He’s still turning the sleeve up to make a cuff, observing my stitching. He straightens the sleeve. “Did you …?”
“Try it on,” I say.
He does.
“How does it feel?”
My heart is pounding. Looking at Hampton now, he doesn’t seem nearly as intimidating or even arrogant as he did before. Confusion has rendered him helpless. Until he understands what odd thing has happened, he can’t yell, blame, or act like an asswipe.
“Good.”
“Better?”
He shifts. Tries the sleeves. Adjusts the collar. Trying, desperately, to see what’s different. “Yes. But … The sleeve?”
The coat moves on Hampton’s frame. I’ve guessed his chest measurement perfectly. It sits better now, and you can’t even see where I let it out, or how much.
Hampton took longer than he’d said, showing up a little over two and a half hours later. After talking with my father, I had two full hours to work. I must’ve done a day’s worth of work in that time.
I fixed the sleeve first, improving the seam and securing it the way the first tailor should have if he’d been paying attention.
Then I took my seam-ripper to the lining and fixed half of it before seeing the puckered seam near the right armpit — the one spot where I’d noticed a hiccup when Hampton moved, where it didn’t quite slide right.
On impulse, I ripped that seam, too, then let out the little bit of extra fabric that had been left, trying to guess at Hampton’s chest while trying my best not to think of the way it looks bare, in the beach photos I’ve seen in magazines.
I put the lining in correctly upon reassembly, taking care to square the pattern. Then with my remaining time, I re-did the button shanks (which were weak) and re-stitched the buttonholes (which had begun to unravel).
“You did something,” he says.
I gauge the way he’s studying me. Only now do I realize the weight of my gamble. I don’t have thousands of extra dollars lying around, should he decide to accuse me of ruining his blazer. Altering a garment when asked is one thing, but I’ve done it on my own. Like a rogue tailor, sneaking into an enemy’s house at night to mend his uneven hems.
But his eyes are clear. His look is curious, not accusatory. Tentatively satisfied, not angry — and pleasantly surprised, despite his best intentions.
“I adjusted the fit where the bottom of the sleeve meets the chest.” I reach out, touch the jacket, and notice the firmness of Hampton beneath. “Here.”
“Why?”
“The fabric was bunching when you lifted your arm.”
“It’s better,” he says. “A lot better. I just assumed that’s how it was supposed to move.”
I take him by his sides, then turn him like a life-sized doll. He faces his reflection, and I pluck at the altered area, enjoying my chance to pose him despite my pride’s insistence that I loathe it.
“It falls better, too. See this line? It was like this before.” I pinch the fabric to mimic the old cut. A subtle difference, until you see it side-by-side.”
“But why? I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“Because it was wrong.”
He looks at me like an alien creature. I could explain my perfectionism, but I won’t, not if I don’t have to. It’s like OCD. Or, as my father calls it, “the common sense to know that jobs should be done right.”
I move behind Hampton, take the jacket by the collar, and lower it to encourage him to slip it back off. I clear a space and lay it flat, then show him the seam from the inside. If you look closely, you can see the old line of thread holes and the way the lining wants to lay in its old crease.
“I just let this out a little. And while I was at it, I re-sewed the lining. See here? The pattern didn’t used to line up.”
Hampton nods; I showed this to him before when it was wrong.
“And remember the way the buttonholes had some loose, loopy threads? Look here.” I point. And point. “I also tightened the shanks.”
“The what?”
“On the buttons.” I rush on. This last bit is maybe the most dangerous because it can’t be changed back. But I had some time and took a risk. “And this. Do you see it?”
Hampton squints. I did my work well; it’s almost invisible on the lapel.
“There’s a hole there. Was it there before?”
“No.”
“You cut a hole in my lapel?”
He sounds more inquisitive than angry.
“It’s a boutonniere hole. Your jacket didn’t have one.”
“I don’t wear boutonnieres.”
“You don’t need to. But you should have the hole.”
“Why?”
“Because if you ever need to wear a boutonniere, you’ll have it. But there’s another reason. One I’m not sure you’ll get.”
He could be offended, but by now he seems stunned enough to smile.
And his smile? It’s surprisingly nice.
“What’s the reason?”
“Because on a formal jacket this fine …” I hesitate but decide not to elaborate: this fine if it’s done well. “… the missing hole suggests an inferior quality. It suggests that a maker lacks attention to detail — and that because the hole isn’t present or done well, other details might also be shoddy.”
Hampton puts the jacket back on. Shrugs to feel the fit. Smiles a little.
“You still haven’t told me why you did all of this.”
“I had to,” I tell him, “or it wouldn’t be right.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
HAMPTON
I’M NOT SURE HOW TO react.
I walked in with a straight back and stiffened resolve. Her going above and beyond has me at a loss. I expected a cold exchange at best, another bitchy bickering match at worst.
Not this. And I don’t know what’s motivated the change.
This woman clearly doesn’t like me, though I’m not sure why. While Carlo the Realtor took Mateo and me through the upper floors of the Billings & Pile, detailing specs and schematics, my mind returned to our encounter. She insulted my Barcelona tailor, the jacket, and hence me. Although she wasn’t actually insulting anything. She was reacting. I responded, and the bitchiness started. But the vibe in the room grew much worse when I mentioned my company.
You’re that Hampton Brooks?
Like she knows me, knows all about me. Like I was squarely on her radar before I walked in the door, and it only took a few exchanges for the tumblers to click into place. Then she realized who I was and the wall of ice descended. I might as well have said I was Hitler. I own some camps in Poland; do you know them?
Or was I imagining things?
More than once — okay, more than five times — Mateo or the realtor said my name and pulled my attention back to our talks. I was the one who found the Billings & Pile location. I was the sole person on the board who thought building a factory in the States was worth pursuing. Mateo is here only in trade so that he can drone on and on about his mountain. If I couldn’t focus on what Carlo was telling me about the old plant, why were we even having the discussion?
Hampton. Earth to Hampton.
Mateo, snapping his fingers at my wandering mind, trying to figure out what happened between the bitchy tailor and me. I shouldn’t care. If she thinks I’m an ass, that’s her business. Since when do I care what anyone thinks? I’m making millions upon millions of customers happy. I’m creating jobs — some of them even here in America, despite my factories abroad. I’m stimulating the economy. I know who I am, and I’ve always believed in my mission. Or my business, if “mission” is too grand a word.
Now this girl? This Stacy?
She strikes me as the kind of person who has a mission.
Simple sundress, like something rescued from a Salvation Army store and kept nice, tailored to hug her body as if it were made for her. Or maybe something she made for herself? Little hippie purse, the kind that people who hate big business argue is “sustainable.” H
er sun-kissed hair in long, slow waves, rolling across her forehead, brushing her shoulders. Probably uses a non-polluting shampoo. And conditioner. And the little lines at the side of her brown eyes, at her young age? Probably laughs and smiles all the damn time.
Maybe that’s why she doesn’t like me. Maybe I’m too serious.
And again, Mateo would say, “Are you listening, Hampton?” as Carlo looked on, dumbfounded by my lack of attention.
I put too much thought into what I’d say to Stacy the Stitcher if she started bitching again. I had all sorts of responses ready. I was prepared for anything but her generosity. Looking at the jacket, hating how easily I can see and feel that it is much better now, I ask her again, “Why did you do this?”
She’s proud. I can tell she likes the way my jacket came out, but she doesn’t want me to see that she’s pleased. She’s holding back, staying professional. Distant.
“It needed doing.”
“But I didn’t ask you to do it.”
“It still needed doing.”
“I gave you no permission to alter my blazer.”
We pause. There’s a tense moment I can’t hold. I sigh and add, “… but I have to admit it feels a lot better.”
Stacy can’t hold what comes next: an exhale. She looks relieved.
“How much do I owe you?” I ask.
“Thirty dollars.”
“For all of this?”
“No, just to fix the sleeve.”
“But —”
“As you said,” she says, “you didn’t ask me to do this.”
I take another few seconds to process what she’s said. What she’s done. She meets a man who irks her, and whose opinions on clothing seem to offend her. She spars with him, and the claws threaten to come out. In response, she does a lot of work for him for free. I may not have realized what my jacket required, but I know what my guy in New York would have charged. This is hundreds of dollars of work.
I take her in. She seems small to me. Slight frame; round, innocent face. She seems intimidated but unwilling to flinch. And I realize: she did this because a clothier’s version of compulsion made her. I might not have deserved her time and attention, but my jacket did.
She’s waiting for my response. For my thirty dollars.
“How would you like a job?” I ask.
“What kind of job? More clothes to mend?”
“A job with my company.”
“I have a job,” she scoffs.
“Not like that. This would be freelance.”
“No thank you.”
“Expendable Chic is looking to expand. We’re growing.” I leap. What the hell, this is my company. “Building domestic factories for an all-American line.”
“Thanks, but—”
“I need new designs. I have an internal team of designers, but this calls for something fresh.”
“You don’t even know me.”
Oh, but I think I do. One look at this girl — at her shop — and I think I know her very well. Probably grew up here in Williamsville. Maybe right here, in this building. Probably hasn’t traveled. Her world is this little nothing on the map. She thinks everyone everywhere greets each other by first name. She does jobs just because, knowing that what comes around goes around. Probably lost her virginity to her high school boyfriend — not a jock for this girl, but someone tall and broad-shouldered, with a nickname like Alfie. I’ve been thinking about her plenty, crafting an imaginary backstory. All damn afternoon, because of how much she annoyed me.
“I know your work.”
“It was just one job,” she says, turning away. But I can tell this is her tender spot. Complimenting her work with clothes is the way to make her blush. I like the effect. I want to say more, see more. I want to see her smile. See her attention on me, flattered by me, interested in me. It’s strange. I work with so many yes-people. This girl told me no. Stood up to me.
She’s a challenge, and one I want to win.
“Have you tried designing clothes, in addition to fixing them?”
“A little.”
“Can I see your designs?”
“I’m sorry. But no.”
“I want to have my office send you some ideas. Pieces we’re interested in. Interpret them however you’d like. It’s spec work, with no guarantee they’d be made. But we’ll pay you either way.”
“No thank you.”
She’s moving to the register, ringing up my paltry repair fee. Wanting to end this and get rid of me.
“Just rough sketches. Nothing super polished.”
“I’m not interested.”
“I’ll pay five thousand dollars per sketch.”
She hesitates. She’s probably never been paid for her ideas, and I’m prepared to hand her twenty grand for what might be a week’s worth of work. It’s nothing to Expendable Chic because we’d need to hire new designers, likely on salary, to do the same job for anything new. Our current people are maxed. This saves me money and makes her feel rich.
But, more firmly: “No, Mr. Brooks.”
“Why not?”
“Why would you want me to?”
“Because you do good work.”
“Lots of people do good work.”
“You won’t abide bad work. Quality is part of your value system.”
“That’s right; it is.”
“So, what do you say?”
“My answer was no.”
“But if—”
“Your company is the opposite of quality! You’d change what I gave you and you’d make it cheap!”
Pause.
“So, you do know Expendable Chic.”
Her composure is gone. “Of course I do. I know the way you’re clotting landfills. The way your factories churn billions of microfibers into the waterways and oceans. You don’t sell shirts for four dollars without running sweatshops!”
“I think you’re ill-informed. Expendable Chic is responsible for putting billions of dollars into—”
“Your pockets?”
The air seems hot. Her long throat bobs with anger, smooth and beautiful, taut with tendons.
“Your company’s name says it all. Expendable. What I do is the opposite. I couldn’t leave your jacket alone. It was too poorly made. You’d have tired of it without even knowing why. You just wouldn’t want to wear it anymore. You’d throw it out.” She takes a step closer to me. “I made it less expendable.”
I want to spit back. Throw some punches. Hurl my philanthropy back in her face. People like her have starry-eyed perceptions, forcing them to see the entire world in black and white. Gandhi and Greenpeace are good; big business and Expendable Chic are bad. The truth is never so clear.
I keep my voice low. I hold my irritation in check, focusing on her vulnerability.
She’s only a girl.
With her lofty, holier-than-thou ideals.
Living in this small town, wearing simple sundresses with her flaxen hair.
Part of me wants to crush her.
But against my will, I find I admire her spirit too much to do so.
“Then do that,” I say. “When you submit your sketches, draw them the way you want them made — right down to the sturdy stitching. Design them to be non-expendable.”
She opens her mouth. I cut her off.
“It’s Stacy, right?”
“Y-yes.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Grace. Why?”
Because I’m getting my checkbook out.
Writing a check.
And placing it on the counter beside her register, atop a twenty-dollar bill and a ten.
Her eyes tick down, looking at it even as her chest rises and falls.
The check is for twenty thousand dollars.
“I’ll be back in two weeks, to see about an acquisition,” I say. “I look forward to seeing what you come up with.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
STACY
MY PHONE RINGS. NOT MY cell, but the one besi
de the register at The Perfect Fit.
“Is this Stacy?”
“Yes. How can I help you?”
“Did you deposit your check?”
“What ch—” But now I remember. “Mr. Brooks?”
“Did you deposit it?”
“No. I assumed I should wait until the sketches were done and approved.”
“Approval isn’t a consideration, and I was paying in advance. But don’t deposit it.”
“So it’s not payment in advance?”
He’s contradicting himself, or maybe I heard wrong. There’s a lot of white noise on the line, like analog static. Then something else — a short, low clunk of machinery, followed by another. Where is he, one of his factories?
“Are you at the shop right now?”
“You called me; you should know.”
“That’s right. So few people have landlines these days. Can you look outside?”
“Of course I …” But duh, he wants me to. This isn’t a question of raw ability. He’s speaking too fast. Hampton has the rapid, impatient clip of a New Yorker. He wants his espresso now, stat, whereas I’m used to talking to Maude while the machine is heating up.
I go to the window. There’s a big black car parked outside.
“I sent a car. Is it there?”
“You sent a car for me? Why?”
“I need you to meet me at the airport.”
“The airport in Williamsville?”
“Of course. That’s why I sent a car.”
“I can drive, you know.” And I wonder why I skipped past the why and went right to figuring out my means of travel. Like I was sitting here waiting for this out-of-the-blue call when I very much wasn’t. I was noodling with pencil on paper, sketching Hampton’s face. Probably because he’s such an asshole, and I hate him so much. That’s why I keep seeing him when I close my eyes. That’s probably why I’ve also been checking out his photos. For a billionaire, the guy spends a lot of time at the beach. And apparently rock climbing. I didn’t know billionaires climbed rocks, but the evidence is right there on my Forage Images search.
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