I remember the way Stacy looked at my torn blazer before she knew I was a bastard. I remember the slight smile and sympathetic tone that annoyed me so much. A big city tailor wouldn’t look at a rip in that way. He’d tsk and shake his head, probably chide me for being so careless. Then he’d fix the rip and charge me a ton.
But Stacy hadn’t done that. She’d eyed my blazer with something like sympathy. Like she felt sorry for the garment, and maybe for me. Her eyes had said, I’m a nice person; I promise to take good care of it for you; everything will be fine. I’d been so annoyed— by Carlo and his folksy manner, by the languid pace of Williamsville — that I’d found her sympathy obnoxious. I didn’t want some air-headed tailor in a backward town feeling sorry for me at all.
I hear that energy now, in the voice Stacy uses to greet her customers.
Thanks for calling The Perfect Fit and have a wonderful day.
Nobody talks like that and means it. Not in my world. Only in places like Williamsville, where progress moves backward, and Norman Rockwell would feel perfectly at home.
I raise the phone again. My finger is hovering when Gloria peeks out.
“Hampton, you coming?”
I sigh. “Yes. Sorry.”
Inside the room is my usual board, minus Mateo. He’s in Colorado again, still banging his head against his mountain deal. I guess he’s having trouble getting the old guy to sell, now that the daughter is sticking her face into the whole affair. I don’t want to know this, and don’t care. But I know because Mateo is flying me out there on Friday. Again.
“Hampton?” Gloria asks.
“I’m coming.”
“You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine.”
She doesn’t believe me. Gloria glances back into the room, then again at me. I know what she’s about to propose. She’s going to suggest we reschedule the Pillar meeting because I look like shit — something I inadvertently verified when I ran to the restroom and saw the hollow-eyed ghoul staring back at me.
But I don’t want to reschedule. I just bought a giant building that’s not going to renovate itself, and until it’s cleared out and spiffed up, we can’t build out the Pillar Collection. Which I am, honestly, no longer interested in. I just want to make cheap, stupid, night-out clothes for teens and twenty-somethings. I want to pollute and choke landfills with rayon. I want to create trivial things of fleeting value. The last thing I want is to find care to put into sturdy stitches, to have a quality assurance team that actually cares about quality.
I’m not built for this business, and I no longer know anyone who is. Without Stacy to run the Pillar Collection, I’m lost. More than once, I’ve thought about burning it all. Letting the idea lie fallow, never bothering to so much as hammer a nail at the Williamsville plant. It’s not that the idea doesn’t have potential. It has a ton. It’s that every time I think about the Pillar Collection these days, I immediately want to think about something else. Anything else.
“Seriously, Hampton. Are you feeling all right?”
I mean to nod, but my head shakes instead.
“No,” I say. “But let’s get this over with anyway.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
STACY
I MAKE THE STITCHES.
THE phone rings. I see who it is, and I ignore it.
I make more stitches.
The days are long, but I’ve made them that way on purpose. I work every hour the shop is open, then close and pour another four to six hours into my FairTraded clothes. I’ve quite a stockpile. I usually only design for women, but lately I’ve been creating for men. It’s a market ripe for exploitation. A lot more women than men shop for clothes on FairTraded, but women also love buying clothes for men who can’t dress themselves.
Staying immersed keeps me mindless of time. The hurt doesn’t ache as much. And that’s good because I have no real business hurting at all. Hampton and I were only screwing around. Locking body parts together. This is me, getting hung up on nothing. If I can lay enough days behind me, I won’t need to think about him anymore. If I forget that Expendable Chic has already started cleaning out the Billings & Pile Building, I might not have to consider him at all.
I finish my seam and pull the garment from the machine. I tug, wrinkle, open the folds to see how well the edges are concealed, how the fabric lies. It’s a nice pair of slacks. Simple, gray, elegant. Not tight on a man tall enough to wear them, nor loose. I’ve seen trends in both directions, and trends are the enemy.
I lay the slacks on the pile. They’re all spec items, not designed for anyone in particular. I want to take photographs, and show them off like a new line, before selling. I’ve left fabric on them all, should they need to be let out, and have chosen middle-of-the-road sizes. People will love these. I hope.
The next day, I make a shirt. Then, with a new bolt of wonderful gray fabric, a blazer. I’ve never made a suit from scratch, but why the hell not? I resolve to try. I need things to do. Otherwise, I can hear myself think.
Customers come and go. When I pull down a long-ago altered wedding dress for a bride, I see a shirt behind it.
And behind the shirt, a dress.
I start to shake. It’s like the garments have jumped out at me. I forgot they were there. Because I’m in the business, I picked them both up when Hampton left, laundered and pressed them, then put them on hangers. Now they’re staring at me like memories come to life.
The first clothes I made for Hampton’s company, except it turns out I was making them for us.
For him.
And for me.
They go together, he said.
The sound of feet from the front room. Not at the door, but from the staircase running up the side.
“You still down here, peanut?”
My father.
I step away from the shirt and dress. Away from the evidence, as if he’ll see and know. He notices me in the dark, turns on the overheads, and nods.
“I guess the answer is yes.”
“What time is it?” I ask, looking around.
“It’s after midnight.”
Wow. I’d have guessed nine at the latest.
“I guess time got away from me.”
“What’s keeping you so busy? Rush orders for a wedding?”
“No, Dad. Just my own stuff.”
“Dresses for your store?”
“I’m trying my hand at men’s clothes.”
His eyebrows rise. Before my father’s arthritis, men’s custom clothing was his specialty. “Can I see?”
“Sure.”
He comes the rest of the way down the stairs. I can tell he’s trying to be quiet because it’s late and the risers creak.
I gesture. He follows, then picks up a few of the items.
“These are nice, Stacy.”
“Thanks.”
He does as I did. He tugs on the fabric, wrinkles it, turns it over and over to check the seams. We exchange a bit of tailor talk, him asking construction and design questions and me answering, him pointing at details and me explaining my intention.
He studies the pile when we’re done and says, “All you need is shoes.”
“For what?”
“For your capsule wardrobe.”
I blink a few times.
“Isn’t that what you’re going for?”
It takes me a moment to respond because I feel slapped. The last time I talked about capsule wardrobes, I was explaining the concept to Hampton. The idea of a person owning a handful of excellent, perfect-fitting, timeless items. It’s the opposite of what disposable fashion chains like Expendable Chic sell, but exactly what Hampton wanted for his Pillar Collection.
“No, not really. I …”
Dad is sorting through the pile. “Long-sleeved dress shirts. Rugged tees. Selvedge jeans. Nice blazer. I see sketches for a suit.” He nods. “Like I said, just need shoes. Brown and black, to start the capsule off right.”
“I wasn’t trying to build a Pilla
r wardrobe,” I say.
“A what?”
“I mean a capsule wardrobe.”
Dad sets the items aside and shrugs. “Well, whatever you’re up to, you’re a damn fine scratch tailor — men’s as well as women’s.” He perches on a stool as if he intends to stay. “Your friend Hampton called.”
I’ve gotten used to some parts of this discussion, but every time I hear his name, it still hurts.
“I know. He’s been trying to call all day.” And all of yesterday. And the day before. And every day, all the way back.
“I mean he succeeded. He called your mom and me.”
“He called you?”
Dad nods.
“I don’t want to talk to him.”
“I know you don’t. That’s why I’m not bringing you a phone. But don’t pretend you’re not curious. I know your mother got all worried when she found out about you two, but I wasn’t even a little surprised. A father has to know his little girl if he expects to stay one step ahead of the cads who try to hurt her.”
“Did you just say ‘cads’?”
“Settle down about that, whippersnapper.”
He smiles. I smile back.
In the dark, with my father, it seems safe to say what’s on my mind.
“What’d he say?”
“He said he’s treating your precious building right. Only he said it nicer, not like that. He said that even if you won’t speak to him, he wants you to know.”
“Oh. Well …”
“Did you know he donated two hundred grand to the city?”
I didn’t. But even through my father, Hampton’s not going to get this satisfaction.
“No. But what does it matter? He still stole the building from the city.”
“How so?”
I tell him about the bid the city made, and how it rose when Hampton came sniffing.
“Well, honey, that’s not exactly his fault.”
“I know, but …”
“Does he know? About the city’s bid?”
“I don’t think so, but …”
“Then it’s off the table.” My father’s way of saying an argument isn’t fair, so nobody gets to use it as a weapon.
“Why are you defending him?” I ask.
“I’m not. I’m just making sure your compass is right. You want to hate the guy, that’s your business. Just don’t be a bigot.”
“A bigot?”
“You know. Hating someone for reasons that have nothing to do with them. Stuff that’s not their choice or fault.”
I squint at my father. “What else did he say?”
“That he misses you. But I knew that. Anyone would.”
I roll my eyes. “What’s this about, Dad?”
His tongue goes into his cheek. He makes a comic show of looking up as if anything might be gleaned through a ceiling and a floor.
“Promise not to tell your mother?”
“Dad …”
“Promise not to tell my buddies, lest they revoke my father card?”
“Dad!”
He shrugs. “You need someone in your life, peanut.”
“Dad, just because mom says you rescued her from—”
He holds up a hand. “Hang on. This isn’t a sexist thing. Doesn’t have to be a man. But you need someone. Something, hell. Get a dog. Even a plant that will die if you don’t water it. Without something, you just sit down here all day, working.”
“Says the man who taught me the value of work.”
“And it has plenty. But you’ve learned that lesson. Now you need to shut it off. Open up. Get out, have fun. You’re still a kid, for Christ’s sake. Now, as a father, I’m not supposed to encourage you, but I’m gonna anyway. I don’t know what you had with Hampton Brooks, but I’m guessing it wasn’t carriage rides in the park or you’d’ve told us about it. Doesn’t matter. You’re an adult, and you do what you want to do. I only know what I saw.”
For a second I think he means he came down here once while Hampton and I were canoodling, but he means something else. He means what he saw in me. How I changed.
And I was different when I was with Hampton, even when he wasn’t around. I got out more. I felt lighter. I worked less, yet got plenty of work done. I started going out with friends — friends who, now that I’ve resumed my hermit life, keep trying to drag me into town again. Life felt easier. Supporting my family didn’t seem like a burden. It wasn’t Hampton’s money because I haven’t yet deposited either check. It was him.
“He seemed nice. But Dad, he lied to me.”
“I lie to your mother all the time. The trick is never to do it about anything important.”
“Like violating my values? Like crapping all over my town, snatching a treasured historic building from the city to stick some stupid factory in it, then ruining it with one of his dumb little stores?”
Dad nods. “Yep. If that’s what he did, that wouldn’t be good.”
“And what about his values, Dad? He makes crap. He pollutes. He’s contributing to rampant consumerism and debt. Disposable culture. You know how much I hate that. You remember how mad I was.”
“Yep, and I remember my advice. Teach him quality. Shove it in his face.” Dad shrugs. “Too bad he never learned the lesson.”
He looks at my pile of clothes. At the capsule wardrobe I built without meaning to.
“Too bad you aren’t still trying to teach him. Trying to show him all about quality craftsmanship.”
He stands up.
“These clothes aren’t for him. I haven’t given a thought to Hampton Brooks or his company since he bought that building!”
My father is already walking toward the steps in the front room.
“Don’t stay up too late, sweetheart,” he says without turning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
HAMPTON
ASSHOLE. HE DIDN’T TELL ME to bring climbing clothes.
“No, it’s cool,” Mateo tells me. “It’s a very sporty look.”
I glance down. There’s a little gear shop at the base of the mountain, just off the property Mateo wants to buy, and they were happy to rent me rock shoes, a harness, a chalk bag, and a belay device. They weren’t willing to rent shorts or a T-shirt. The ones they had for sale were too small and done in colors bright enough to be in a Mountain Dew commercial. I’m too well-respected a man to have XTREME ASCENT written in all caps across my ass.
We’re not the only people at the crag, either. To punish Mateo, I refuse to climb the impressive multi-pitch routes on the north face and instead bring us around to the less-trafficked top-rope setups where fewer people can see my stupidity.
“I talked to the guy again,” Mateo says, settling onto a boulder. “My seller?”
“I don’t care about this, Mateo.”
“Except that you do because I helped you buy your building and I’m on your board for no pay. So, you do care about my deal to buy this mountain. You’ve just forgotten.”
“Oh, yeah. Right. I’m enthralled.”
“He talked to his daughter. Took her the new offer. I told him to be sure he told her about the terms, too, where they don’t just get extra money, but also credit with the forestry service. For getting future permits greased and stuff.”
“Is that legal?”
“Yes, but it’s expensive. That bitch will be able to build her next house wherever she wants. Places that will make the mountain’s view look like a joke. If she wants to pour her foundation onto a den filled with baby bears then build the walls from bald eagle bones, she can knock herself out.”
“And?”
“He said she’ll think about it. But we’ve been through this before. She’s just making me dance through hoops because she’s a fucking ass.”
“You think she’s going to say no?”
“I think fuck her. That’s what I think.”
Mateo is tying his line, apparently getting ready to climb. I look around. There aren’t many climbers here, thankfully. If they saw us
, they’d assume he was the climber, and I was the climbing equivalent of a caddy.
Carry your chalk for you, sir?
Fucking Mateo. He’s wearing a sleeveless shirt, and after he sprayed himself down with sunscreen, his arms began to writhe with highlighted muscle like a sorority girl’s dream. The guy’s back is as broad as a truck’s face. Even his abs have abs.
“What’s with you? You get your Pillar Collection situation squared away?”
I shake my head. “I’m lost if Stacy won’t do it.”
“Do an executive search. Plenty of COOs and ODs out there.”
“It’s not enough to just hire an operations person. I need someone who understands what we’re trying to build.”
“A shit ton of cash.”
“Quality,” I say.
“You need a seamstress.”
“Just someone who understands clothes.”
“Then get that guy Todd to do it.”
I laugh. “I wouldn’t let Todd near that job. Besides, he’s wrong for it. He’s great at making cheap party girl outfits because he’s always hanging out dancing with cheap party girls. I can’t imagine Todd in a quality suit. Oh, the humanity.”
Mateo ties in. He tries the rock. He makes the first few moves, then comes down and makes them again. His fingers are like machine claws.
He turns to face me. “You should have listened to Meat. Don’t fuck a girl you’re giving money to.”
“It wasn’t that.”
“What, you weren’t fucking her?” He scrutinizes me, then says, “Yeah, you were fucking her.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Like what?”
“It wasn’t just sex. She’s a good person. She knows her stuff.”
“So what?”
Mateo has turned away. But when I don’t answer fast enough, he turns back around and his reddish eyebrows wrinkle.
“What, Mateo?”
“You like her.”
“I just told you I like her.”
The Designer Page 14
