by J. J. Murray
Mr. Yarmouth shook his head. “Justin is management. It is not his job to make copies. It is your job. In an attempt to keep HSBC’s business, I did not charge them for the mistake, but I get the distinct impression that they will not be a client much longer. That will leave us with Brooklyn Borough and this Odd Ducks greeting card company as our only major clients.” He adjusted his tie. “Do you have anything to say, Miss Warren?”
Hope looked at Dylan, who was smiling at everyone walking by the store. I’m in a pickle, Dill Pickle. I may need your help soon. “According to the employee handbook, Mr. Yarmouth, I am entitled to use my sick and vacation days at any time. The handbook is very clear on that. I was entitled to hours and days off, and I took them. It is not my fault that you have hired an incompetent for a manager.”
“It is true you are entitled to these days,” Mr. Yarmouth said. “But you will have no days to use if you are no longer employed here. If you wish to remain employed here, Miss Warren, you will cease and desist your artistic afternoons and, I’m told, your Saturdays off, too. Am I making myself clear?”
Justin’s mistake could cost me my job? Oh, I am sorely vexed now. She walked around the counter, nodded at Mr. Yarmouth, and went to the door. She opened it and said, “Dylan, could you come in here a minute?”
Dylan walked in. “What’s going on?” he whispered.
“I need you to hear this,” Hope said. She shut and locked the door.
“He’s not an employee here,” Justin said. “He can’t be at this meeting.”
Hope went to the counter and hopped up on it. “I will make that clear in a moment.” She looked at Mr. Yarmouth. “I am co-owner of Odd Ducks Greeting Cards.” She nodded at Dylan. “My boyfriend, Dylan Healy, is my partner. We are your third biggest clients, and we are going to have explosive growth in the future. We have sold nearly fifty thousand greeting cards so far this year, every one of them printed here.” This is the scary part. “I used my employee discount, which the employee manual says I can use at any and all times.”
Mr. Yarmouth actually smiled. “And how much has your discount cost me, Miss Warren?”
“Roughly ten thousand dollars,” Hope said, “but we’ve also paid you forty thousand dollars, money that could have been spent elsewhere.”
Mr. Yarmouth nodded. “Please continue.”
“She cost us ten grand!” Justin yelled. “You are so fired.”
“Shush, Justin,” Mr. Yarmouth said. “Continue, please, Miss Warren.”
“You cannot legally dictate what I can and cannot do with my sick and vacation days, Mr. Yarmouth,” Hope said, “since the procedures for using them are clearly stated in the employee handbook you wrote. I will be going to Kinderstuff daily to work with those children. I will also be taking every Saturday off that I can. If you still choose to fire me, go ahead, and in one night, you may have lost two of your three biggest clients.”
“Remarkable,” Mr. Yarmouth said. “You have created a business within a business.” He smiled at Dylan. “And is it profitable, Mr. Healy?”
“Yes, sir,” Dylan said. “We have a sixty percent profit margin on each card.”
Mr. Yarmouth smiled at Hope. “Very impressive. Very impressive, indeed. How do you make your sales?”
“Through the Internet,” Hope said. “People visit our site, choose and pay for their cards, and we print and mail them.” She pointed behind her. “Every one of our cards is in the mainframe for instant printing.”
Mr. Yarmouth leaned forward in the chair. “This means your cards are always here in electronic form. There would be nothing physical to store, and if you ever ran out . . . Forgive me. Old habit.” He smiled. “Would you consider selling your cards here? What if we provided you with a rack or a wall to display them?”
Hope looked at Dylan.
Dylan shrugged.
What’s the catch? “You’re talking about turning part of this store into a card shop,” Hope said.
“Yes,” Mr. Yarmouth said. “Those racks of dusty stationery have been here for years. They are from another time, another age. Your cards, however, would move off those racks if people could see them.” He sat up straighter. “I would like to display your cards at this store, and all I ask in return is fifty cents per card sold here.” He smiled. “I think that is a reasonable amount.”
Hope shrugged at Dylan. “What do you think?”
“Well,” Dylan said, “it will save us some trips to the post office.” He squinted. “Not nearly as high volume, but word of mouth always works, and you can’t beat free advertising. We could add fifty cents to the price of the card here to keep our margin.”
I asked him what he thought, and he thinks out loud. That’s my Dylan.
Dylan joined Hope at the counter. “What if we advertise ‘Printed at Thrifty Digital Printing, Brooklyn, New York’ on the back of every card and even added your website address. Would you accept thirty-five cents per card if we did that, Mr. Yarmouth?”
Mr. Yarmouth’s eyebrows moved up and down. “Free advertising is always good, but I would also expect you to link your website to mine, Mr. Healy. For larger orders or for easy pickup in downtown Brooklyn, that sort of thing. And somewhere on your website it should say, ‘Thrifty Digital Printing: Exclusive printer of Odd Ducks Greeting Cards.’ ”
I can’t believe this is happening! I was about to be fired, and now I’m about to open a card shop inside a copy shop.
“That sounds fine, Mr. Yarmouth,” Dylan said, “but I’d like to add another wrinkle.”
What is this wrinkle? Let’s get this in writing and go celebrate!
“Hope,” Dylan said, “since all our cards are already here, couldn’t we personalize any card for anyone who comes into the store? You know, the recipient’s name on the cover, the sender’s name inside, perhaps even an extra typed greeting. We could even scan in a family picture, say, one of a couple sitting in front of a painting.”
I’m sure that sounded random to Mr. Yarmouth, but I understand. “Anything like that is possible, Mr. Yarmouth,” Hope said. “We could even take the picture of the buyer right here at the store and scan it into the card immediately.”
Mr. Yarmouth nodded vigorously. “Personalized greeting cards, made-to-order while you wait. We will put that sign in the window.” He turned to Dylan. “I was just about to fire your girlfriend, Mr. Healy.”
Dylan blinked.
“Since she may be the future of this store, I cannot do that, but . . .” He stood and collected his umbrella. “Miss Warren, you may have your Saturdays, but I will need you during the week at least until you are satisfied that Justin here is proficient on every machine.”
I am going to miss those children so much! Justin is bubu, dotish, bay-it. “That may take a long time, Mr. Yarmouth. It would be simpler if . . .” Hope shot a glance at Kiki. “It would be simpler if you fired Justin and hired Kiki as manager. The two of us can run this store without him, and that will save you his salary and benefits and increase your profit margin considerably.”
Mr. Yarmouth blinked. “That would not be a good thing.”
True. It would be a great thing. “Why? He’s costing you money! He’s a waste of space. He hides in his office. On a day we were both sick, he closed the store for the day. He contributes nothing to the running of this store and his mistake, not mine, may have cost us the HSBC account.”
Mr. Yarmouth sighed and shook his head at Justin. “I know all this, Miss Warren, but he is my sister’s child. I would not be welcome at her house for the holidays if I fired him.”
Hope looked from tall, regal Mr. Yarmouth to short, sloppy Justin. There is absolutely no resemblance. At least I know now why Justin was hired. “At least give Kiki a raise. She’s been here six months and can run every machine in here as well as I can.”
“Done,” Mr. Yarmouth said. “How does a dollar an hour raise sound, Miss Clarke?”
Kiki nodded and smiled. “A dollar is fine. Thank you, Mr. Yarmouth.”
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Mr. Yarmouth leaned on his umbrella. “You will have your cards displayed soon?”
I am off until Monday. “I can have them up by noon on Monday,” Hope said. “All kinds. Christmas, New Year’s, Hanukkah, general, love, even Valentine’s Day cards.”
“I will have them displayed on Friday,” Kiki said. “I will make, say, five of each.”
“You don’t mind, Kiki?” Hope asked.
“It will be fun,” Kiki said. “We must have them up in time for the Black Friday sales.”
“Splendid,” Mr. Yarmouth said, beaming. “And make a special sign for the window. ‘Odd Ducks: Personalized greeting cards made-to-order while you wait. A Thrifty Digital exclusive.’ ”
“Good idea, Uncle Cyril,” Justin said.
“I know it is a good idea because it is my idea, Justin,” Mr. Yarmouth growled. “If you were not my sister’s son . . .” He smiled at Dylan. “I trust you will be able to write up our contract, Mr. Healy.”
“I will,” Dylan said.
Mr. Yarmouth nodded at Hope. “I look forward to a prosperous year, Miss Warren.”
Mr. Yarmouth pivoted, strode to the door, unlocked it, and walked across Flatbush to the subway entrance.
Hope shook her head at Justin, put on her coat, gave Kiki a hug, and left the store.
“This is great!” Dylan said, pulling her close as they walked. “Our own front-right corner of a store.”
“Yes,” Hope said, “but I am going to miss those children so much, Dylan. You know I won’t be able to get away even if Justin learns all the machines. He is an ee-dee-ot.”
Dylan put his arm around her. “You can teach him.”
“I don’t want to teach him,” Hope said. “I want to teach art.”
“And it’s about time I heard you say that,” Dylan said.
Hope pouted. “I was just starting to feel the Christmas spirit, too.”
“You?” Dylan said. “Hope Warren, the hater of all things Christmas?”
“Doh ge’ meh vex, nuh,” Hope said.
Dylan shuddered. “We will do everything we can to have you excited about Christmas from now on.”
“It’s a hopeless cause, Dylan,” Hope said.
“It can’t be hopeless,” Dylan said. “We’re about to enter the season of hope.”
She grabbed his sexy derriere. “As long as you enter me often, Mr. Healy.”
NOVEMBER 26 THANKSGIVING DAY
Only 28 more shopping days until Christmas . . .
Chapter 23
Dylan instituted “Operation Advance Hope’s Holiday Happiness,” or “Operation AHHH,” on Thanksgiving Day with a vintage Christmas movie festival at Hope’s apartment.
At first, Hope didn’t say “ahhh.”
She said, “Eh?”
Hope “fatigued” Santa Claus Conquers the Martians, arguably the worst movie ever made. “The Martians watch TV! That makes them as stupide as us, and those ray guns are obviously children’s toys, and why would anyone kidnap Santa? Who would pay the ransom? The elves? They don’t get paid, do they? Dat movie be lime.”
Hope didn’t think, however, that Babes in Toyland starring Laurel and Hardy was “lime” or a waste of time. She loved Ollie Dee and Stannie Dum, the creepy cat playing a fiddle, the monkey dressed as a giant mouse, and the old-fashioned nightgowns the three little pigs wore. She even played a scene several times where a life-size toy soldier blinked. “See! He blinked! I knew he was alive.”
Hope became a weepy gyurl, however, while watching Miracle on 34th Street, a Christmas classic that “proved” the existence of Santa Claus because of all the letters Santa received every year.
“I believe, I believe, it’s silly, but I believe,” Dylan said, echoing the little girl in the movie. “Did you ever send a letter to Santa?”
“No,” Hope said. “I never believed that some fat white man in a red coat at the North Pole was ever going to visit me. Did you ever write to him?”
“Every year from when I was five until I was eleven,” Dylan said.
“Did you ever get anything you asked for?” Hope asked.
“Nope, but I think it had something to do with our apartment,” Dylan said. “It didn’t have a chimney.”
On Thanksgiving, Hope proved she could cook and turned her kitchen into a Bahamian restaurant. Because she could find no fresh conch at any of the fish markets within walking distance of her apartment, she prepared ham loaf topped with brown sugar, dried mustard, and crushed pineapples. They feasted on the loaf with pigeon peas and rice with bacon, black pepper, thyme, tomatoes, and onions. Dessert was almost a disaster. She had none of the ingredients for black cake like lime rind, prunes, currants, cherry brandy, Angostura bitters, or the most important ingredient, rum, and she didn’t have the three to five days’ soaking time to prepare it. Instead, she threw together a baked banana custard.
Dylan declared it “délicieux.”
Dylan, his taste buds sated, his belly full, soon became Hope’s stuffing quite often throughout the rest of Thanksgiving Day.
Hope liked her stuffing. She even asked for seconds and thirds.
“We’re going shopping tomorrow,” Dylan said as they watched a rerun of Santa’s arrival at the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
“I don’t want to,” Hope said. “Not on Black Friday.”
“Why?” Dylan asked. “It’s the traditional start to the holiday shopping season.”
“It’s dangerous,” Hope said. “It’s like Boxing Day in Canada only sometimes with real boxing in line. I’m staying put.”
“I’ve been out on Black Friday on many occasions, and I’ve never been punched,” Dylan said. “Pushed and shoved out of the way a few times but never assaulted. It’s won’t be that dangerous. Crowded, yes. Dangerous, no.”
Hope jabbed Dylan’s nose lightly with her fist. “I’ve seen all the videos online, Dylan. I watched a man punch out another shopper in a Best Buy, and that was down in Virginia, where people supposedly have manners. I’ve seen unruly mobs trampling people and breaking doors at Walmart. I saw a group of shoppers trying to kill each other over some gift certificates released from the ceiling of a mall in California. A crowd not far from here in Valley Stream once crushed a Walmart worker to death. A Toys for Tots volunteer—a volunteer!—was stabbed by a shoplifter in Georgia. And you say shopping on Black Friday is not dangerous?”
Dylan blocked Hope’s next jab. “We will not be going to any of those stores, Hope. In fact, I think we’ll only go to one. It’s a small place, but it’s big on gift ideas.”
“Where is it?” Hope asked.
“On Atlantic Avenue in Boerum Hill,” Dylan said. “It is a very cool store that features Brooklyn artists and artisans.”
Hope rolled away from Dylan and snapped off the TV with the remote control. “I am not setting the alarm clock. I refuse to do any shopping before the sun rises.”
Dylan moved in behind her. “We’ll sleep in then,” he whispered. “We’ll have to, actually. I haven’t sampled enough of your pumpkin pie.”
“But I didn’t make you any pumpkin pie.”
Hope felt something abundant prodding her sexy derriere.
Oh, I guess I did.
It is kind of round and brown.
I am so very thankful this year . . .
The next morning at the reasonable hour of ten AM, Hope and Dylan, fortified by leftover baked banana custard and Prospect Perk Café triple-triples, strolled up Flatbush to Atlantic Avenue.
This was Hope’s kind of store.
She saw art, photography, imaginative bags, handmade jewelry, avant-garde clothing, delicate paper products—and a rotating display of Odd Ducks cards.
“Look at this!” Hope cried, turning the display. “What are they doing here?”
“We’re Brooklyn artists, too,” Dylan said. “They order from us all the time.”
Hope spun the display. “It seems more real to see them like this.” She pointed to the
price at the top of the display. “Four dollars?” she whispered.
“They have to make a profit somehow, don’t they?” Dylan whispered.
Dylan showed Hope an assortment of delicate Katrina Lapenne braid rings, the metal woven together like thick thread.
Hope picked up a small 14K gold ring. So light. So delicate.
“Try it on,” he said.
You don’t have to ask me twice. She slipped the ring onto her left ring finger. “It’s beautiful and so light I can barely feel it on my finger.”
“Don’t take it off,” Dylan said. He took her hand and led her to the cashier.
“You’re buying this for me?” Hope whispered.
“Another early Christmas gift,” Dylan said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Hope shook her head. “I don’t.”
Dylan paid for the ring and led her outside, turning and facing her. “Hope, it’s not only an early Christmas gift. It’s a promise ring. I promise to love you. Mon coeur entier pour ma vie entière. My whole heart for my whole life.” He kissed her gently. “Did I say it right?”
Hope nodded. “Je promets d’aimer vous et aucuns. I promise to love you and no others,” Hope said, embracing him. “This is so sweet.” It fits me perfectly now, and when I gain even more weight and my fingers start to swell, it will never come off.
“In ancient times a promise ring was considered a placeholder,” Dylan said.
“It was?” Hope smiled. “A placeholder for what?”
Instead of answering, Dylan whistled “It’s Beginning to Look a lot Like Christmas.”
He’s beginning to look a lot like my future husband!
Hope’s tiny gold ring sparkled in the sunlight as they returned to Flatbush, Dylan stopping them in front of the still empty building across from Thrifty.
“I’m feeling lucky,” he said. He took out his cell phone and called the number on the “For Lease” sign.
He also squeezed Hope’s hand tightly.
“Hello, yes, I’m calling about the property you have for lease on the corner of Flatbush and Nevins Street,” Dylan said. “Yes, sir, I was hoping to get into that space by the end of January. What are you asking per month?”