by Geena Maxon
CHAPTER 3
All my worries about my father, the business, my own future, were welling up in me. Could Pa continue to manage the company? After all, he was 66, an age when many executives decide to pack it in and play golf the rest of their lives. But Sidney Porteous had never played golf, never wanted to. Manufacturing apparel is all he knew. Since Ma died, he spent every waking hour involved in the business. Now his world was changing, and it was becoming clearer every day that he couldn't handle it.
I looked across the sewing room floor. A third of the machines were idle. The sixteen operators who were working — mostly women, but two men — were busy sewing, hoping, I was sure, that there'd continue to be work for them. As sewing floor manager, I was the one they asked about how the business was doing. I always said, "New orders are coming in." Were they? Not really. None that I knew about.
And now, what about this Gregg Monsell? I hadn't heard him discuss a merger with Pa, but I couldn't believe Pa was right about Gregg saying he wanted to take over our company. Who would walk into a man's office and say such a thing? Pa saw him as a threat — he just wouldn't have anyone but himself managing Porteous Limited. But maybe we could be successful as part of a merged company, with a new kind of business. I didn’t have the experience to deal with such important decisions, but I was certain if we didn't do something soon, we'd become another victim of Chinese competition. Time was already running out.
I reminded myself it wasn't only my father's future and my own that were hanging in the balance here. There was my Uncle Aaron, who supervised the plant's fabric cutting, a critical process in the manufacture of apparel.
Uncle Aaron owned 25 percent of the company's stock, compared to the 75 percent Pa owned. My grandfather Emil, who founded the company and made it a success, had a disastrous, hateful falling-out with Aaron, his younger son. When Emil died, he left everything to Pa, nothing to Uncle Aaron. Pa felt sorry for his brother, and made him a supervisor, and a little later, gave him a piece of the company. Far from being grateful, Uncle Aaron came to resent Pa more than ever, and Pa gave up trying to please him. They avoided each other whenever they could. Pa was the final authority on everything in the company, and Uncle Aaron was a chronically unhappy man, divorced twenty years ago, who wanted nothing more than to find solace in his work. Uncle Aaron had no interest in the company's business decisions.
Though Uncle Aaron was at odds with Pa, he and I got on very well together, ever since I was a kid. I guess I was the family he never had. Still, I wasn't about to tell Uncle Aaron about Gregg Monsell. Not yet. It would only confuse the issue. But I did want to see him before I called Gregg, to ask if he shared my worries about the company's future. I went to the cutting room, where Uncle Aaron was boss.
As always, he met me with the barest hint of a smile, his cheeks red with the webs of blood vessels visible just beneath his skin, his graying hair combed across the top of his head, over his big bald spot. "I didn't see you all day yesterday," I said. "Thought I'd check in on my favorite uncle."
"Your only uncle." We said it together. Our little joke, for as long as I can remember. "And you? You're still single?" His little joke, not mine. A strange theme for a man who had lived alone for so many years.
"Completely and absolutely," I said. "I have —"
"I know. You have a good job. A lovely apartment. A blue convertible." he said. He waved his forefinger at me. "But they won't keep you warm on a cold night."
"Enough," I told him. "This is not a lonely hearts club. When do I get the pieces for the Poster Girl blouses? We're sewing the last of the Delman tops, so we'll be ready tomorrow — Thursday morning the latest."
"The cutting's finished now," Aaron said. He looked at me strangely. squinting his eyes and cocking his head to one side. "But you knew that already, Kit. I told you on the phone yesterday. Today I can see you have something else on your mind. Tell me."
"Nothing special," I said, but it was clear he didn't buy it. "All right, as long as I'm here."
"Go ahead. Ask me anything. My life is an open book." He plopped into a chair, tilted back, and put his feet up on a work table.
" Are you worried about this business?"
"Worried? That's your father's department."
"I mean, do you ever think we'll go out of business — unless we make some changes, that is?"
He thought for a moment. "Changes? Like what?" he said, finally.
"I don't know. I'm just worried that we have to find a new way to keep the plant busy. Like today, I have sixteen machines that are idle."
"So talk to your father. He's the brilliant businessman in the family."
"I would, except, he seems," I groped for the word, "preoccupied."
"You mean mixed up. He doesn't make sense lately. It's no secret. Everybody knows. Look, you're his only child, and some day you'll run this company, maybe sooner than you think. If you believe we're in trouble, then you're the one who has to do something about it." He swung his feet off the work table and stood up. "More than that, I can't advise you about business. All I do is cut fabric. The only thing I know is — don't end up alone. Find a guy and get married."
"I'm too young," I said. "Got to go."
"Be happy. It's not so hard," he called after me as I walked back to the sewing room.
I knew that if Uncle Aaron's work changed, if the company changed, he would be cast adrift. I'd hate myself if something I did made him unhappy, and I'd hate myself if I made Pa unhappy. I promised myself I'd be careful on both counts. But it was becoming clearer that it was up to me to make some tough business decisions. Because Pa refused to, and Uncle Aaron didn't know how.
I went back to my office. I closed the door, something I hardly ever did, and stared at the phone on my desk for a full minute before I dialed Superior Apparel. What was I getting into? Was I kidding myself that a 26-year-old woman with barely 4 years of business experience was equipped to steer the course of an established family company? With my smart-ass approach, I'd sink the company. I'd better give this some more thought.
Too late. Their operator picked up on the first ring. "Superior Apparel."
This is it. No more doubts. Full speed ahead. "Gregg Monsell, please."
Ring. Ring. Ring. "This is Gregg."
"Hi, Gregg." Be casual, I told myself. Don't sound eager. "This is Kit Porteous. We met yesterday in —"
"— in your father's office. Of course. Good morning, Kit."
"I felt I should call you because — because things got so confused yesterday. I don't want you to have the wrong impression of our company. My father has been so busy lately that he gets distracted. He says what he doesn't mean because his mind is on a million other things. Please don't think he would ever want to be rude to you. It's just that —"
"No explanation needed," he said. "Everybody has days like that."
"Really, I want you to know —"
"I do know. I understand," he said, drawing out the words, as though he was soothing a troubled child.
"Thank you for that." He's patronizing me, I thought.
"Kit, you came in on the tail end of our meeting. You didn't hear my idea for doing business together, your company and ours. Did your father tell you what we talked about?"
"Not really. No, he didn't." Good, I thought, he brought it up. Now I don't have to.
"Let me tell you what I have in mind," he said. "Your father didn't recognize what a terrific opportunity it is for the Porteous company. Maybe I can convince you."
And maybe you can't, I thought. Bad start, Gregg Monsell. Shows a lack of respect for Pa. But here I was, and what the hell. "I'm listening," I said.
"Good," he said. "Look, let's get together and discuss this."
"Why don't you just explain it to me now, on the phone?"
"This should really be a face-to-face thing. We should get to know each other. Can't do that on the phone. I want to convince you, because it's a smart idea, and you're the one to sell it to your father."
"That's not part of my job description," I said. It wasn't a terribly witty comeback, but it was the best I could think of on the spur of the moment. I could hear him chuckle, anyway. Was he patronizing me again? "But all right," I said. "I think it's best if I come to your office. What would be a good — "
"I have a better idea," he said. "Let's discuss this over dinner tonight. It's more pleasant than meeting in my office, which is a mess, anyway."
"I'd rather not. I just don't have time for a dinner meeting."
"Come on, Kit. You have to eat dinner someplace, and I do too, so let's go together. It'll be quiet. The phone won't keep ringing. We can have ourselves a chat, and you can ask me anything you want. I know a terrific new restaurant just off route 80. Do you like Italian food? They make sensational braciola. You know braciola?"
Yes, I know what braciola is, I thought. Do you think I've been living under a rock? I don't want to spend a whole dinner listening to this blowhard. "I really can't, Gregg," I said.
"Boy, you're tough," he said. "Well, then, how about we just meet for a drink? One drink, that's all. I tell you my idea, and then you leave. You have time for that don't you. Come on, I know you do."
This guy just won't quit. He's not used to having women say no to him. I don't want to have a drink with Gregg Monsell, but on the other hand, I do want to hear his idea. Porteous Limited needs ideas. "I'll meet you for a drink. But just a drink. Then I have to go."
"Understood," he said. He told me the new restaurant was called Andiamo, about halfway between the two plants — a 20 mile drive for each of us. We agreed to meet in the lounge at 6:30.
I thought as I hung up the phone: It took him less than five minutes to talk me into something I didn't want to do. I'll make sure that won't happen again.
CHAPTER 4
I got to my apartment at 5:30. I knew I looked like a factory worker, which I was, let's face it — jeans, denim shirt and sneakers. That's how Gregg had seen me in Pa's office, and I wanted to repair that image of me. I wasn't just the sewing supervisor. I was the boss's daughter. Dark gray slacks, a beige silk blouse, flats and my favorite blue blazer seemed just right for a drink with Mr. Monsell.
The cocktail lounge at Andiamo was bustling and noisy, with young businesspeople three deep at the bar, and all the booths occupied. Clearly, this place had quickly become the in-spot for the business crowd, an after-work haven for twenty- and thirty-somethings. Not a place I would have chosen for a serious business meeting.
I scanned the crowd looking for Gregg, but couldn't see him. I began to wonder if I was being stood up, when he arrived, working his way into the lounge from the dining room. "It's noisy in here, so I took a table in the dining room," he said. "It's early for the dinner trade, so it's quiet in there." I walked with him into the dining room, to a table set for dinner.
"Just for a drink," I said, as he pulled a chair out to seat me.
"Just a drink," he said. "And some talk."
There was an open bottle of wine on the table, and two wine glasses. Gregg saw me looking at the bottle, and he said "It's a burgundy I like. I thought you might want to try it."
"That's so thoughtful," I said, with just enough sarcasm for him to notice.
"But if you'd rather have something else — "
Why had I started off putting him on the defensive, I asked myself. Is he just trying to be nice? Don't be a smart-ass, Kit. "No, no. I mean a glass of wine will be perfect," I said.
He smiled and poured the wine. In the muted light of the dining room, his chiseled features accentuated his rugged looks. He wore a linen sport jacket, with a checkered button-down shirt, open at the neck. Gregg Monsell certainly knows how to dress, I thought. He lifted his glass. "To success and prosperity," he toasted.
I clinked glasses with him. "Hard to argue with that." I took a sip of the wine. It was luscious, full and mellow. It warmed me as it went down. "This is good."
"I told you," he said. "I come here because they have it on their wine list. I'll tell you what," He leaned across the table. "Let's get the business out of the way right now, and then we can talk about really important stuff."
"Like what?" I said.
"Like burgundy wine. Like the politics in Romania. Like who's the best shortstop in the National League. Like how to make a chocolate cake. Any or all of those things."
"All right," I said. "Let's talk business. Can we put the rest on the back burner, for now?"
"Only if you insist."
"I never insist. I suggest," I said. Hey, that's pretty good, I thought. And not really bitchy, is it?
"OK, here we go," he said. "Superior Apparel and Porteous Limited are in the same business. We both cut and sew. We assemble other companies' goods, and they market them under their own labels."
"They have the distribution," I said. "The big labels have outlet stores in every shopping mall."
"You're right. But they also make the markups at every level. We're the small guys in this business. We make a little bit, and the big guys make a lot. And now, even the little bit we make is shrinking. The cut-and-sew business is going to China and a hundred other places — more and more every season. Pretty soon it'll be all gone. I don't know about you, but I don't want to go down with the ship. The business is changing, and Superior Apparel has to change, too. I want us to survive."
"So what's your idea? I said.
"It's simple. We get together, we design our own stuff, we manufacture it and put our own label on it, then wholesale it ourselves. We control it all. Whatever profit there is in our goods, we keep."
"And who do we sell it to?"
"Here's the best part," he said. He was talking faster now, caught up in his own story. "You know Clemsons? It's a string of department stores, very big in the south — the Carolinas, Georgia, Florida, Mississippi, Louisiana, all the way north to Virginia. Twenty-six stores — all well established, all profitable, with big ladies' wear departments. I went to college with their merchandising director, Les Higginson, and had dinner with him in Atlanta last week. He told me they've been talking about getting an exclusive line of casual wear. Higher end garments. Of course I jumped on it, told him Superior can give him exactly what he's looking for."
"Sounds good," I said. "If you can close the deal, why would you share it with Porteous Limited? Just feeling generous?"
He leaned back in his chair. "Well, here's the thing. I'm going to be straight with you about this right from the beginning. Clemsons is particular who they do business with. They don't want to make a deal, and then have the supplier go belly-up. They know about your company, and they're comfortable with it. They like well established companies with plenty of money in the bank. My company hasn't been around nearly as long as yours. And I'll admit to you right now that our financials aren't as strong as I'd like. In fact, Kit," he reached forward and touched my elbow, "Superior is doing business month to month. We have two more contracts in the shop to fill. Nothing booked after that. So you see , I'm — I'm eager to get this deal."
"And how does Porteous fit into it? What do you want from us?"
"I want your good name, and your financial report. I want to merge the two companies. Then Clemsons will be ready to make the deal."
We both sipped our wine, and it was quiet. Finally I said, "I'll be straight, too. If Clemsons doesn't want to do business with Superior, then why should Porteous? You don't have reputation and you don't have money. Just what are you bringing to the party?" Atta girl.
"I'm bringing my friendship with Les Higginson," he said. "Plus I'm bringing myself. And my track record. I don't fail."
I couldn't resist. "I like modesty in a man."
He laughed. "I figure this is no time for me to act humble. I wouldn't cook up a plan like this if I thought I couldn't do it." He refilled our wine glasses. "What I want to know is: am I sitting here trying to impress the right person? Do you have a say in what Porteous Limited does? Does your father listen to you, anyway? I know you're S
idney's only child, so I figure some day you'll be calling the shots. Tell me, Kit, am I right?”
Mister Gregg Monsell has a big-time attitude problem, I thought. Here he is trying to sell me a wild idea, then asking me if what I think really matters, anyway. "You shouldn't have invested in a high-priced bottle of wine if you weren't sure I was worth it," I said. "I think it's only fair that I split the bill with you." Bitchy, but appropriate.
Now he looked pained. "Come on, Kit, that's not what I mean," he said. "If it sounded out of line, then I'm sorry."
A waiter approached the table and set down a menu for each of us. I looked up at him and before I could open my mouth to say no, Gregg told the waiter, "Just leave them."
The waiter smiled and said, "Are you going to —" Gregg waved him away before he could finish.
"I wonder why he seems to think we're going to have dinner," I said.
"I told him it was a possibility."
"An impossibility," I said. "I'm having tea with the queen."
"I had hoped you'd change your mind."
"Keep hoping, Captain Monsell," I said. "Or you might try wishing upon a star."
"Is it presumptuous of me to hope we'll get to know each other better? Because I'd like that."
"I'll take it up at the next board of directors meeting," I said. It was quite a flurry of smart-ass remarks, even for me. I pushed my chair back from the table. "You've told me your idea, and now I think I'll be off. I told my chauffeur to wait. "
"But there's more," he said. "I haven't told you about the terrific designer who's ready to join up with us. She did the whole cruisewear line for Betsy Bailey. Her stuff has been flying off the racks, and she's a good friend of a friend." On and on he went, spinning a glorious fantasy that we could make a reality, he insisted, if only we joined forces.
The more Gregg talked the more convinced I was that Pa was right about him. He was a hustler. What did Pa say — Gregg had been leering at me? Finally I had enough. I stood up. "Some other time," I said.
