Pink Slipper Page 8

  He laughed again, shaking his head. "Sorry. I guess I just didn’t consider the consequences. How about this—can you tell me about the products you’ve worked on if I promise not to try to pry any secret specs out of you?"

  I smiled at his persistence. "That I can do."

  I gave him a rundown of some of the cool products I’d worked on. I could talk for hours about hot wireless products, the advances in infrared radar and night vision technology, and a whole host of other high-tech products I’d worked on over the years. He seemed interested. Most men like high-tech toys. But he also seemed amused by my enthusiasm.

  "The problem with high-tech gadgets is getting the market to embrace to them, establishing an emotional connection with the consumer so that they’re convinced that they absolutely need, and positively must have, the innovations—now!" I said. "So often we’re ahead of the curve.

  "Too few engineers understand the full ladder of benefits. The functional and the technical they get in spades. The biggest rung, the emotional component, they don’t understand at all.

  "Engineers think that if they bombard the buyer with specs and features, they’ll plunk down their money based purely on logic. What the industry needs in general are creative ways to engage the consumer emotionally. Because when it comes down to it, don’t emotions rule the world?"

  At that moment, they were certainly ruling mine.

  Ryne gave me an assessing look. "Why are you an engineer, Leesa?"

  His question caught me off guard. I gave him the rote answer. "I have a head for math and science and it’s a growth field for woman. Engineers earn a decent living." Before he could ask another question, I turned the tables on him. "How about you? What got you into helping people go on to greatness?"

  He paused, gauging me again. I had the feeling he was trying to determine whether he could trust me with a revelation. I was on the edge of my seat, so to speak. Actually I was as close as I could get to Ryne without being in his lap, leaning into him, looking up into those heartbreaking brown eyes of his.

  "I had to know that people can take control of their lives and rise above their circumstances, no matter what the circumstances are. That things can turn out all right." His voice was soft and sincere, almost vulnerable. Just the kind of attitude to melt a girl like me, as if I wasn’t pretty much a puddle in his presence already.

  "That by reaching out to help others, anyone can be a better person. I had to prove that. I had to." He paused again.

  And I asked the obvious question. "Why?"

  To my surprise, he answered. "When I was a nineteen-year-old college freshman I got high and wrapped my car around a tree. Nearly killed myself. Spent six hellish months in the hospital.

  "I was lucky to be alive. But during the recovery, I didn’t see it that way. I was angry and antagonistic. Afraid my life was over and I’d end up like my alcoholic father—a bitter, lonely failure. As part of my therapy, my counselor set me up helping permanently handicapped kids. It turned my life around. I found that a passion for helping others saved me."

  I reached over and gave his leg a sympathetic squeeze.

  He’d leaned forward toward me as he spoke. We were just a breath away from a kiss, so close our lips already nearly brushed. The wind blew a strand of hair into my face. He brushed it away and tucked it gently behind my ear.

  "Find your passion, then pursue it. Lesson number," I whispered the quote from his work, impressed with myself for suddenly remembering something from it, and something so appropriate! As I looked into his eyes, I felt a real connection to him. I was certain he felt it, too.

  But he pulled back, looking shaken and suddenly nervous. Okay, maybe I was wrong. What had I said to make him back off?

  "Speaking of work." He stood, glancing at his watch, suddenly Mr. Aloof and Professional. "Sorry, but I have to run."

  "I should be going, too," I said, standing, although I was in no hurry to go anywhere.

  "It’s been a pleasure," he said, somewhat awkwardly. "Enjoy that fish. You earned it."

  It could have been more of a pleasure, I thought.

  * * *

  Riding the bus home smelling like a cannery really wasn’t so bad, at least for me. Everyone gave me a wide berth. Although the bus filled to capacity, I had an entire seat to myself to stretch out on and ponder what went wrong with Ryne.

  When I got home, I immediately showered, and laundered my jeans and Julie’s tank top according to the strict instructions on the label. The problem was the gauzy shirt—dry clean only. I gave it a big squirt of fabric freshener, the kind that was supposed to completely eliminate odors, and hung it in a plastic garbage bag outside in the back garden on a trellis, hoping that would do the trick before it attracted all the neighborhood cats.

  I checked my mail. Good. My weekly unemployment statement came. My weekly pittance had been deposited as usual. But where was my severance check? Stupid Wireless Innovations! I was going to have to hound them again. Bad enough that they laid me off, but delaying my payment was just absurd. I hated talking to that patronizing bitch, Sandy, in HR. I’d get right on it. Maybe tomorrow.

  I couldn’t get that near kiss out of my mind. I got online and Googled Ryne and The Northwest Institute. Just out of curiosity. To see what I could turn up. Next time I saw him, I didn’t want to repeat my earlier mistake, whatever it was. I found his long list of corporate clients, his speaking schedule through the fall, barely a day off here and there, a real workaholic and very popular evidently, his list of published works, and how much he charges for one of his personal seminars.

  Alice had been in a very generous mood.

  You should have seen his list of professional credentials and degrees—alphabet soup! He was a specialist in everything having to do with psychology and social anthropology. He was even certified in something called neurolinguistic programming, NLP.

  I Googled NLP, too. It’s a system of reading body language and eye movements to see how a person thinks. And then using the way they think to train them to think like, and use the success patterns of, highly successful people. For example, an NLP specialist might study a thin person’s pattern of thought about food and eating and teach that to an overweight person to help them lose weight. Can that method be adapted to minimize consumption of a single food, say chocolate?

  There was a smiley face chart showing all of the eye movements people make when they think and what the movements mean. If someone you’re talking to looks up and to the right they’re constructing an image, as in lying. Up and to the left, visually remembering something.

  Uh- oh. Could Ryne tell I was hedging by the direction my eyes flicked? Which direction do they go when I think?

  I hopped up and ran to a mirror to check it out. But have you ever tried to look into the mirror and see which way you’re eyes move when you think at the same time? All I got was bug-eyed. A failed experiment.

  I went back to my computer and copied the chart, making a mental note to control my responses. Unfortunately, the website also said they’re reflexes and can’t be controlled. There was only one thing to do—look away. Then he’d never see my eye movements to know what I was thinking. So there was the plan. If I ever had to lie to him again. If I ever even saw him again!

  I checked my e-mail. A reply from Ryne!

  * * *

  Leesa—

  Glad you liked the lectures. Stay in touch.

  Ryne

  * * *

  Stay in touch. I wondered if he meant it?

  I shrugged and decided to take him at his word. I got on Facebook and sent him a friend request. We’ll see if he meant business. Then I got on Twitter and became a follower of his. And tweeted about how great his lecture series on greatness is and used the hashtag #greatness. And realized I was beginning to use the word "greatness" the same way some people use "um" or "like." It was almost becoming sentence filler for me.

  That night, I read Chapter Three of Ryne’s greatness book, which was appropriately
titled, "To Realize Your Dream, First Dream a New Reality."

  Wonder why I picked that chapter?

  I fell asleep listening to the greatness lectures again. Hoping . . .

  Chapter 10

  Job-free days: 40

  July Unemployment Log

  Bank account level: $957 Oh, so close to breaking into four digits! Enjoy the sight of this number because in a few hours, after I make token bill payments, it’ll be practically zip.

  Goals:

  1. Listen to the Breakthrough to Greatness lectures as often as possible. And pay attention! I still don’t know what Ryne says on those things. I kept trying to concentrate, but his sexy voice overwhelms the message. Think I should tell him that?

  2. Become an NLP expert so I can read people and know what they are thinking at all times.

  3. Eat less than one ounce of chocolate per day so I can compete with Candy and Hank on the babe scale.

  Thoughts for the day:

  I’ve become celibate even in my dreams. But I’m still trying to dream a new reality!

  * * *

  I’d gotten into the habit of turning off my cell before I went to bed. Calls in the night could only be one of two things—a crank call or bad news. And I didn’t really need either. I got enough bad news in broad daylight.

  I checked my messages. Seven.

  First, a text from Trey, "Just got the report. Call me. Let’s arrange a dinner date to go over it."

  Second, a text from Julie, "Pick up my clothes at the cleaners. Ethel comes on Thursdays to clean. Straighten up the house before she arrives."

  Message deleted.

  First new voice message—Alice, "Just checking in to see how you’re doing. Feeling perkier today? You haven’t slit your wrists or something messy, have you? Or developed a new phobia? When I get back I’ll take you out for a lovely dinner and we’ll talk. Hugs."

  Such confidence in me.

  Second new message—"Lees, this is Cara—"

  Message deleted.

  Third message—Cara again, "Lees, I know you’re there—"

  Message deleted.

  Fourth new message—"This Joe Sharp with Hawk Engineering. I’m looking for Leesa Winsome. We saw your résumé on workaholic.com and we’re interested in talking to you about an exciting opportunity at our company."

  Who says online job hunts don’t work? I jotted down his number.

  Fifth new message—Candy and Hank, "Hi, Leesa? It’s us, the stepsisters, Hank and Candy? I know we just met, but we’re having a lighting emergency and we figured, you being an electrical engineer and all, well, that you’d know how to install the new light fixture we just got. Do you think you could come over and help us?" They rattled off their number.

  My finger hovered over the delete button. I sighed. They were fellow Job Camp Groupers. I should help them out. Even though it wasn’t in an engineer’s job description to hang lights, I knew how to do it. And it would beat watching Ethel clean.

  I called Hawk. They had an open interview slot tomorrow at ten o’clock. It took it. Then I called Hank and Candy and got directions to their house.

  * * *

  Candy and Hank lived in a second floor condo in Medina with a view of Lake Washington. Very nice. Probably pricey. I’m guessing they had a little help affording it.

  Candy answered the door on the second knock. "Hank, she’s here," she called over her shoulder. "Come on in." She grabbed my arm and pulled me into the entryway.

  I have to say those two had a flair for decorating, in a very girly way. Color splashed all over the place. Eclectic cushions on the sofa. I loved it, but I doubted most guys would.

  Hank came out of a bedroom. "Hi, glad you could come."

  "No problem. Where’s the new light fixture?"

  They pointed to a monstrous box sitting against the wall. I looked up at their current light fixture, a modest single bulb affair.

  "Um . . . how big is that thing?"

  Two shrugs in unison.

  "We didn’t measure it," Hank said. "We just fell in love with it."

  Candy nodded.

  "Okaaay," I said. "First things first. I’ll need a step stool and then you can point me in the direction of your circuit breaker."

  "Step stool we can do," Hank said. "What’s a circuit breaker?" She turned to Candy. "It’s a good thing we called in an engineer."

  Oh, boy. This was going to be a long morning. I was glad I’d brought my own tools.

  "Gray metal box on the wall, oh, a foot by two feet big maybe?" I said.

  Blank stares.

  "Do you have a laundry room or a closet that houses a water heater? That’s where it will probably be."

  They nodded.

  Now we were making progress. "Point me there."

  I eventually found the box, and of course, none of the breakers were labeled. I had to try them all to find the one that controlled the entry light. Then we opened the carton containing the new light.

  "Ohmygosh!" I said. "That’s not a lighting fixture. That’s a fricking chandelier. That thing’s got to weigh forty pounds!"

  Or more. Heavy gold chain, cups for nine 60 watt bulbs and crystals dripping off everywhere.

  "I know!" Candy beamed at it. "Isn’t it lovely?"

  Lovely if you wanted a bad back! Lovely in a hotel lobby.

  I frowned, sizing up the possibility that this new nine bulb affair could very easily overload the circuit. And wondering how in the world we were going to be able to hoist it up to get it hung. Would it pull the ceiling down?

  "You know, you could have called Roger, Barn, or Bud to help hang this. It doesn’t take an engineer to hang a light, but it will take some brawn. Why don’t you call one of those guys and see if they can come over to help?"

  Hank shook her head. "And give them ideas? No way. Barn, we call him the man of a million questions. Mr. Insecurity himself." She rolled her eyes.

  Candy snorted. "He only speaks in questions and he agrees with everything you say. Everything! We’ve tested it."

  "Some woman look for agreeable men," I said with a touch of mature righteousness.

  "And his body . . . I mean, did you notice? He has breasts!" Candy continued.

  Okay, she had me there. Add me to the superficial list. I nodded and grinned. Candy smiled.

  "What about Roger?" I asked. "He definitely does not have breasts. He’s nice and very smart."

  "And old enough to be our dad!" Hank nodded for emphasis. "He just turned forty-seven."

  I shot Candy a look to see if she concurred with Hank’s opinion, but she was looking at the floor. I had to agree with Hank. He was kind of old. I felt that way and I was probably eight years older than these two. "Yeah, but a dad guy would be safe, right?"

  Hank snorted and shot Candy a look. "I don’t think so. Everyone hits on Candy. Besides, we’re independent. We don’t need a guy’s help with this stuff."

  Candy was looking out the window. Wonder if she’d studied NLP avoidance techniques, too?

  "Do you have any beefy neighbors?" I asked.

  "No, but we’ll help. We’re buff." Candy flexed her biceps.

  She was toned, but I would have preferred the help of just about any male bicep to hers.

  I removed the old light fixture. We wrestled the new one out of the box, crystals tinkling as we went. I made Candy and Hank stand on chairs and hold the thing up while I hung it.

  "A little higher," Hank kept saying every time she hopped off the chair and tried to walk beneath it as Candy and I struggled to keep the thing airborne.

  Finally, when it was hanging by exactly two links of chain, she pronounced it perfect. Then I stuffed wire up into the lighting box until my arms felt as if they were going to fall off. At last, we had it hung. And to my great relief, the ceiling held.

  I headed back to turn the breaker back on for the moment of truth.

  "Okay," I said, "I’m going to restore power. But just be warned, this baby may throw the breaker."
<
br />   Two blank looks.

  "It may be too much power for your circuit." I threw the breaker and wandered back to the entryway. "Wow! That’s wattage."

  It nearly blinded me.

  Candy and Hank beamed. "We love it!"

  "You know, you’re going to notice an increase in your power bill if you leave that on too often."

  They shrugged, clearly in love with their new gold and crystal concoction.

  "Iced tea?" Candy asked.

  Then we all settled down out on their deck for a little refreshment.

  "Soooo," Hank said, "We know who the hot guy at the market was. Candy?"

  Candy pulled a copy of Pacific Northwest Magazine out of a rack and slid it across the table to me.

  "Ryne Garrett, inspirational speaker and one of Seattle’s most beautiful people, three years running, that’s who." Candy grinned. "Do you watch Good Morning America or Rachael Ray or any of those shows? He’s been on all of them." She tapped the magazine. "We’ve seen him."

  Wow, how could I have missed that?

  Candy studied me, probably looking for my reaction to the news and assessing my makeup job. And wondering if she’d categorize me as an orange-yellow skin tone or a blue-red. Would a bronzer or a pink blush highlight my cheekbones best? And why would someone with my skin tones pick this shade of purple to wear?

  I was pretty good at reading people with makeovers on their minds. I tried to act nonchalant.

  Hank opened the magazine and pointed to a glossy article. "Feast your eyes on this!"

  A promotional picture of Ryne.

  Ohmygosh, he looked good! Killer smile. Great hair. Toned, buff arms. Hint of stubble. I suppressed a shudder that would have rocked me to my toes if left unchecked.