Wave Good-Bye Read Free Page A

school after high school. I also have experience in marketing small firms like yours. I went back to GSU and got my degree in marketing.”
    That was impressive. I went to UGA for two years, hopped from subject to subject, before dropping out.
    “First I’ll compile an e-mail list of your customers.” Lisa ticked off a to-do list on her fingers. “Next I’ll separate them into categories. All the facial customers go in one group, the mani and pedi customers in another, and so on. Last but not least, I’ll craft messages that appeal to them and the services they use. Finally, I’ll send them e-mail blasts and check the click-through numbers.”
    “I’m not sure that our customers will appreciate getting spam from us,” said Mom. She didn’t know much about social media, but she recently learned to use Outlook and retrieve her e-mails.
    “You got that right,” said Althea, looking lovely in the dashiki she belted over black tights with a pair of ballet flats. “Kwasi gets two hundred e-mails a day. He swears he’s getting carpal tunnel from hitting the delete key over and over.”
    Ever since she started seeing Dr. Kwasi Yarrow, a professor over at Georgia Coastal College, her conversations are sprinkled with “Kwasi this” and “Kwasi that.” The way she goes on about him, you’d think she was fourteen instead of sixty-three. But maybe I’m just jealous. I’ve been seeing Marty Shears, a political reporter I met when he worked for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Since then, he’d taken a job at the Washington Post up in DC. Carrying on a long-distance romance is the pits.
    Lisa defended her plan. “When it’s a service peoplewant, when they’ve given you their e-mail addresses to stay in touch, it’s not spam.”
    “I doubt I can afford your services,” said Mom, eying Lisa’s well-tailored gabardine suit. I noticed how sleek her hair was. Either someone else was giving her a great blowout, or she’d mastered the skill of doing it herself.
    “Actually, I’m incredibly reasonable.” Lisa named a figure so low it shocked me.
    Mom still wasn’t convinced, but I nagged her. I called Lisa’s references, and they had glowing comments about her work. Finally Mom phoned Lisa and signed on. For a month and a half, Lisa entered all our customer data into her computer. We’ve always kept good records, filling out a card for each customer and taking notes on our services. Now Lisa transferred all that into a spreadsheet.
    Watching her attack the mountain of forms, day after day, I couldn’t believe her industry. Nor could I understand why she charged us such a piddling amount. She worked hour after hour, making less than minimum wage. But she never complained. Never seemed anything but dedicated.
    “Once you have all that data, what do you plan to do with it?” asked Mom one day as she looked over Lisa’s shoulder.
    “We’ll run a few test messages to determine the bounces.”
    “Bounces?”
    Lisa nodded. “Addresses that are wrong, no longer current, or no longer in service. By running a test message, we clean up the list. Think of it like sending out your Christmas newsletter. A few come back, right? Then you call and find out your friend has moved. This is the same procedure, but we do it through e-mail.”
    She sent the test message. Made a few calls. And disappeared.
    “At least she didn’t charge us much.” Mom shruggedand spread her hands wide in a “what are you going to do” gesture.
    Now we knew why. Lisa had scammed us. She’d hired on for the sole purpose of stealing our customer list. Once she finished the job, she left. The piddling amount we paid her would have been chicken feed compared to what Snippets offered her to steal our customers out from under us.
    “So that’s how they knew how to reach our clients,” mused Althea. “And what to suggest for them.”
    Mom pulled off her rimless glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Excuse me,” she said, “I need