by Koko Brown
“We all believed you were a shoe in for sure,” Saul added as if they’d rehearsed the rubbing-it-in speech in the hallway. “You’re the only one in the office with a perfect record predicting the market. To say we’re in shock is an understatement.”
Patrick watched Thad glance at Saul, and they looked anything but shocked, more like smug.
Let them gloat, Patrick fumed. Neither man was anywhere near making partner. Anderson had a gambling problem he attempted and failed to hide by taking out a company loan. And Gould’s department was essentially ineffectual. Lucky for him, his department seeded social ventures, investing in bullshit endeavors like clean water wells and goats for women in Romania, or he would’ve been pink slipped years ago.
Not one to allow a pair of cucks to get the best of him, Patrick erred on the side of passive aggressiveness, “I guess I didn’t brown nose enough. Could I possibly solicit you guys—”
Another hit to the gut. The man of the hour had walked into the bathroom. Deciding he suddenly needed to take a leak, he walked over to the urinal and unzipped his pants. More so to keep from shaking the douche’s hand than to actually relieve his dick.
On the other hand, Thad and Saul couldn’t wash their hands fast enough to offer up congratulations to the new junior partner. They even offered to buy the first and second round of drinks at the Rainbow room. Patrick grit his teeth while the two suck ups salivated over the new head man. Thirsty bastards.
Patrick had to admit the guy walked the walk, moving like a predator to the urinal next to his. Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick checked him out from his Alden wingtips to his three-piece glen plaid suit. On closer inspection, the other man reminded Patrick of himself. Just a few years older and inexplicably more polished--his attire was immaculate.
Patrick eyed his suit and frowned. Expensive, but woefully cookie cutter, it didn’t fit him like a second skin. Tailored. His jaw clenched as he zipped up his fly a little too abruptly. He hated anyone having an advantage over him. Especially this man, who’d singlehandedly snatched the partnership from under his feet.
Better to keep one’s friends close and your enemies closer. As he walked over to the row of sinks, Patrick found Xavier in the bathroom mirror. “I hate to ask a personal question like this, but where do you procure your suits?”
Xavier swiveled his head around, his green eyes meeting his in the mirror. “I’ll do you one better, I’ll give you their card.” Xavier zipped up his pants then joined him at sink.
He washed his hands, dried them, and then reached inside his suit jacket, pulling out a platinum plated business card holder. Patrick admired the cover’s sleek lines and made a mental note to have his assistant Google the maker.
“I frequent a haberdasher uptown in the garment district,” Xavier said in perfect, textbook English. His Brazilian accent barely detectable and silky smooth. The man was so polished, Patrick wavered between rearranging his face or becoming his best friend. “The place is called Haufman’s Clothiers. Her work is so well done, it’s art.”
“Her?” Stunned, Patrick took the crème Egyptian linen card from Xavier. Haberdashers were a dying breed--a relic of a bygone era. Female tailors just as rare.
Xavier’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “Yes. Shoshanna Haufman. Third generation haberdasher. She took over as head tailor a little over a year ago.” Silva must’ve noticed the flicker of doubt Patrick tried to cover up. “Don’t worry,” he said chuckling, “the workmanship is just as impeccable as her father’s. Every suit’s handmade, quite old school, as you Americans would say.”
Patrick reread the cursive lettering on the card. He imagined some stout, bull of a woman lording it over a stuffy bespoke store while getting her kicks’ off manhandling men’s balls. “Thanks for this,” he said stuffing the card in his jacket pocket. Remembering his manners, he added, “by the way, congrats on the new promotion,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Thank you,” Silva gushed. “I had no idea it was coming.”
That made two of them. When Patrick got back to his office, he’d have to take the Cristal out of the chiller. Other than a five-figure bonus, there wasn’t anything else to celebrate.
“Well…ah…maybe we can have lunch before you head south,” Patrick offered, automatically following the rules of business etiquette, not because he actually wanted to break bread with the bastard.
“That would be nice,” Silva said, pumping Patrick’s hand. His enthusiasm and unaffected demeanor almost made him wish he’d washed his hands. Feeling somewhat guilty, Patrick turned on his heel and headed for the exit.
“Do me a favor will you, Patrick?” Silva placed his hand on Patrick’s shoulder stopping him. “Don’t share Haufman’s with anyone. It’ll be our dirty little secret, so to speak.”
The haberdasher wasn’t the only thing dirty between them, Patrick mused as he followed Silva from the bathroom.
CHAPTER TWO
“We have a huge problem. Like yuge, huge.”
Shoshana Haufman didn’t tear her gaze from the tea service her assistant had prepared for this afternoon’s appointment. A stickler for family and tradition, she always gave the complimentary refreshments a twice over. Conceptualized over eighty years ago by her great grandfather, the tradition remained a mainstay because it impressed even the most pretentious pricks and their client list had them in spades. Satisfied with the arrangements, Shoshana stepped back. She ran her hands over her hips, smoothing the fabric of her custom-made burgundy pencil skirt. With a plastered on smile, she turned to her floor manager. In over her head, practically 24/7, she never let her employees see her sweat.
“What’s the emergency, Ayn?”
“That batch of worsted wool you purchased from Scotland just arrived.”
Shoshana noticed the extra emphasis on ‘you’. Ayn still harbored a sore spot after she relieved him of his duties as sole buyer for the business. Her father had delegated many of his day-to-day responsibilities to the loyal employee a year before she’d taken over as a way to hide his burgeoning illness. Ever since, Ayn had become a thorn in her side. Still, she hadn’t fired him because he had over forty years invested with Haufman’s and he kept the factory running like a well-oiled machine, allowing Shoshana to concentrate on the front of the house.
“Can any of it be salvaged?” It wasn’t a stupid question considering she’d witnessed her father saving bad batches of fabric by turning them into everything from scarves to pocket squares.
“See for yourself.”
Shoshana followed him to the back of the house. Haufman’s fifteen thousand square foot workroom hadn’t changed much over the years. Natural light spilling through the glass ceiling above. Worn hardwood floors ran the length of the building. Work tables littered with notions broke up the monotony of dozens of garment workers hunched over decades old sewing machines.
Snorting his displeasure, Ayn unrolled the suspect bolt. The olive background reminded her of fresh Scottish peat but the tweed pattern was mottled- vibrant in some areas and barely visible in others. Reaching out, she fingered the fabric and her spirit continued to plummet. Thin and far too scratchy, the material didn’t come close to their usual standards.
She had no one to blame but herself. Too busy with coming up with a new line of suits, she hadn’t taken the time to vet a new distributor she’d run across at a recent trade show in Chicago. Helmed by Camilla and Carnation Diamond, a pair of twin sisters barely out of college, she’d wanted to give them a chance.
It was plain to see her act of generosity had backfired. The quality of fabric didn’t match the sample they’d furnished. Shoshana eyed the work table. She’d gone with a new distributor and she’d been burned. Not only was the wool not from Scotland, more like Bombay, but the dye pattern was inconsistent. Even worse, once the dye was cut, the fabric was yours. With the fingers of a migraine clutching the base of her neck, Shoshana did the only thing she could do.
“Call Josephs and orde
r the Aberdeen summer tweed in olive.”
“And this?” Ayn nodded his head at her five-thousand dollar mistake.
Shoshana side-eyed her floor manager. Knowing the day-to-day operations like the back of his hand, he was simply rubbing salt on the wound.
“Send it over to Parsons. Maybe their students can use it? ”
Done with that bit of dirt, Shoshana headed to accounts payable. Her head bookkeeper relished ripping into spotty vendors. Tyson, her assistant, intercepted her in the hallway between the factory and administrative offices.
“What are you up to?” In his early twenties, the former Fashion Technology student had been born in the wrong era. Always dressed nattily, he didn’t subscribe to the casualness of his generation. She’d never seen him in anything other than a shirt and tie or a suit. Like now, he wore a vintage Haufman suit in midnight blue. Too bad, his impeccable fashion acumen didn’t mollify her present irritation.
“I’m on the warpath. Stay clear.”
“Well, Hiawatha, you have an appointment.” Smiling, he sniffed the gold client card in his hand.
“I thought Lowenstein had the shingles.”
“Not Lowenstein. It’s a walk-in.”
Shoshana’s steps faltered. “Off the street?”
“From the moon. Of course, he walked in off the street.”
“You realize we have a two-month waiting list?”
“I’m quite aware of the new customer policy, but I thought we…I mean you, could make an exception since he’s your last appointment of the day.”
“He’s hot,” she deduced.
The prospect of finally ‘getting her some’ would be the only reason Tyson would break the rules. After learning she was still unmarried at the ripe old age of thirty-nine, he’d made it his mission to be her personal sidduch or matchmaker.
“Like a jalapeno pepper, oi vey.” Lips puckered, Tyson fanned his starched collar.
The urge for an afternoon sabbatical stronger than a warm potato knish after Yom Kippur, she eyed her office door with longing.
“He’s really, really hot,” Tyson beckoned. Waving the card in front of his face, he inhaled deeply. “And he smells fabulous.”
“Remind me to place an ad for a new assistant,” she grumbled, taking the card.
“Mazal tov,” he said, giving her a little shove toward the exit.
Since the early 1930s, her family occupied two buildings on the edge of Manhattan’s Garment district. One housed the garment factory. The other, a three-story walk-up, which contained their showroom and living quarters. Between the two brick structures was a glass plated catwalk which protected one from the elements. Mind buzzing with an arm’s length list of things to do, Shoshana took the walkway to the adjacent building. Sun dappled the slate flooring. The muffled rumbling of falling rain beat time with the click of her Jimmy Choo’s. At only five feet, and extremely self-conscious of her vertical limitations, Shoshana didn’t feel fully dressed without a pair of four-inch heels. She worked in them. Even a jaunt to the corner market didn’t go down without throwing a pair on. She’d work out in them if she could.
Shoshana looked skyward. “Devil must be beating his wife,” she whispered, recalling one of her mother’s sayings. Born and raised in St. Louis, Ann Haufman had more idiomatic expressions than a Mark Twain novel.
Overcome by emotion, Shoshana’s steps slowed. The last time she’d seen her mother was at her second-grade graduation. A walking hot mess, Ann showed up in a faded sundress and a cardigan three sizes too large. Shoshana had been over the moon by her mother’s unexpected appearance. In the throes of an ever-increasing downward spiral, it wasn’t unusual for her mother to take off for days, if not weeks, at a time.
Her father, on the other hand, didn’t appreciate his wife’s sudden manifestation or her condition. High as a kite, Ann could barely complete a sentence without stuttering. Pissed by her audacity, her father had given Ann an ultimatum. Her family or dope. Indignant, her mother cursed her father up, down, and sideways, and then stormed from the school auditorium. After that day, Shoshana had been raised in a single parent household.
Isaac “Ike” Haufman shouldered single fatherhood like he handled everything else. As the only son of Satchel and Hattie Haufman, Ike had taken on the reins of Haufman Clothiers and turned it into one of the largest bespoke suit manufacturers on the East Coast. He doubled production along with staff. And even when other garment makers had admitted defeat because of an inability to compete with overseas competition, he’d weathered the storm without cutting a single employee or cutting corners.
With the same gusto, Isaac had raised his only child. Despite overseeing the day-to-day operations of a garment factory with more than seventy-five employees, her father always cooked her breakfast, walked her to and from school, and tucked her in bed at night. Sure, there were times when he looked dead on his feet, but he never shirked any of his responsibilities.
His unwavering dedication to family was the only reason Shoshana stepped up when her father needed her the most. Without second guessing her decision, she quit her job with Peachtree City Interiors just outside Atlanta, packed her bags, and moved back home.
Almost immediately, she entered the trenches. Like his father before him, Isaac Haufman believed in trial by fire. So two weeks after her arrival, he’d handed over the reins of the family business.
A time or two she wanted to quit. Being a sole proprietor was a double blade sword. She reaped all the praise, but she also shouldered the ever present possibility that the almost century old business’ demise could be around the corner. And that her poor decisions could affect the livelihoods of seventy-five people and their families.
So far so good. Eighteen months at the helm, and the company’s profit margin was on pace to beat last year’s numbers by almost seven percent, and they still had the holiday season to look forward to.
Shoshana sighed. At times, being able to create just didn’t make up for the doldrums of running a business. Her life now revolved around financial reports, purchase orders, payroll, group health insurance, accounts receivable, accounts payable, and taxes. It was enough to drive a person insane. That’s why she looked forward to working with their clients. Sure, they could be a pain in the ass. People who could afford a four-thousand dollar bespoke suit tended to be both particular and demanding. Still, their money kept Haufman’s afloat, and that’s all that mattered.
As she entered the adjacent building, Shoshana fingered the new client card.
Patrick Kelly
Per habit, she tried visualizing her eleventh-hour appointment. Ten to one odds he worked in the financial industry. A bespoke suit to a stockbroker or hedge fund manager was like a pair of sneakers to a high school student.
Thanks to AMC’s Mad Men, an occasional hipster would darken their doorstep, but the majority of their clients skewed older. With age came an acquired taste and an appreciation for quality over quantity.
Considering their past and current customers, Patrick Kelly would be corpulent and brash. Possibly a CEO or loud mouth hedge fund manager used to barking orders from behind an oak hand-carved desk in an office overlooking Central Park.
With a preconceived image of her potential client in her head, Shoshanna entered the showroom from a rear entrance near the dressing rooms. Spotless, the showroom’s Chicago cherry wood paneling, antique cabinetry, and fixtures gleamed with a twice a week polishing. The newest addition, a central cash bar, took up a quarter of the main floor along with two oval tables. All three were filled with multicolored ties, handkerchiefs, and folded dress shirts and cashmere sweaters.
One of her personal additions, The Great Wall of Ready to Wear Suits, propped up the left front corner of the store. A cheaper alternative to Haufman’s bespoke suits, the ready-to-wear collection cost a couple clams less. Made in house, the customer didn’t have control over fit, cut, or even fabric but they still received a handmade suit and it could be tailored for a better fit.
Shoshana glanced at her showroom manager, Tolly. In the job for more than forty-eight years, she’d been hired by her grandfather. The eyes and ears of Haufman’s showroom, Tolly knew all their customers’ names. She took note of their quirks. And most importantly, she made sure every customer left satisfied. With a smile and an imperceptible nod, she pointed out the man of the hour.
Back to her, hands shoved in his trouser pockets, Patrick Kelly stood looking out of the store front window. At first glance, he appeared to be checking out the window dressing or monitoring foot traffic. Teethed on how to read a customer’s body language, she immediately noted the rigid set of his shoulders and the way he rocked back and forth on his heels. He glanced at his watch which meant he was also stickler for time and having his wasted, especially when he could be spending it making money.
Physically, it was going to be a dream to dress him. A couple of inches over six feet, he’d been blessed with broad shoulders, a trim waist, and slim hips. He’d look great poured into the Lawford, one of their most popular suits. It wasn’t their bestseller, only because the suit’s slim fit didn’t work on everyone. Only men with sleek physiques could actually do it justice, and only in a solid color. The Lawford, in a printed fabric, fell within Farmer Ted territory.
Prepared to make amends for breaking the cardinal rule of retail, never leave the client waiting, Shoshana hustled over with a ready apology on her lips. As she drew closer, she assessed his navy-blue suit as off the rack. Brioni. Extremely expensive. Not tailored. The trousers needed to be hemmed, and the jacket demanded another inch at the waist.
Inexplicably drawn, she stepped closer. His cologne hit her like a derailed freight train. Clean, yet spicy, with a hint of lemon and bergamot, the scent wrapped around her and teased her senses. He smelled so delicious. If her were her man, he’d never leave the house.
