And a year and a half after she left, he was back in control of his life again. There were more women on his calendar than he could handle almost, business was booming, the store was in fine shape, and when he had woken up to see the blizzard that morning, he had decided to go in anyway. He had a lot of work to do, and he wanted to talk to Paul Berman about the store's summer plans. He had some exciting things in mind, and as he stepped off the bus at Lexington and Sixty-third, wearing a heavy English overcoat and a Russian fur cap, he walked into the store with his head bent against the wind, and then looked up at the store with pride. He was married to Wolffs, and he didn't mind a bit. She was a great old broad, and he was a success in every way. He had a lot to be thankful for, as he pressed the button for the eighth floor and shook the snow off his coat.
“Morning, Mr. Fine,” a voice said as the door closed, and he smiled. He closed his eyes for an instant before the doors opened again, thinking of all the work he had to do that day, and what he wanted to say to Paul. But he was in no way prepared for what Paul Berman was going to say to him later that morning.
Chapter 2
“Hell of a day.” Paul Berman glanced out his window at the snow still swirling outside, and knew he'd have to spend another night in town. There was no way he'd get back to Connecticut. He had spent the night before at the Pierre, and had promised his wife he wouldn't even attempt to come home in the snow. “Is there anyone in the store?” He was always amazed at the volume of their business in horrendous weather conditions. People always found a way to spend money.
Bernie nodded at him.
“Surprisingly, quite a few. And we set up two stations serving mugs of tea, coffee, and hot chocolate. It's a nice touch, whoever thought that one up. They deserve a reward for coming out in weather like this.”
“Actually, they're smart. It's a nice way to shop, with hardly anyone in the store. I prefer it myself.” The two men exchanged a smile. They had been friends for twelve years, and Bernard never lost sight of the fact that Paul had really given him his career. He had encouraged him to go to business school, and opened countless doors at Wolffs to him. More than that, he had trusted him, and given him a vote of confidence at times when no one else would have dared attempt some of Bernie's schemes, and it was no secret that, with no sons of his own, he had been grooming Bernie to be number one for years. He offered Bernie a cigar as the younger man waited to hear what he had to say. “How do you feel about the store these days?”
It was a good day for one of their talks, and Bernie smiled at him. They chatted informally like this from time to time, and their impromptu talks never failed to give birth to some marvelous ideas for Wolffs. The decision to hire a new fashion director for the store had come from their last session like this, and she was doing a fabulous job for them. They had stolen her from Saks. “I think everything is pretty much in control. Don't you, Paul?”
The older man nodded his head, not quite sure how to begin, but he had to start somewhere, he told himself. “I do. Which is why the board and I feel we can afford a somewhat unusual move.”
“Oh?” Had someone taken Bernie's pulse just then, they would have felt it escalate. Paul Berman never mentioned the board unless something pretty serious was going on.
“You know we'll be opening the San Francisco store in June.” It was still five months away and construction was in full swing. Paul and Bernie had already gone out several times and everything seemed to be moving on schedule, for the moment at least. “And we just haven't been able to come up with anyone to head the store.”
Bernie heaved a silent sigh of relief. For a moment he had thought something was going to happen to him. But he knew how important Paul felt the San Francisco market was. There was a lot of money there, and women bought high fashion as though it were pretzels being sold on the street. It was definitely time for Wolffs to get a share of that. They were well entrenched in Los Angeles, and they all agreed it was time to move north. “I keep thinking that Jane Wilson would be fabulous, but I don't think she'd leave New York.”
Paul Berman frowned. This was going to be even harder than he thought. “I don't think she'd be right. She's not strong enough. And a new store needs someone powerful, someone in control, someone who thinks on their feet and has innovative ideas. She's better suited to what's happening here.”
“Which leaves us back where we started again. What about hiring someone from outside the store? Maybe even someone from another store?”
It was time to move in for the kill. There was no avoiding it. Paul looked him squarely in the eye. “We want you, Bernard.” Their eyes met and Bernie blanched. He couldn't be serious. But the look on his face …my God … he was. But he had done his time. Three years in Chicago was enough. Wasn't it?
“Paul, I can't… I couldn't…San Francisco?” He looked genuinely shocked. “Why me?”
“Because you have all of the qualities I just described, and we need you out there. No matter how hard we look, we'll never find anyone as good as you are, and that store is important to us. You know it yourself. There's a tremendous market out there, but a touchy one, high class, high fashion, high style, and if we open our doors wrong, we'll never recover from it. Bernie”—Paul looked at him pleadingly— “you've got to help us out.” He looked at him piercingly and Bernie sank back in his chair.
“But, Paul …San Francisco? …What about my job here?” He hated to leave New York again, he was so happy where he was, doing what he did. It was really a hardship leaving now, although he didn't want to let Paul down.
“You can fly back and forth. And I can pitch in for you here. Where we need you is there.”
“For how long?”
“A year. Maybe two.” Maybe more.
Bernie was afraid of that. “That's what you said when I went to Chicago, Paul. Only I was younger then …I've earned my stripes now. I don't want to live in the boondocks again. I've been out there. I know what it's like. It's a pretty town, but it's provincial as hell.”
“So go to Los Angeles to play. Do whatever you have to do to survive out there. But please … I wouldn't ask you to do it if we had any other choice, but we just don't have anyone else. And I've got to get someone out there fast, before things start going wrong for us. Someone has got to supervise the last of the construction, make sure everything is running smoothly for the opening, set the tone of the advertising, check the promotion …” He waved an impatient hand. “I don't need to tell you what needs to be done. It's an enormous responsibility, Bernard. It's a brand-new store, and the finest one we have, aside from New York.” In a way, it was a feather in his cap, but it was one he didn't want. Not at all.
He stood up with a quiet sigh. It hadn't been such a great morning after all, and he was almost sorry he had come in now, even though it would have been handed to him eventually anyway. There was no avoiding it once Paul made up his mind, and it wouldn't be easy talking him out of it now. “I'll have to give it some thought.”
“Do that.” Their eyes met and held again. And Paul was afraid of what he saw this time.
“Maybe if I had a firm commitment that it wouldn't be for more than a year, I could live with it.” He smiled ruefully, but Paul couldn't promise him that. If the store wasn't ready to be handed over yet, then Bernard couldn't leave that soon, and it was unlikely he could, they both knew. It would take two to three years of tender loving care to get a new store settled anywhere, and Bernie just wasn't willing to commit to that long. And San Francisco didn't look all that great to him.
Paul Berman stood up and looked at him. “You give it some thought. But I want you to know my bottom line.” He wasn't going to jeopardize losing Bernie, no matter what the board said. “I don't want to lose you, Bernard.” And it was obvious that he meant every word as Bernie smiled fondly at him.
“And my bottom line is that I don't want to let you down.”
“Then we'll both make the right decision, whatever it is.” Paul Berman stretched a hand out
to Bernard and they shook hands. “Give it some very serious thought.”
“You know I will.” And he sat alone in his office after that, with the door closed, staring out at the snow, feeling as though he had been hit by a truck. He couldn't even imagine living in San Francisco now. He loved his life in New York. It would be like starting all over again, and he didn't look forward to the prospect of opening a new branch store, no matter how elite and elaborate it was. It still wasn't New York. Even with the blizzards and the filth and the intolerable heat of July, he loved it here, and the pretty little postcard town by the bay had no lure for him. It never had. He thought of Sheila with a grim smile. It was more her style than his, and he wondered if he would have to buy his own combat boots to move out there. The whole thought of it depressed him horribly, and he sounded it when his mother called.
“What's wrong, Bernard?”
“Nothing, Mom. It's just been a long day.”
“Are you sick?”
He closed his eyes, trying to sound cheerful for her. “No. I'm fine. How are you and Dad?”
“Depressed. Mrs. Goodman died. Remember her? She used to bake cookies for you when you were a little boy.” She had already been ancient then, and that was thirty years ago. It was hardly surprising that she had finally died, but his mother loved reporting things like that. And now she moved back onto him. “So what's wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong, Mom. I told you. I'm fine.”
“You don't sound fine. You sound tired and depressed.”
“I had a long day.” He said it through clenched teeth …and they're moving me to Siberia again…. “Never mind. Are we still on for dinner for your anniversary next week? Where do you want to go?”
“I don't know. Your father thought you should come here.” He knew that was a lie. His father loved to go out. He found it refreshing after the intensity of the work he did. It was his mother who always thought he should come home, as though to prove something to him.
“How about '21'? Would you like that? Or something French? Cote Basque …Grenouille? …”
“All right.” She sounded resigned. “‘21.’”
“Great. Why don't you come to my place first for a drink, at seven o'clock? And then we'll have dinner at eight.”
“Are you bringing a girl?” She sounded pained, as though it were something he did all the time, although the truth was they had met none of his lady friends since Isabelle. None of them had lasted long enough to bother with.
“Why should I bring a girl?”
“Why wouldn't you? You never introduce us to your friends. Are you ashamed of us?”
He almost groaned into the phone. “Of course not, Mom. Look, I've got to go. I'll see you next week. Seven o'clock, my place.” But he knew that repeating it wouldn't keep her from calling four more times just to make sure they were still on, that he hadn't changed the plans, that the reservation had been made, that he didn't want to bring a girl. “Give Dad my love.”
“Call him sometime …You never call anymore …” She sounded like one of those jokes, and he smiled to himself as he hung up, wondering if he would be like her one day if he ever had kids, not that there seemed to be a danger of that anyway. There had been a girl the year before who had thought she was pregnant for several days, and for a moment he had considered letting her have the child, just so that he'd have a baby after all. But it turned out she'd been wrong anyway, and they were both relieved. But it had been an interesting thought for a day or two. He didn't want children desperately anyway. He was too involved in his career, and it always seemed a shame to him not to have a baby born of love. He was still idealistic about that, and there was certainly no likely candidate at the moment to fill that bill. He sat staring at the snow, thinking of what it would be like to give up his entire social life, to stop seeing all his favorite girls. It almost made him want to cry as he left the office that night, on a night that was as cold and clear as an icy crystal bell. He didn't try to catch a bus this time, and the wind had finally died down. He walked straight to Madison Avenue, and then walked uptown, glancing at the shops as he strode past rapidly. It wasn't snowing anymore, and it looked like a fairyland, as a few people skied past, and children threw snowballs. There hadn't even been any rush hour traffic to mess it all up, and he felt better as he walked into his house and rode the elevator upstairs. It was a hideous thought leaving New York now. He couldn't even imagine it. But he couldn't think of a way out. Unless he quit, and he didn't want to do that. There was no way out for him, he realized, as his heart seemed to fall against his ribs. No way out at all for him.
Chapter 3
“You're going where?” His mother stared at him over her vi-chyssoise, and she seemed not to understand, as though he had said something truly ridiculous. Like he was joining a nudist colony, or having a sex change. “Are they firing you, or just demoting you?”
He appreciated the vote of confidence, but that was typical. “Neither one, Mom. They're asking me to manage the new San Francisco store. It's the most important store we have, aside from New York.” He wondered why he was trying to sell it to her, except that he was still trying to sell it to himself. He had told Paul after two days, and he had been depressed about it ever since. They had given him a phenomenal raise, and Berman had reminded him that he would be running Wolffs himself one day. Perhaps not long after he returned to New York. And more important, he knew that Paul Berman was grateful to him, but still it was hard to take, and he wasn't looking forward to it. He had decided to keep his apartment anyway and sublet it for a year or two and just take something temporary in San Francisco. He had already told Paul that he wanted to try to be back in New York in a year. And they hadn't promised him anything, but he knew they would try. And even if it was eighteen months, he'd survive. Anything more than that was questionable, but he didn't say that to his mother now.
“But San Francisco? They're all hippies out there. Do they even wear clothes?”
He smiled. “They do. Very expensive ones in fact. You'll have to come and see for yourself.” He smiled at both of them. “Do you want to come to the opening?”
She looked as though he had invited her to a funeral. “We might. When is it?”
“In June.” He knew they had nothing to do then. They were going to Europe in July, but they had plenty of time to come out before that.
“I don't know. We'll have to see. Your father's schedule …” He was always the fall guy for her moods, but he never seemed to mind, although he looked at his son with concern as they sat at “21.” It was one of the rare moments his father seemed relaxed and not preoccupied by his work.
“Is it really a step up for you, son?”
“It is, Dad.” He answered him honestly. “It's a very prestigious job and Paul Berman and the board asked me to do it personally. But I have to admit”—he smiled ruefully—“I'd rather be in New York.”
“Are you involved with someone?” His mother leaned across the table, as though asking him something intensely personal, and Bernie laughed.
“No, Mom. I'm not. I just like New York. I love it in fact. But I'm hoping to get back in less than eighteen months. I can live with that. And there are worse cities than San Francisco, I guess.” Although, at the moment, he couldn't think of one. He finished his drink and decided to be philosophical. “Hell, it could be Cleveland for chrissake, or Miami, or Detroit …not that there's anything wrong with them, but they ain't New York.” He smiled at them ruefully.
“They say San Francisco is crawling with homosexuals.” The Voice of Doom spoke up with an anguished look at her only son.
“I think I can take care of myself, Mom.” And then he looked at both of them. “I'm going to miss you both.”
“Won't you come back here at all?” There were tears in her eyes and he almost felt sorry for her, except that she cried so much when it was useful to her that he was less moved than he might have been otherwise.
He patted her hand. “I'll be back and fort
h a lot. But the fact is I'll be living there. You'll just have to come out. And I really want you to come to the opening. It's going to be a beautiful store.”
He kept telling himself that as he packed his things in early February, and said goodbye to his friends, and had a last dinner with Paul in New York. And on Valentine's Day, only three weeks after they'd offered him the job, he was on a plane flying to San Francisco, wondering what he had done to himself, and thinking that maybe he should have quit after all. But as they left New York, a fresh blizzard began, and as they landed in San Francisco at two in the afternoon, the sun was shining, the air was warm, and the breezes were gentle. There were flowers in bloom, and it felt like New York in May or June. And he was suddenly glad he'd come, for a while anyway. At least the weather was nice, that was something to be pleased about. And his room at the Huntington was extremely pleasant too.
Fine Things Page 4
