by Lynn Steward
“Not me,” Dana said. “How did you know what would play?”
“I saw the tape when we passed by a few minutes ago.”
“Is there anything you don’t miss?” Dana asked.
“I miss you when you’re not around.”
Dana put both arms around Mark’s neck and they slowly glided into the master bedroom. Mark’s next kiss was not playful, but rather warm, tender, and long. A few minutes later, the lights in the master bedroom dimmed while the music, low and slow, filled the upstairs of Dana’s house.
Chapter Fifteen
Mark and Dana sat down to breakfast the next morning in the brick-enclosed, bluestone patio off the kitchen. As promised, Dana made pancakes and set them on a bistro table near the flower bed that lined the base of the brick wall. Both wearing robes, they lingered over a second cup of coffee, happy to begin the day together.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Dana said, “whether you got a chance to see Snowdon’s exhibit?”
“I walked through it with Andrew before the store opened yesterday morning. I’m glad I didn’t miss it. What a talented guy—and a nice chap, too. I met him last year when he came to New York to start planning the space with Andrew and Bob.”
“I didn’t know you worked on the installation,” Dana said.
“I didn’t. I was invited to the meeting as a consultant. Snowdon designed the environment himself, and it was built to his specifications. Do you realize how much department stores have changed in the last four or five years? Bloomies gets all the attention for their over-the-top extravaganzas, but B. Altman has hosted an impressive list of notables, and many more are on the calendar for next year. Great PR that also brings traffic to the store. Did you hear that ten thousand people showed up each day to see Snowdon?”
“That’s shocking! I don’t think we’d get traffic like that even if we gave away the merchandise for free. As for events at the store, I have some news I’ve been meaning to tell you, but my mind has been on other things lately—in case you haven’t noticed.”
Mark was bringing his coffee cup to his mouth but froze, his arm suspended in midair.
“Tell me? Tell me what?”
“I’m leaving B. Altman.”
Mark remained speechless for a moment before flashing a wide grin. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you got a better offer, and I think it’s long overdue! Where are you going? Bloomies?” He paused, as if a light had gone off in his mind. “Of course! Ira and Dawn are bringing you to Bergdorf! That’s it, right?”
“Not Bergdorf, but you’re on the right track. I’m going to be fashion director at the House of Cirone. Last week Johnny and Uncle John asked me to join them.”
The grin disappeared from Mark’s face, and he suddenly looked troubled.
“What’s the matter?” Dana asked. “I’ll have considerable creative input, European travel, and I’ll get a healthy salary increase.”
“Are you sure about this?” Mark asked, settling back in his chair.
“I didn’t make the decision lightly. I’ve just had my third go ‘round with Helen in less than nine months, and I’m drained and frustrated. I thought I had won her favor with both the Teen Advisory Board and the teen cosmetic counter which, as you know, she’s expanding. But here we are—a new idea, another battle. This isn’t a job, Mark. It’s an endurance test. She not only killed the Nantucket boutique, but also my suggestion to modify the concept of selling coordinated separates and matching outerwear with a British country look. Just like Jaeger! She has been more obstinate than usual lately, and while the world awaits a mood change in Ms. Kavanagh, my career is on hold.”
“I’m sure it’s a wonderful position, but … “
“But?”
“I’ve had some experience with family businesses, and while you may not have office politics, there may be parental control issues.”
“I don’t understand. What are you getting at?”
Mark sighed and chose his words carefully. “I got to know Uncle John when we were redesigning the ladies eveningwear department at the store. He’s a lovely, gracious man, softer around the edges than my father, but he can be just as controlling. Didn’t you tell me that Johnny couldn’t choose his own profession? Plus a person’s demeanor can change quite a bit in the workplace when money and reputation are on the line.”
Dana shook her head. “I can’t envision Uncle John not honoring his promise to give me a great deal of latitude.”
“Dana, Uncle John is family. He loves you like a daughter. I get it. But I don’t believe you’ll have the freedom you anticipate as fashion director. Family ties notwithstanding, it’s a new position, and every little brainstorm you have will need his blessing. Trust me—I know what I’m saying. I live it every day with my father.” Mark paused and covered Dana’s hand. “I’m sure the position with Uncle John will keep for a few months. I just want you to think about it.”
“I really want this job, Mark. I’d planned to be on board in time to implement my ideas for the spring collection. I have to admit that you’ve caught me off guard a bit.”
Mark shifted his chair closer to Dana’s. “I understand.” He kissed Dana on the cheek and put his arm around her shoulder. “But I have an idea that I think you could sell to Helen. A really big one.”
“Which is?”
“A private label for B. Altman.”
Dana raised her eyebrows. “Um … interesting, but where is this coming from?”
Mark removed his arm from Dana’s shoulder and clasped his hands on the edge of the bistro table. “Senger Display is designing and implementing a build-out at Brooks Brothers, which is launching a women’s department with clothing designed and made at menswear factories. They’re not going to buy off the racks on Seventh Avenue.”
Dana looked confused. “Then who are their suppliers?”
Mark smiled, seeing that he’d succeeded in getting Dana’s attention.
“That’s the beauty of it,” he explained. “The women’s buyers at Brooks Brothers buy the piece goods and give them, together with their ideas and clothing samples, to men’s manufacturers so they can be inspired to design women’s patterns.”
Dana sipped her coffee as she digested what Mark was saying. “It’s intriguing all right,” she admitted, “but I’m not sure Helen would sign off on it. In fact, she might shoot it down just because it came from me, given her abrupt dismissal of my suggestions lately. If I say white, she says black.”
“I’m not saying it would be easy,” Mark said, “but it’s a way to salvage the boutique. Instead of a Nantucket setting, we’ll build out a clubby English room. You could sell the line from your brainchild.”
“But who would I work with?” Dana asked.
“Let me think about that for a bit,” Mark replied. “For now, lay the groundwork and see if Helen will at least discuss the idea. A private label would give B. Altman a great deal of prestige. Surely she’ll see the wisdom of such a proposal.”
Dana stared at the brick wall a few feet away for several seconds before speaking. “All right, I’ll approach Helen, but I’m not promising anything. I may still decide that working at the House of Cirone is in my best interest. But … “
“Yes?”
Dana laughed. “I have to admit it’s a fantastic idea!”
“Good!” Mark said, nodding his approval. “Put Cirone’s evening gowns aside for now, and start thinking about classic separates. I think you’ll find the sample patterns for your first line are hanging in your closet! In the meantime, I want to run this by a friend of mine who might be in a position to help. I may have more input in a few days.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Right now I need to go upstairs and get dressed so I can get back to my apartment. Amanda is coming by around noon, so Dad here needs to get ready.”
Dana and Mark were both dressed as they descended the stairs and stood by the front door thirty minutes later.
“By the way,” Mark said, �
�that’s a handsome secretary. It appears that you’re using it as it was intended.”
“And you can obviously tell that, my dear Holmes, because the desk is unfolded, with blank stationery and my fountain pen in plain view.”
“It’s elementary,” Mark said, putting his arm around Dana’s waist. “I’m a big fan of Conan Doyle, by the way. And, I may add, there’s an unopened letter from London waiting to be read. I noticed it during our tour last night. An English admirer?”
“A Jesuit priest, if you must know. He became my unofficial spiritual advisor when I visited his church.”
Mark leaned over and kissed Dana on the forehead and then the lips. “I’ll call later when Amanda gets settled in and is pleasantly distracted.” He nodded towards the letter. “Be sure to tell the good father all about me.”
“There’s confidentiality between a member of the flock and her spiritual advisor. What I decide to tell him about you shall remain sealed.”
“How deliciously mysterious,” Mark said, opening the door.
He kissed Dana one last time and disappeared across the flagstones.
• • •
Dana cleaned up the breakfast dishes and sat on the sofa, staring through the large windows overlooking Sniffen Court. She felt light, happy, optimistic. Mark brought a new joy to her life and waking up in his arms was a beautiful way to start the day. It had been quite a while since she’d smiled for the sake of smiling. She’d worked beside Mark on so many occasions when he was building a display at the store but had never entertained romantic thoughts about him. And yet here he was, deeply attracted to her, awakening her heart and spirit with a joy she could never have imagined. She was happy beyond belief.
There was, of course, a new hesitation about joining the House of Cirone. She thought it unlikely that Helen would agree to the business model being used at Brooks Brothers, and yet Mark’s instincts were sound. Helping to develop a private label for the store, if she were allowed to do so, would be exhilarating and challenging in a way that wouldn’t be possible if she worked for Johnny and his father.
And Mark had struck a nerve when he’d mentioned Johnny, who was only at the company to please his father. Could the Cirone family dynamics be more complicated than Dana anticipated when it came to business? Dana reluctantly had to admit to herself that it was possible.
She decided to open Father Macaulay’s letter and see how he’d responded. Perhaps there would be some small gem that would guide her in the choice she would have to make in the weeks ahead, if not sooner. She slipped her silver letter opener beneath the flap of the white envelope and removed the vellum stationery.
Dear Dana,
How delightful it was to hear from you! And a belated happy birthday. I hope you don’t regard turning thirty as getting old as so many people your age do. Dare I say you have your whole life in front of you at the risk of seeming so very trite?
I’m equally delighted that you are jogging and getting out of your house. The birthday party sounds like it was quite enjoyable. I wish I could have been there. As for my own diversions, my pub closed and I am temporarily left without a place to give voice to my renditions of Cole Porter songs. Some of my friends have jokingly told me that this is Mayfair’s good fortune, but that won’t deter me when I find another pub that’s right for me. It’s not the quality of my voice that counts, but the opportunity to belt out a few tunes regardless of what others may think. It’s for fun, of course, but I do think one must take the bull by the horns once in a while. I’d hate for my parishioners to say, “That’s the priest who used to drink a pint and sing until midnight.” Used to? That’s not for me.
I think this also answers your question as to whether our deepest selves and our work are symbiotic. The answer is a resounding yes. It’s who I am, and I don’t think I’d be a good priest if I couldn’t be myself in the process. My parishioners rather like my boldness and slightly unorthodox approach to having fun. I think they respect me all the more when I go to work because they realize that I’m human just like they are and not somebody who simply wears a Roman collar and mumbles prayers on Sunday.
As for your being conflicted about possibly leaving the store, I’m sure you’ll make the right decision. Being conflicted is also a part of being human and forces us to make difficult decisions because we can’t tread water indefinitely when it comes to saying yes or no.
I hope you’ll continue to write, and I look forward to hearing what you decide about the job. Meanwhile, keep jogging!
Keep me in your prayers as I keep you in mine.
Sincerely,
Father Charles Macaulay
Dana was stunned by how sage Father Macaulay’s letter was and how closely it addressed the present quandary about her employment options. His attitude about finding another place to sing and accepting the challenge of being himself resonated with her. He wasn’t going to throw in the towel because of a setback. If people didn’t approve of his creative outlets, he didn’t care. In his own words, he was bold and took the bull by the horns.
Dana, who already had a glow about her, now felt even more lighthearted. She was going to try to convince Helen to allow her to develop a private label for B. Altman. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Helen might say no, and if that eventuality came to pass, Dana could still accept Uncle John’s offer. The important thing was not to let her goal slip away so easily.
Dana loved a good challenge and now knew that, under the right circumstances, staying at the store was what she wanted most. She wasn’t going to tread water when it came to making a decision.
Chapter Sixteen
Brett walked confidently into the offices of Hartlen Response in the Chrysler Building, location of the company’s New York office. He’d asked to see Jack but was told that the CEO was in an important meeting and couldn’t be disturbed.
“Trust me,” Brett told the receptionist. “He’ll make time. Tell him I’m here to talk about the company’s discretionary account holding donations to Hartlen Oil … “ Brett glanced at his watch for dramatic effect. “ … and that I’m in something of a rush.”
“One moment, please,” the receptionist said, picking up a telephone and relaying Brett’s message.
Five minutes later, a secretary appeared in the waiting room and ushered Brett to the executive office of Jack Hartlen.
“Good morning, Jack,” Brett said. “Sorry to barge in unannounced, but we have some things to discuss—important things that can’t wait for an appointment.”
“I’ve already told my father that I have everything under control and that we don’t need your help with the FBI or IRS investigations. We have our own set of lawyers—quite competent, I might add—so if you’d be so kind as to turn around and leave, I have a busy day ahead of me.”
In defiance, Brett sat down in a chair in front of Jack’s desk, crossed his legs, and made himself comfortable.
“Whatever your legal advisors are doing isn’t deterring the federal government from continuing to scrutinize your company very closely,” Brett said. “Perhaps a recap is in order so you’ll understand how firm my grasp is of your current situation. The donations to Hartlen Oil’s Responsible Use of Natural Resources Account seem to be disappearing into a black hole here at Hartlen Response—what you’re calling your Hartlen Discretionary Account, which is missing … “ Brett rubbed his chin and tilted his head back slightly. “Oh, about seven million dollars? Sound about right? None of the environmental organizations that you and your father are partnering with is seeing one red cent of the money originally given to Hartlen Oil.”
“I’m not interested in discussing the matter,” Jack shot back coldly. The affable tone and swagger Jack had exhibited at the Polo Club had vanished. “This is company business. Family business, for that matter. I want you out of my office or—”
“But here’s the rub,” Brett continued, undeterred. “Your partnership agreements with environmental groups, though tenuous, don’t give you the
flexibility to invest philanthropic donations given what the law calls intent and reasonable expectation for funds to be used towards predetermined purposes. It’s legalese, but diversion of such funds is a violation of numerous federal statutes.”
“Our partners have signed letters of intent while we conduct environmental studies and formulate specific action plans,” Jack explained. “They’re in no hurry.”
“I’ve looked into that as well,” Brett said. “Your company doesn’t have even one scientific study on the drawing board let alone what you call action plans. But you’re missing the point, Jack! The money isn’t where it should be!” Brett uncrossed his legs and shook his head. “You’re breaking the law. You’re going to get your father in a lot of trouble since the donations are first given to Hartlen Oil. So what’s going on? The donors and feds aren’t happy, and sooner or later your environmental partners won’t be either. As for your legal department, I’m willing to bet they don’t have the slightest idea what you’re up to because you’re not telling them what you’re really doing with the money. As a lawyer, I know from experience that I can only be effective when clients are honest with me.”
Jack, now angry and red-faced, stood and straightened his coat. “I’ve tried to be civil with you in the past, but leave now or I’ll call building security.”
“Sit down, Jack. Your dad has done more than ask me to look into these matters. He’s retained my firm to represent your two companies. I haven’t shared my suspicions with him … yet.” Brett smiled, the fingertips of his two hands touching as he rested his elbows on the arms of the chair. He loved cornering opponents, and Jack was clearly in his sights yet again.
“You have no right to meddle in my affairs!” Jack shouted.
“Your affairs? I made the decision to keep myself apprised of your affairs several months ago, or don’t you remember. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell me where the seven million dollars is. It’s hidden in some kind of slush fund—we both know that—but I doubt it’s in any kind of discretionary account that the IRS would approve of. Then you’re going to start releasing the money to your environmental partners and become a model of transparency. You’re also going to contact marine biology experts at various universities and begin to do pilot studies even if it’s to determine how much salt is in the damn ocean. Then you’re going to release even more money. Are we clear on this?”
