The Penny Pinchers Club

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  This was our gravest shame, that we’d never socked away money like other parents had—our own included. Not that we didn’t try. We did. Just that whenever an unexpected expense arose—car repairs, new flashing for the roof, a new furnace—we dipped into that fund. Then, as we got closer to college and saw tuition rise to $40,000 and above, we figured, screw it. What middle-class family already absorbing the costs of raising kids was able to save $320,000 along with plowing money into an IRA for retirement?

  “There’s no point in saving money for college,” Griff said, far more somber than he’d been minutes before when he was laughing at my penny-pinching plan. “It’s a joke. The schools only count it against you when they’re putting together their financial aid, anyway.”

  “But all my friends have college savings plans. Sylvie’s parents started it when they found out they were pregnant with her. That’s how much they cared.”

  We didn’t know what to say. When I was pregnant with Laura, we were having enough struggles trying to pay the rent while Griff finished up his PhD.

  “Don’t worry about it, sweetie,” he said, giving her a fatherly pat on the back. “This is your mother’s and my problem, not yours.”

  I loved Griff at that moment. I loved him because he was calm and in control—and he was my ally in the strange war that occasionally erupts between parents and their teenage children. It was too bad he wanted out when our best years were ahead, just the two of us. At last.

  “Besides, you shouldn’t have everything handed to you, kiddo.” I told her about Sherise, who’d awakened to a cruel reality when she discovered in her twenties that she needed to support herself instead of forever relying on her parents.

  “I have a job, Mom.”

  The guilt I felt when she said that made me want to crawl under a rock.

  “Good. ’Cause you’ll need every dime.”

  Turning to me, Griff said, “Kat, don’t you think we should talk about this in private?”

  Griff had been raised in one of those starched families where money was never discussed, like sex and religion. But having had my eyes opened by Sherise’s life story, I disagreed.

  “Actually, I think Laura needs to understand money and she needs to hear this.” I picked the venti iced mocha out of her hands. “You spent at least five bucks on this drink. That’s a waste.”

  “It’s my own money,” she protested.

  “Exactly. Which is why you need to hear what I have to say. You, too, Griff.”

  I could tell by the way the lines were creasing between his brows that my abrupt bossiness had him concerned. Money was our marital bogeyman and he had been conditioned, as had I, to avoid addressing it whenever possible.

  “Geesh, Kat. I’ve had one hell of a shitty day. That’s why I came home early, to relax. Can’t this wait?”

  “No, it can’t, because there’s something I’ve needed to say for a long, long time.” I took a deep breath. Laura sat on the couch, hands clasped in her lap, her mouth open. “I’m . . . sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Griff shrugged. “What are you sorry for? Our decision not to save for Laura’s college was mutual.”

  Laura turned to him. “You made a decision not to save for college? I mean . . . that was something you did intentionally so, what . . . so you could redo the basement? I thought you lost money in the market crash like everyone else.”

  “That, too.” Griff winced. This conversation was killing him.

  I wanted to tell her now was not the time, that there were moments when children were better not seen and heard, but I figured I’d already earned enough strikes as a bad parent that afternoon. “It has nothing to do with your college saving, at least not directly. My apology is directed at Griff.” I pointed to him. “Your father.”

  He said, “Really?”

  “I’m sorry I’ve been such a careless spender. But mostly, I’m sorry to have burdened you with handling all the finances and for behaving like a baby when you grilled me about the Visa bill.”

  “Wow.” Laura reached for her mocha and took a slurp. “Never thought I’d live in this house long enough to see this.”

  “I know I’ve spent a lot while you’ve scrimped to offset my costs. I know that, coming home today and seeing the pressure cooker and new bread maker . . .”

  “You bought a bread maker? Bread costs a buck fifty a loaf! Why would you need a machine?” He got up and went to the bread maker, turned it around, and frowned. “It’s huge and hideous and it’ll clutter up our kitchen until we finally throw it away, like that damned chiminea. How much did it cost?”

  I was hurt. I so wanted him to be grateful for my apology and proud that I was at last taking control.

  “Two hundred, but . . .”

  “Two hundred bucks? That’s your idea of a penny-pinching program?”

  “For your information, a loaf of good bread costs more like three dollars, and, yes, that’s my idea of saving. You’ll see.”

  I had to remember not to let my emotions get the better of me, to heed Sherise’s words that I need to separate feelings from the facts.

  “I know I’ve given you every reason to doubt my intentions, Griff, but what I’ve been trying to tell you is I’ve joined a group, Libby’s group, the Rocky River Penny Pinchers. You know, the ones who meet in the basement of the library. And for the first time I think I have a shot at becoming frugal.”

  He remained impassive.

  “By the group’s calculations, if I cancel cable, sell my car, and slash our grocery bills plus some other adjustments, we really could save $500 a week. It’ll take some hard work on our part”—I poked my head into the living room where Laura was eavesdropping—“on all our parts. No more takeout. No more shopping for entertainment. We can do something else, like . . . go on bike rides. Or a walk in the woods. A whole-day hike, even. That doesn’t cost much.”

  He leaned over and brushed the back of his hand to my forehead. “Are you well?”

  “A walk in the woods is a thousand times more romantic than cruising Bridgewater Commons, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You’re a woman after my own heart.” There was a glint of love in his eyes, a twinkle I hadn’t seen in a while.

  Could this work?

  “That’s all very fine and good,” Laura said, joining us in the kitchen. “But it doesn’t explain how you guys are going to pay for my college.”

  Ignoring her, Griff said, “Hold on. What group?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You said by the group’s calculations we could save such and such.” He shifted feet. “You’re not referring to that collection of oddballs in the house the other day.”

  “That’s what she just said, that she joined Libby’s group, the Penny Pinchers.” Laura tapped her temple.

  He said, “I thought you refused to go to those meetings. I thought you said clipping coupons and saving ten cents on gas was a waste of time better put to use earning money.”

  “Yeah, well. Things change.” I bit my lip, praying he wouldn’t ask why things change. But what he said next was much worse.

  “Please tell me those women weren’t in the basement going over our bills.” His expression was growing dark. “Because when I went down there later that day, everything was organized. I knew you hadn’t done it—since you won’t read a bill to save your life. But . . .”

  “Now I do.”

  “What?”

  “I go through the bills . . .” I paused, anticipating the blow. “Now that I have the Penny Pinchers for support.”

  “Which is your way of saying they did.” He paced to the other end of the kitchen. “They did go through our stuff. Oh, shit.” He clenched his jaw. “Tell me, at least, that you did not let them go into my computer and . . .”

  “Yes.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “But don’t worry. These are good, upstanding people. They never would have . . .”

  “Libby told me one of them was a convicted embezzler.” Laura sucked on her straw.

>   Griff smacked his head. “A convicted embezzler? You allowed a convicted embezzler access to my bank account? My social security number? Your social security number? Even Laura’s? In this age of identity theft, do you know what kind of risk you’ve exposed us to?”

  This was bad. This was really, really bad. I was even mad at myself and I was on my side. Griff was right, what had I been thinking?

  “Look. It was a mistake. I just got caught up in the moment.”

  He clutched the kitchen counter, fuming.

  “Well, I’m gone.” Laura spun on her heel and headed up the stairs. “Call me when the shouting’s over.”

  After she was out of earshot I said in a low, calm voice. “We’re in $37,000 of debt, Griff. Pardon me if I’m a bit freaked out.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “I know that’s my fault. I know that had you never married me”—I was skating close to the edge here—“you never would have found yourself immersed in such expenses. That’s why I joined the Penny Pinchers and . . .”

  His hand reached out for mine and, still unable to meet my eyes, he said gruffly, “No, Kat. It’s my fault. I’ve studied every aspect of economics, I pass myself off as an authority on monetary policy when the reality is I can’t even balance my family finances.”

  My heart went out to him, in such pain and shame. I wanted to hug him and come clean about it all—the emails, Toni, the divorce plans. But something held me back.

  “Plenty of doctors drink and smoke and ride bikes without their helmets,” I said, trying to make light of this. “Just because you have a higher degree in a certain subject doesn’t mean you’re not a human being.” I gave his hand a reassuring tug. “You did everything you could, Griff, to keep this family fiscally afloat.”

  “Not everything.” He dropped my hand and studied the calendar by the refrigerator. “I haven’t made enough money, for starters.”

  Talk about bringing the elephant into the room. This was almost a full-blown circus. I wanted to tell him how impressed I was that he could admit this out loud and how it didn’t matter how much money he made because we’re more than the numbers on our paychecks. However, both statements would have been exactly the opposite of what he wanted to hear.

  “So what?” I shrugged. “The alternative—working for some D.C. think tank or a corporation—would have made you miserable. Probably, we would have gotten divorced long ago. Besides, where in the marital rule book does it say the husband should have to make all the money? It’s not like I’m an incompetent bimbo.”

  He didn’t even smile at bimbo, one of his favorite words. “You know how it is, Kat.” He flicked through the calendar pages, scrutinizing December with its snowcapped fir trees. “It’s a male thing.”

  “Yeah. Like athlete’s foot. Though you might be happy to know I read National Geographic last week and I learned that the Stone Age is over. Anyway, we’ll get through it because we love each other . . . remember? For richer, for poorer?”

  He lifted his gaze. In his eyes, I recognized a tempest of worry and disappointment. “Your mother is right. You would have been better off marrying Ian what’s his name.”

  A lump came to my throat. He didn’t say he loved me back. “First of all,” I replied, sticking with my resolve to keep it light, “his name was Liam—Liam Novak.” Griff never could get it right. “And, you’re wrong. I shouldn’t have married him.”

  “You’d have been better off. You wouldn’t be fighting with your husband in an outdated kitchen trying to figure out if you can bake enough bread to pay off $37,000 in debt.”

  I chose to pass on that. “Secondly, the correct response when your wife says you’ll get through this together because you love each other is, ‘You’re right, honey. I do love you and where there’s love, there’s hope.’”

  Again, no smile. I was beginning to get nervous, even more so when he said, “You know, this might not be the most propitious moment for me to bring this up. . . .”

  Oh, god, here it comes if he’s using words like propitious, I thought. Just say you love me. I’ll forget everything I read in your emails. I don’t need the details, only the happy ending.

  “But since we’re experiencing an episode of brutal honesty . . .”

  Brutal? He used the word brutal?

  “I have to admit to having doubts. . . .”

  My nails dug into the underside of the kitchen counter. The pain was excruciating.

  “Mom?” Laura opened the swinging door and held up a phone. “It’s for you. Chloe. She called when I was on the other line.”

  I practically jumped to get it, so glad to be spared Griff’s confession that I treated Chloe like I was on death row and she was the governor who’d just arrived with a reprieve. “I didn’t even hear it ring,” I chirped giddily, taking the phone and seeking the shelter of my living room, my heart still beating rapidly from the close call with Griff. “Chloe?”

  She sounded breathless. “You’ll never guess who just bought Macalester House from the university. You know the mansion I’m talking about, right? That fabulous old place with the eight fireplaces and plaster walls and hand-crafted molding from England.”

  Geesh. Could this woman have any worse timing? Here I was getting down to the nitty-gritty of my finances and marriage with my husband, who was a hair’s breadth away from admitting he had doubts about our marriage, and she called to gossip.

  “Liam Novak.”

  Liam? It was like the universe had been eavesdropping on my life. What were the odds that within minutes of Griff mentioning my ex for the first time in years, I would receive a call from Chloe about the exact same man?

  “You remember him, don’t you?” she asked stupidly.

  “Yes, Chloe. Of course. Liam and I were almost married.” I looked up to find Griff leaning against the doorjamb, listening. “But,” I added hastily for his sake, “I haven’t spoken to him in, gosh, forever.”

  “Well, he’s gotten a divorce and he’s moved back to Princeton.” She was babbling a mile a minute, not hearing one word I was saying. “That house he bought is a grand old place, listed on the Historical Register, et cetera, et cetera. But the university’s been using it as an inn for visiting alumni and, well, let’s just say their interior decorating concerns ran more to durability than to authenticity.”

  Oh, no. I knew where she was going with this.

  “We have got to be the ones to get that contract.” Suddenly, she was being inclusive.

  “You mean I’ve got to be the one to get that contract.”

  “You? Me? What does it matter. We’re a team. Though it does make sense for you to make the first move. I mean, he did once love you madly.”

  I was stuck. To say no immediately would have only incurred more breathy pleading from Chloe. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Is that all? I’d have expected you to be more enthusiastic than that, Kat.”

  Here came the manipulation. . . .

  “Do you know how many interior designers have gone under in this economy? Every day Scotty Boy says, ‘Chloe, it’s not practical to keep Kat. The business can’t afford it.’ But do you know what I say to him?”

  Kat is my girl Friday. I couldn’t live without her.

  “I tell him,‘Kat is my girl Friday. I couldn’t live without her.’ And do you know why?”

  “Because I do everything around the office and then some?”

  “Very funny. No. Because you’re loyal, Kat. You’ve been with me longer than your husband and I know as sure as my name is Chloe Sykes . . .”

  Which it wasn’t.

  “. . . that you would never, ever in a million years go behind my back or try to find a job with someone else.”

  I thought of my first client, Madeleine Granville, and Elaine’s encouragement to break out on my own and I felt the slightest pinch of guilt.

  “Ipso facto,” she added,“I know you would do everything in your power to keep this little boutique of ours afloat. Am I rig
ht?”

  “Of course you are, Chloe. You’re always right.”

  “Good. Then I’ll assume you’ll call Liam this week.”

  Again, I told her I’d see what I could do. I hung up and faced Griff.

  After a second he said, “Liam Novak, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  “To think we were just talking about him. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

  “Kind of. He bought a new house and Chloe wants his business. That’s all. Oh, and”—I played with the tassel on one of our couch pillows—“he just got a divorce.”

  “I see.” The muscle in the back of his jaw twitched. “So what are you going to do? I mean, about getting him as a client.”

  I said,“We’ve got $37,000 in debt and a daughter to send through college, Griff. I’m going to do whatever the hell it takes.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I should have figured Chloe would be too determined to abandon Liam when I kept “forgetting” to call him. But I never would have expected her to pull the crafty stunt she did three weeks later while I was on a penny-pinching expedition for discount toiletries.

  Shopping with the Penny Pinchers was unlike any of my many, many previous retail experiences. They did everything backward. Instead of drawing up weekly menus and then buying ingredients accordingly, they culled through store fliers to find what was on sale and built menus around those. Monthly menus often involving chicken legs or beans that they’d purchased in huge quantities at a warehouse store.

  Buying in bulk—what heretofore had seemed to me to be a massive waste—was the key, Opal claimed, to serious grocery store savings. The only problem was the bulk. After throwing out freezer-burned ground beef she’d bought on sale at Costco one day, she searched for a group with whom to share her bulk purchases and found the Penny Pinchers. They’ve been a team ever since.

  On our most recent trip to Costco, for example, we purchased two fifty-pound boxes of chicken parts at an irresistible sixty cents a pound. Individually, one hundred pounds of thighs and wings would have been a disaster even with the sixteen-cubic-foot freezer Steve snagged for me off Craigslist. However, as a group, each of us was able to take home around sixteen pounds of chicken. (As a “noncon sumer,” Wade never bought—he foraged.) Perfect for about five dinners at about $1.80 each.