Pink Slipper Page 7

  Jean leaned into me and whispered in my ear, "Roger and Bud are both single and would be great catches. Rog really wants a wife, is seriously looking. Did you know that he’s writing a book?" She smiled and nodded her head.

  "Yes, he is. He’s so smart. It’s called The Layoff Survival Guide. He says that there are all kinds of books on finding jobs, writing résumés, and interviewing, but none that deal specifically with being laid off. He’s done the research, believe me.

  "Roger’s written all kinds of interesting chapters on things like how to negotiate severance packages, things to do for free, how to weather the financial storm, how to tap into the help that’s available, and how to build a support group." She beamed. "He founded JCG! I call that genius. We help him with his book by trying out his ideas and sharing our stories.

  "And Roger’s top in his nursing class. Very driven. You could do a lot worse than Roger, let me tell you."

  She cast a quick frown in Candy’s direction just then, lending me the impression that maybe I was too late. And that Jean wasn’t wild about Roger’s choice.

  "Barn . . ." She gave an imperceptible shake of the head. "He’s a diamond in the rough, I think. And Sean . . . stay away from him. He’s handsome, and a charmer, that’s for sure. You’ll see when he shows up. Loves the women and the women love him. Which is the problem. That man will always be a stray cat."

  Our coffee came up. We grabbed our cups and strolled back to the group, plopping into side-by-side chairs.

  Roger went over the group business, asked if anyone had anything to share. Successes? Rejections? Promising leads? Stories for the book?

  Bud, Roger, and I shared about the greatness seminar. Then we all chipped in for our fish. Between the six of us we came up with about twenty bucks. Finally Roger gave us a pep talk and reminded us of the point of going to the market. "An upbeat, confident, energetic applicant is ten times more likely to get a job than a discouraged, pessimistic one. Let’s go catch a fish!"

  Chapter 9

  Toss Fish or Cut Bait

  Boost Morale and Improve Results!

  Choose Your Attitude!

  In other words, Toss Fish or Cut Bait!

  * * *

  You wouldn’t think catching a tossed fish would be all that much fun. Fish are slimy and smelly and dead eyes staring at you are creepy. But the fishmongers seemed to love it. Candy and Hank were part of the no-fun crowd and refused their turns at catching. No way were they touching the thing. Jean and I insisted Bud and Rog go first. Watching them, and the professional fish catchers, it didn’t look so hard. Roger used a baseball catcher’s stance that seemed effective. Bud had a wide receiver sort of approach. Barn simply out-wrestled it. Jean had a bit of trouble at first, but caught hers on her second attempt.

  When my turn came up I found myself behind the counter dressed in a white butcher’s apron, holding a piece of butcher paper and staring at a fish that suddenly looked . . . big.

  "How much does that puppy weigh?" I asked Jim, the head monger.

  "Oh, a prize Chinook like this, seven to ten pounds. I could throw her on the scale." Which he did. "Nine point two."

  I suddenly had a picture of a nine point two pound dumbbell dipped in Vaseline winging its way toward me. Not good.

  "You know, I think I have a dollar or two in my purse, why don’t I just buy a sardine and you can toss that at me?" They looked fresh, and lightweight.

  Jim’s laugh boomed so loud he drew a crowd. "Sorry, girlie. No can do. Sardines don’t fly so good. But don’t worry none. We won’t throw you a fastball, just a nice, light toss." He shook his head, still chuckling as he lined me up for the catch. "Now remember, just clasp it between the paper when it comes and hang on for dear life. That’s the secret."

  Then he yelled, "Let her rip."

  And the guy up front yelled back, "Incoming."

  And a fish flew right over my shoulder so fast I didn’t even have time to grab it. One of the onlookers in the market yelled, "Strike one!"

  "That was a ball. Clearly not over the plate," I yelled back. I saw Roger grinning at me and Bud smirking.

  "Hey, I can do this, macho man. Reload," I instructed Jim. I was used to hanging out with boys and not easily intimidated.

  The fish guys tossed our fish back up front.

  "Let’s give her another try."

  And so we did.

  "Fish flying to Seattle, Kent, Tukwila, and Bellevue," Jim yelled. These fish guys liked to call out the fish’s final destination, which told them how to pack it.

  It slipped through my hands.

  "Fish flying to Seattle, Kent, Tukwila, and Bellevue."

  Bounced out of my grip.

  "Fish flying to Seattle, Kent, Tukwila, and Bellevue."

  Too far to the left.

  Jim was looking a little exasperated and sounding hoarse. Our poor Chinook was looking all the worse for the wear and so was I. I felt my cheeks flushing from the heat of the day and growing embarrassment. A crowd of market customers had gathered. Someone was taking bets on what would happen first—whether the fish would disintegrate before I gave up or I’d pass out from heat exhaustion and the fish would win. Smart money was on the fish.

  "Give that poor fish a burial at sea," some wise guy cracked.

  "One last try," I begged Jim.

  He gave me all the pointers he had. He lined me up in the exact right spot. Straightened my apron. The crowd drew a collective breath. The odds were ten to one in favor of the Chinook. At least that’s what I heard some guy call out to the crowd.

  "Let her rip," Jim called.

  And then everything happened in slow motion. I heard the Chariots of Fire theme in my head. The fish sailed through the air. I reached out for it. It thumped me in the chest and knocked the wind right out of my body. A real hardball.

  Gasping for breath, I grabbed at it. It was slippery, and slimy, and about to lose its head. But I hugged it to my chest as I might a favorite lover, recalling all the episodes of the American Sportsman I’d watched with my grandpa.

  I just about had it when . . . I slipped. My feet went whoosh. Right out from underneath me. I fell on my butt, knocking over a bucket of fish guts. That tricky Chinook flew back up in the air. I reached for it. It landed with a plop in my lap. I wrapped my arms around it and declared victory before it slid to the floor. "I won! I won!"

  "Hold everything."

  Oh, no! I recognized that voice.

  Ryne Garrett pushed his way to the front of the crowd. "Some of us have a lot of money riding on this. Check out the fish. Is it still in one piece?"

  Jim picked it up, gingerly for my sake, I’d say. Poor old Chinook’s head was hanging on by a gill and he was missing one eye from an unfortunate collision with a table corner. But he was hanging together.

  Jim slapped the fish on the counter. "He’s whole." He gave me a hand up and thrust my arm over my head like a prizefighter who’s just won a match. I did a Rocky-style victory dance, careful not to slip on the floor again, while the fishmongers cut up and wrapped that old Chinook. The crowd went wild. Well, JCG clapped like wild for me anyway, which was very kind.

  I turned to Jim. "Hey, I’m good at this. And I’m available. Think you’d hire me?"

  "You look great in the apron, babe. But not on your life. Not until you take some fish catching courses."

  At least he was honest. Jim handed me a wad of paper towels to wipe the fish juice and parts off my butt. The stiff, tan, industrial kind that don’t absorb well.

  Roger shooed the crowd away as I cleaned up. "Nothing to see here. Keep moving."

  I came around to the customer side of the world and we all broke out in laughter. At least I did until I noticed Ryne leaning on the counter, refusing to be shooed.

  I tossed the paper towels away and straightened, trying to be cool and collected. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Candy and Hank drooling in his direction. No way was I letting them have him.

  "Hey," he said.

>   "Hey," I said, feeling very strange to see him in person out in public. Because having had dream sex with him, I felt like I knew him really, really intimately. Remembering the heightened dream sensation of his mouth on my skin and the things he’d done with his tongue, I tried not to blush. Where was that hot-for-me look he’d worn in my dream?

  "So who’d you bet on?" I asked.

  "You."

  How did he make a single word sound so sexy?

  He grinned. "Cleaned up, in fact."

  I felt myself go pink with pleasure. Which was really silly when you think about it, just because he picked me to win over a dead fish.

  "You missed a piece." He pointed toward the butt of my jeans.

  I glanced where he pointed. A slimy fish eyeball glared back at me.

  I flinched and screamed.

  Ryne flicked it off. Just like that, as if it were merely lint.

  At that instant, I caught my reflection in the fish counter glass. All visions of the beautiful damsel in distress vanished. I felt myself wilt. I looked a fright. And probably smelled even worse, though it was hard to tell as I was still so close to the fish counter. What was I thinking even talking to this man? Unfortunately, I couldn’t hide now.

  "My hero," I angled to block his line of sight to Candy and Hank who would certainly capture his attention if he saw them.

  "Can I buy the master salmon catcher a piroshki?" When he laughed his eyes smiled, too, and it took the edge off the penetrating expression he usually wore.

  I smiled back at him.

  Roger interrupted before I could answer. "We’re done here, everyone. See you all Friday." He turned to me, "Leesa, you need a ride?"

  "I’ll just catch the bus. Thanks."

  I wanted lunch with Ryne. And I didn’t want to fish stink Rog’s car. I’d be in enough trouble on the bus, but hopefully the other riders would attribute the smell to other causes. Some of the people who rode the bus downtown . . . let’s just say that a stink coming from them wouldn’t surprise anybody.

  Rog waved and the group dispersed. Candy and Hank lingered for a minute, then Jean shuffled them off. I had to love Jean.

  I turned back to Ryne. I hadn’t eaten. And I was suddenly hungry. Cafes and markets with walk up window service lined the streets along the market. And he was hot, even if I was not. When would I get a chance to see him again?

  "As long as we stay outside." I grimaced. "I don’t think I smell exactly like high-quality perfume right now."

  He laughed again. "Fine by me. I only have a few minutes left for lunch anyway."

  A man who didn’t mind being seen with a girl in my state! What a guy!

  I caught a whiff of myself. Not pleasant. I wrinkled my nose. "I hope Dad has some of that extra strength oxywash stuff on hand. These clothes are going to need it."

  Ryne gave me a quizzical look. "You live at home?"

  I rushed to dispel that impression. "No, no, no. I’m having some work done on my house. I’m staying with my dad until it’s finished."

  He smiled and nodded. "Remodeling can be a pain."

  That was a close call. No way I wanted to look like a daddy’s girl.

  It was already two o’clock. The lunch crowd had gone and rush hour had not quite begun. We walked right up and got our order then walked half a block to find an empty bench and stare out over Puget Sound as we ate our piroshkis.

  "So you and your friends are devotees of the Fish! school of management?" he asked, breaking the silence.

  Caught using another guy’s method for success! I felt almost unfaithful. Of course, he would notice. He probably knew all the methods there were.

  "It was Roger’s idea." When in doubt, cast the blame elsewhere. "But it was also his idea to go to your seminar with Bud."

  I explained to him about JCG. "Roger’s just trying to up our odds of success. Keep the spirits up. I just joined the group, actually. Just today. Roger invited me."

  Ryne looked amused as I spoke. "Leesa, you’re very loyal and considerate, but using another method along with mine doesn’t offend me. There’s more than one way to reach your goals."

  "Oh, good." Why was I so tongue-tied around this man?

  "I got your e-mail. You’re enjoying the lectures?"

  Visions of hot sex flitted through my mind. Of Ryne buck naked and sweaty and . . .

  "Oh . . . um . . . yes, very much."

  Don’t overdo it, Lees. And don’t giggle! All those dream images came flooding back, all the things he’d done to me. I felt myself blushing again.

  "What did you like in particular?" He stared at me intently, looking like he really wanted to know.

  I couldn’t tell him the real reason I enjoyed them. And seriously, I didn’t remember a thing about what he’d said in them. I’d fallen asleep in the middle of them.

  He sat in a sprawled position next to me, leaning back against the bench with his legs spread wide. Which gave me a very nice view of his crotch. I tried not to look.

  Eyes on the Sound, Lees!

  Remembering last night, I had to fight my hand from sliding out of control to rest on his inner thigh in that "he’s mine" position. Despite my very strong feelings of intimacy, we were strangers, after all.

  He studied me, waiting for an answer.

  I looked up like I always did when I was concentrating, trying to think up a lie.

  "The uplifting message," I finally said, my heart pumping out of control. There had to an uplifting message. That was the whole point of the seminar, wasn’t it?

  "Any particular phrases? Thoughts?" He looked amused by my response, although he tried to sound serious.

  "No, no, the whole thing was good. I really couldn’t play favorites."

  "You’ve changed your mind about my methods then?" He had a penetrating way of staring at me, like he was evaluating every tiny nuance of my expressions and the way I moved and breathed. Like he hung on my every word. It was exhilarating and flattering. And terrifying in its way.

  I cleared my throat to answer his question. His methods were just fine, perfect in fact. "I’m still evaluating them." Then I added in a rush, "Look, I’m sorry about what I said at, you know, Starbucks."

  He grinned. "You were just being honest. I like honesty."

  A flock of seagulls gathered around us, begging for handouts. I tossed them a small piece of bread.

  "Your work at the Institute must be fascinating," I said, trying to make up for my earlier faux pas, "helping people, encouraging them."

  He shrugged. "I like helping individuals, but to be honest, I’m most interested in the corporate work I do." Then he explained to me his work with corporations structuring work environments and organizational trees to best keep their employees happy and fulfilled. He ran seminars for managers and employees that encouraged positive change and emotionally fulfilling work relationships. He’d written books on the subject. He described his work helping companies to define words, code words, he called them, so that they could wage effective ad campaigns, and build unique brand and corporate identities. How he used focus groups and group relaxation.

  "You’re kidding, right?" I asked. "Companies pay you to define words when all they have to do is look them up in the dictionary?"

  To his credit, he didn’t look offended. "You’re very literal. Words have more meaning than their simple dictionary definitions. They have subtle emotional nuances. When I say ‘homey’ what comes to mind? Is it a male or female image? Or safety? Is safety different from security? If you were running an ad campaign, what images would you use to create the essence of these words?"

  He had me there.

  "You make your point."

  But I still didn’t really see how a complete set of the Oxford English Dictionary wouldn’t have been a lot cheaper and just as effective for most uses. But then, I wasn’t an advertising genius.

  Ryne grinned. I had the feeling I hadn’t hidden my skepticism from him at all well. "Enough about my job. I don’t know much about
engineering. Tell me about what you do," Ryne said. Seeing my hesitation, he added, "When you’re working."

  "Oh, no," I protested. "I don’t want to bore you."

  "I don’t think you could bore me, Leesa."

  I let that little gem hang in the air a minute, pondering its significance. He found me interesting, absolutely incapable of being boring? I would have felt great about that, except I wasn’t sure if I was fascinating in the hot babe way or the very strange case study sense of the word.

  He wadded up his piroshki wrapper and tossed it at a garbage can a few feet away and missed. A seagull snagged it and ran off with it before he could retrieve it.

  "Oooh, too bad," I said and wadded and tossed mine in.

  "Nice shot," he said.

  "That depends on your prospective," I said, teasing. "The gull probably doesn’t think so."

  We laughed.

  Then he turned to face me, resting his arm on the back of the bench, practically touching me. The sudden intimacy of the posture made my knees weak. Good thing I was already sitting. If I just leaned back a little it’d be almost like he had his arm around me.

  "So?" he said.

  I shrugged, trying to resist the magnetic pull of his very nicely muscled arm that would have looked, and felt, great curled around my shoulders.

  "Wish I could tell you what exactly it is I do, or did. But most of it’s deathly boring, believe me. Small detail stuff, one tiny particular of a great big design. Important, but just a small cog in the wheel."

  "Come on," he urged.

  "I suppose you have a top-secret government clearance?" I said, tongue in cheek.

  He laughed and shook his head.

  "Then I’m sorry. I really am. But I did have a secret clearance and the government trusts me now. All the interesting engineering stuff I’ve done is either company proprietary, or secret government work.

  "If I divulged it, I’d have to kill you. Which would lead to a greatness shortage in the world and a shocking misperception of what words really mean. National security would be breached. High-tech secrets would end up in enemy hands overseas. Jobs would be shipped offshore. Cheap foreign knockoffs of our wireless products would drive American companies out of business and further add to the trade deficit, possibly causing another recession. You see the trouble your curiosity could cause?"