accused me of boiling oil and throwing it around my kitchen. He accused me of arson! Which besides being ludicrous, is a major crime."

  This was such a betrayal. Willie giving up on me was one thing. Turning on me another.

  This whole situation was just all too confusing and illogical. Like someone would be boiling oil on my stove when I wasn’t home—it was a ridiculous theory. A random break-in boiling?

  There had to be a logical explanation for the fire. We just had to find it.

  I said so to Willie. "Make sure Gibson got his facts straight. That he didn’t mix up the reports."

  "Don’t worry about a thing. I’m on your side here. I’ll check in to it and clear things up. I believe you.

  "This whole forensics investigation was Dad’s idea. I fought him on it. He’s a by-the-rules kind of guy. What do you say I wait until I see the report and then I’ll call you and we’ll meet for dinner?" He sounded calm and reasonable.

  Life was getting back into kilter. Willie was being the old Willie again. Comforting in a disturbing sort of way.

  "Fine," I said, defeated.

  "You know I’m here for you. Do you need someone to be with you? I can come over right now. Just drop everything. I can be there in—"

  "I’m fine. Call me when you’ve talked to Gibson and looked over the report." I hung up.

  I’d barely signed off when the phone rang again. I jumped and picked it up, barking into the phone, "No, don’t come over!"

  "Great phone-side manner."

  "Roger? Sorry. Thought you were someone else."

  "You should really check your incoming caller ID first." He laughed. Then he reminded me about the JCG meeting the next day. "You have to come. We’re meeting at the downtown Starbucks, the one across from the Northwest Institute."

  Great, just great. Then I could maybe renew my acquaintance with Mr. Smartass guitar guy.

  "Bud and I are going to report in on what we learned at the greatness seminar. Great stuff. I think it’ll really help the others, too. Would you like to add your observations and insight?"

  I murmured something that could go either way, be a yes or a no. I didn’t mention my current troubles either, too much of a downer.

  "Great," Roger said, evidently an optimist. "Then we’re going to the market to toss a fish. Bring all the loose change you can spare. We’re going to pitch in for the fish and divide it up. I thought maybe a Chinook salmon. Supposed to be tasty this time of year."

  Fish tossing. I was underwhelmed.

  "So you’ll come?"

  Under ordinary circumstances, no way. But I was short a few friends just now. "Sure."

  "I was going to listen to Garrett’s lecture again tonight," he said. "You should, too. Be a good refresher course."

  The only way I was listening to the Greatness lectures was if they could tell me how my fire got started. Otherwise, listening to Ryne’s sexy voice and remembering how I’d embarrassed myself was just too depressing.

  Chapter 8

  Job-free days: 39

  July Unemployment Log

  Bank account level: $353 Needed some cheering up. Bought makeup and chocolate. Lots.

  Goals:

  1. Find a mostly perfect man and marry him. Preferably a criminal lawyer who specializes in clearing people who’ve been falsely accused of insurance fraud and arson.

  2. Clear my good name.

  3. Get my insurance money and spend appropriately. This one’s back on the list because it’s looking tougher than first thought.

  4. Restore bungalow.

  5. Secure the perfect job.

  6. Spend an hour each day exercising.

  7. Eat at least two ounces of chocolate per day.

  8. Listen to the Breakthrough to Greatness lecture.

  * * *

  Just before bed last night Alice called me back and offered me a figurative shoulder to cry on. She assured me not to worry, encouraging me to listen to Garrett’s lectures. To keep the spirits up. With both her and Roger harping at me, how could I not give them a try? At the very least, I reasoned, they should have a soporific effect. Sleep without the worry of becoming addicted to pills sounded good to me, so I plugged the Shuffle into my portable speakers and drifted off to . . .dream sex! I had dream sex with Ryne Garrett last night.

  I’ve had dream sex before. Usually it mortifies me, mostly because of the odd and unattractive men who end up in my dream bed. I had dream sex with Willie once, if that tells you anything.

  Making love to a hot man in my dreams was a totally new and exhilarating experience. You know how intense and real dreams are sometimes? This was beyond intense.

  Want to know the great things about dream sex? No awkward clothes shedding. No body worries. No contraception. No pregnancy or STD concerns. No false sense of commitment. No guilt. It’s practically perfect. The one downside? It’s not easy to conjure up on demand.

  I’d fallen asleep listening to Ryne’s dreamy to-die-for voice. Hypnotic. Spellbinding. Maybe he implanted himself in my psyche for good. One can hope! Maybe if I listen to those lectures of his every night before bed I won’t ever need a real boyfriend again. No more messy relationships. Just total greatness. I think great is my new favorite word.

  After I showered, I decided to let Ryne know how much I enjoyed his lectures. I sent him an e-mail of appreciation.

  Hi Ryne—

  So nice to meet you last Saturday. Just wanted to let you know that I am really enjoying your Breakthrough to Greatness lectures. Maybe there is something to what you say, after all.

  Regards,

  Leesa Winsome

  * * *

  I resisted the urge to insert a wink emoticon. Not that he’d get what I meant. Let him think I’m shooting for greatness in the way he intended—by giving him positive feedback.

  After sending the message, I faced a new dilemma. What to wear to a fish tossing?

  Like most people in Seattle, I’d seen the fish tossing before. It’s a big tourist attraction. A fish vendor at the Pike Place Market is famous for its fish tossing routine.

  Customers select a fish from those laid out in ice in a glass case. Then the fish vendor guys upfront toss it to the guys in back to wrap it up. They joke and call out and generally have a good time tossing fish all day. Years ago some guys wrote a management book about the market and how every company should have happy employees who love their jobs and have fun on the job like the fishmonger men.

  Roger thought seeing them in action would inspire JCG and had evidently talked the fish boys into letting us catch our own fish when they tossed it back for wrapping. So we could see what fun on the job was really like. Right. Not my idea of a fun job. I didn’t like catching fish with a pole. But getting out of the house would take my mind off my fire troubles for a while.

  I raided Julie’s closet again. If anybody had an outfit for any occasion, it would be Julie. Though I couldn’t think of a time that she’d ever caught a fish, with a pole or otherwise.

  I slid hanger after hanger along the bar in Julie’s closet, past her business clothes and onto the casual wear. This was tough work. Unlike being an engineer babe.

  Being an engineer babe is easy, cut and dried like most engineering itself. You have to be female, hold any kind of engineering degree, and have at least average looks. End of story.

  Because the engineering workforce is ninety percent men, as a woman in the field you get attention whether you want it or not, no matter how you dress. Don a skirt and some killer heels and those engineer boys go ecstatic. "Engineers with boobs, what an invention!"

  Back to the wardrobe. Finally, I chose to wear my own best pair of jeans, as defined by being tight-fitting, in style, and having
the fewest number of ember holes from the fire. I snagged a lavender camisole and paired it with a see-through shirt with flowing sleeves and a pair of flat lavender sandals with dainty lavender daisies at the toes. The shoes alone probably would have set me back half my weekly unemployment check. And the cost of the camisole and shirt? I shuddered to think. Julie only buys designer and only the best.

  I was wearing my invisible platinum protection antiperspirant, the only platinum I could afford at the moment. Someday! I hoped the deodorant held true to its promise and left no residue behind. If Julie caught me borrowing her clothes, the fire and my lack of a job would be the least of my worries.

  * * *

  I took the bus downtown. It dropped me off in front of Starbucks and the street musician guy. I hate to say this, but I cast a surreptitious glance toward the institute, half hoping Ryne would just happen to be popping over for a coffee break. No such luck.

  "Legs!" Street Musician Guy greeted me as I stepped off the bus. "A real unexpected pleasure to see you again, especially so soon. I almost didn’t recognize you in jeans. I think I like the short skirt better."

  He probably wanted more money. I wouldn’t be fooled by him again.

  He kept strumming as he talked. Slow, slinky jazz. "You didn’t learn to be great in just one day? You’re back for more?"

  "I’m here to meet some friends for coffee." Not that it was his business. "Did you get your license or can I report you to the cops and have the street cleared?"

  He grinned. "Not to worry." He stopped strumming and proudly displayed his license for me like a sixteen-year-old who’s just passed the driving test.

  "Wow! Very official looking. City stamp. Plastic protector and everything. You really splurged."

  He shrugged. "Gotta look professional, you know."

  "Congratulations. Looks like you’re doing well. I guess you don’t need my money today?"

  "Hey, I still got to eat."

  Against my better judgment, I pulled out a bill, this time I made sure it was a one, and tucked it into his can. "If we’re going to keep meeting like this, I should know your name. I’m Leesa." I extended my hand.

  He shook it. "Greg."

  "I love your selection today, Greg. Keep playing." Then I walked past him into Starbucks as he called after me, "Have a nice day, Legs."

  Roger was waiting for us and had secured a cluster of chairs, most of which were already occupied, presumably by JCG people. He saw me and waved me over. "Let me introduce you to JCG. Everyone, this is Leesa Winsome. Bud and I met her at the ‘greatness’ seminar. She’s an electrical engineer."

  He looked around the group. "You know Bud. This is Barn."

  I shook hands with a barn of a man. All he needed to make the moniker completely apropos was a red shirt. I did a quick inventory of his looks, although not with the single girl checklist in mind. Big and bald. Beady eyes behind glasses. Huge mounds of the soft kind of fat in all the least attractive places. A boy pear. He had bigger breasts than my sister.

  "Terry Barnard. Friends call me Barn. Glad to have another techie in the group."

  "And this is Candace Lowe," Roger said, proceeding to the next person in the cluster.

  Bleached blonde, pert nose, enhanced boobs, little round tush, perky attitude. She could have been my sister’s best friend. What kind of a job was this babe looking for? High-class call girl?

  We sized each other up as we shook hands. Her expression as she gazed at me had "this girl needs a makeover" written all over it. I’d met her kind before. Given a minute or two she’d insist on doing my makeup, cut and foil my hair, and pry me into a pair of Spanx and a tight skirt.

  I read her confusion. Julie’s designer tank top had style, and looked a bit slutty as tightly as it fit me under the gauzy shirt, at odds with my jeans from Costco. Miss Blonde probably thought there was some hope for me, which was a kinder thought than I gave her.

  The blonde extended her hand, complete with killer nails. "Call me Candy."

  Candy, a tyrannical name assured to ruin any woman. I almost felt sorry for her. Given this girl’s looks, her name guaranteed she’d be a boy toy.

  At four, I named my doll Candy. I mean, what could be better than candy? Poor doll, I dragged her around by her hair. She ended up bald on all sides. I didn’t portend anything better for this Candy.

  I shook her hand, carefully dodging the dagger nails.

  "Welcome. I was an administrative assistant for a partner in an architecture firm," Candy said and continued off topic without a pause. "I don’t want to be a bitch about things, but we have a few group rules. And since I’m allergic, I always bring it up first. Would you mind not smoking inside or around the group? Just take it outside. We’d all appreciate it."

  Smoke? Me? What was she talking about?

  Then I caught a glimpse of my jeans, ember holes and all. No wonder she was worried. I’d have to be some kind of sloppy smoker to do that kind of damage to my denim.

  Before I could protest my smoking innocence, she put a hand on the woman sitting next to her. "My stepsister Hank."

  Hank was pretty in a tall, toned, leggy, small-busted way. Not curvy or lush, but certainly appealing, with a large mouth and ready smile. So I was to be surrounded by beauty queens. Great, so much for engineering babe.

  "And I’m Jean," the last woman in the group said, standing and giving me a sympathetic look. "I’m a stay-at-home mom looking to reenter the workforce. Looks like you need your coffee, too. Let’s go order together while we wait for Sean." She rolled her eyes and looked at me significantly. "If he deems to show up."

  "I called him," Roger said.

  "I know," Jean said and took my arm to guide me to the counter. "Just ignore the bimbos," she whispered as we approached the counter. I liked her. We made small talk after we ordered and waited for our coffee.

  "How long have you been out of the workforce?" I asked Jean.

  "Twenty years."

  "Wow! Why go back now?" I was wondering why anyone would voluntarily want to reenter the workplace insanity if they didn’t have to, especially after a twenty-year hiatus. Maybe she was one of those unfortunate women whose husband was having a midlife crisis and had dumped her for a girl half his age, a girl like Candy.

  After less than two months of unemployment I was thinking that if I suddenly became independently wealthy, I’d just hang out and nap. It was easier than going through this find-a-job junk every couple of years.

  "I’ll tell you why." Jean’s voice had an edge. "Because I’m smart, informed, and ready to be taken seriously. That’s why. Twenty years ago I gave up my career to raise my boys. Well, the baby leaves for college this fall. It’s time for me now—"

  "If that’s all, go on a cruise," I told her, ignoring her indignation. Someone needed to set her straight. "Water ski, take cake decorating classes, spend the hubby’s money. Believe me, you’ll have more fun. Why give up your freedom?"

  "Because it’s time for me to have a little r-e-s-p-e-c-t. An income. Means of my own. Status. Success. Executive education. Bonuses. My name on an office door. When I go to a party and someone asks me what I do, I’ll get something more than a bored look, and an excuse for them to move on. I’ll have respect! I’ll be someone!"

  "Someone’s fed you a bill of goods about what working is all about," I said. "Sure, there’s a paycheck and perks, if you can get them and then hang on to them. But what about the back-biting, the politics, the stress, the kowtowing to the boss, the inability to do the right thing, the stifling of creativity, and the inevitable layoff notice? And then looking for work again. Repeat the cycle."

  We stared each other down.

  Finally, she broke, "I still want to try it."

  "Your choice."

  She sighed.

  "What kind of job are you looking for?" I asked her.

  She shrugged. "Don’t know. That’s why I joined JCG, for support and to help me find out. Roger has wonderful insights." She sighed. "I never finis
hed my degree. Before the boys came I worked as a new accounts secretary in a small bank."

  "Good hours," I said.

  "Boring. Not enough growth potential." She looked seriously at me. "I’ve never been sure exactly what an engineer does?"

  "No one is." I smiled at her. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure.

  She laughed. "Maybe I’d like to be an engineer. What do they do?"

  I gave her a quick overview as we waited for the barista to call out our orders. Design electronics. Invent new technology. Write software. Fill out lots of mundane paperwork. Update schematics. When her eyes glazed over, I had mercy and stopped. "Do you like math?"

  "Hate it."

  "Physics?"

  She shook her head.

  "Material science? Fields and waves? Electromagnetics? Thermodynamics?"

  "No, no, and no. I don’t even know what half those things are."

  "Then engineering’s not for you," I said.

  "That’s a relief. I’ll cross it off my list. I don’t think I’d like fixing computers and such, anyway."

  I rolled my eyeballs. Fix computers, indeed.

  Then she grinned. "Sorry. You don’t fix computers, do you?"

  "A common misperception. That’s tech work," I said.

  She changed the subject suddenly. "Are you married?" she asked. "Involved with someone?"

  Uh-oh, a matchmaker.

  "No and no."

  Jean’s face lit up. She was obviously thinking and scheming. "I could help. We have some very eligible men in the group. And I know a lot about finding a mate, about igniting love. How do you think I’ve stayed married all these years?"

  Jean looked like the kind of woman who read women’s magazines that advised greeting your husband at the door shrink-wrapped in colored plastic wrap that should have been used on the leftovers. That kind of help, I could do without. I gave her the putout look. "What are you, Jean the Matchmaker?"

  She lifted her chin and ignored my sarcasm. "I’ve been instrumental in some very wonderful matches, yes. And I can tell you this, you need to get married soon. Everyone needs a life companion, a soul mate to lean on."