The Designer

by Aubrey Parker

  But Stacy Grace is a woman in her element. Once the awkwardness leaves her, she settles into who she must be day to day, when not working under the thumb of a CEO or sighing under a lover’s caress. She becomes a person I haven’t seen. A small-town woman with a full and rich life, as tied to this little burg as she is to the clothing she makes.

  She greets our waitress by name. The two trade smiles and I see a new emotional nuance on Stacy’s face. She holds a facade with me, and for good reason. In each of us are a number of different faces, and I’ve only seen those I’ve evoked. This is her friend face. And there are others as the hour elapses, and our talk blooms from small to something more.

  Deep down, I think I can see Stacy as she must have been as a little girl. I see her father and mother’s daughter. I see a sister to her siblings. I see someone who (judging by the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes) must have a great sense of humor, who laughs a whole lot.

  All of these faces were strangers to me until now.

  “You’re an odd man, Hampton Brooks,” she tells me, interrupting my thoughts.

  “How so?”

  “You’re full of opposites. You come off harsh.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. In fact, you come off like an asshole.”

  I wait for her to take this back, but after lunch, we’re casual together. I guess we’re at the place now where she can mock me. Even if I’m sort of her boss.

  In the silence, she raises her eyebrows like a dare, her mouth slightly open in a semi-smile, her teeth white.

  “Is there a happy ending to this analysis?” I ask.

  “Yes. That’s what makes you so strange. Because I don’t think you are an asshole.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “It’s a hard impression to shake. But I saw you with those kids, at the hospital. I saw how you are with your team, with the people who work for you. You only seem like a tyrant, without actually doing anything tyrannical.”

  “Oh, come on. I don’t seem like a tyrant.”

  “And always with the suits. Don’t you ever wear jeans?”

  “In my world, a man dresses the way he wants to feel.”

  “So,” She scrutinizes me. “You want to feel pretentious?”

  “Successful,” I answer, smiling a little.

  “But you already are successful. And you’ve gotten successful by being who you are.”

  “Are you telling me not to wear fine clothing? You?”

  “Not all your fine clothing has to live on a hanger,” she says. “I’ve seen your lucky shirt.”

  That catches me off-guard. It’s the closest we’ve come to acknowledging that we’ve already gone so far.

  “Casual wear just seems out of place here. In my circles, in the city, everyone dresses like this.”

  Stacy laughs a little. She looks around. “Well. You do seem out of place here.”

  “Should I wear overalls?”

  “Why did you come here, anyway?” she asks, ignoring the insult.

  “To meet with you.”

  “I mean the first time.”

  “I told you. I was looking at property in the area.”

  “Why, though, if you think Williamsville is so backwoods?”

  “It’s classic Americana.”

  “You’re going to move here?”

  I laugh. “I want to move part of my business here.”

  “Maybe Williamsville doesn’t want your business.” It’s an adversarial thing to say, but she’s still half-smiling, keeping it light.

  “Please.” I look around. “Look at this place. It’s hardly booming. If I move here, we’d win, you’d win, everyone would win. Williamsville would love it. We’d stoke the economy. Bring jobs.”

  “When you say ‘look at this place,’ what do you mean?”

  “It’s not exactly cosmopolitan. I’ve looked around. Done my research. Your library still stamps books by hand. Hell, you have a video rental store that stocks VHS tapes. Brick streets. And at least a third of the rentals are vacant.”

  “Because they’re Airbnbs,” Stacy says. “If they’re not occupied, the family uses them. It’s not the same.”

  “You don’t have a supermarket. Just a general store. Where’s the closest Target?”

  “Maybe we don’t want a Target.”

  I shrug. “Well. To each his own.”

  “Or her own.”

  We sit in silence. I think maybe I’ve offended her, but I see no evidence on her face. I think half the trick is that I’m not acting out of character. As she said, I come off like an asshole. This knocking of her town is just more rhetoric from the asshole in the pretentious suit.

  Stacy raises a hand. The waitress comes over, and before Stacy can ask for the check, she’s taken a twenty from her purse.

  “Wait,” I say, reaching for the twenty, already in the waitress’s hand. “This is on me.”

  “It’s not chivalrous every time a man pays for a meal,” Stacy says. “Sometimes, it’s just ball-busting.”

  The waitress waits until I nod, letting her leave with Stacy’s money.

  “I owe you one, at least,” I say as Stacy stands.

  “You’re right; you do. So, buy me some ice cream.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  HAMPTON

  “NOTICE ANYTHING?” STACY ASKS.

  I look where she’s pointing. There’s an ice cream cone in her hand, and apparently, she missed a few lessons about kid skills because she hasn’t kept the cone sufficiently tamed. There’s a long drip of vanilla running over the edge and across the back of her hand. She retracts the arm, licks her hand with a playful pink tongue. I watch the everyday motions like a stalker until I see she’s still waiting for an answer.

  I look again. “It’s a clock.”

  “A clock tower,” Stacy clarifies. Hey, at least I guessed that the clock was what mattered. It’s at one end of a long, white stone building, beside a rather large fountain occupying some children tossing pennies for wishes. Any one of the features beyond the ice cream shop’s lawn could be what she’s implying I should already have commented on.

  “Nice. Now I don’t need a watch,” I say.

  “That’s not what you’re supposed to notice.”

  “I give up.” Because I’m not really trying.

  “You don’t get to give up.”

  I look again. My ice cream cone is handled because I’m neat with my frozen confections. I haven’t had an ice cream cone for five years or more, but at least I haven’t forgotten how to eat one.

  “The time is wrong,” I say, comparing the clock to my watch.

  “Exactly.”

  “So it’s a shitty clock tower.”

  “Actually,” Stacy says, taking another lick, “it’s a historic clock tower. There was a famous storm in 1967. A dam broke north of here, and it wiped out a fifth of the town, in the area we now call the flats. It was a turning point for the town because most of what was lost in the flood were old mercantile buildings. They rebuilt homes and small businesses instead, like its own district. The storm made Williamsville what it is today.” She points again. “In that same storm, lightning struck the tower, and the clock stopped. As if it was immortalizing the moment when everything changed.”

  “Lightning struck it? Like in Back to the Future. Do you get a lot of mad scientists around these parts, toying with time and space?”

  Stacy is staring at me, judgment on her face.

  “What, you’ve never seen Back to the Future?” I ask.

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “I’m making fun of the clock nobody’s bothered to fix.”

  “There’s a museum inside the building,” Stacy says. “All about Williamsville, and the storm.”

  I don’t think I should push any harder, but a mocking comment flies into my head: Now that must be one exciting museum. Because really. Who the hell would go there other than locals, and why would locals go twice?

  “Or at least th
ere was,” she says.

  I look at her face.

  “A few years ago, the town council needed to raise money, and their solution was to sell the building. The argument was that the spot was a prime downtown location and that holding onto the museum wasn’t worth the loss of tax revenue that could be made on such a large property. There was an auction, and an out-of-town company called Newport bought it. They gutted the place. Took out all the original work and left the shell. They subdivided the interior, then rented it out. Now, instead of the museum, there’s a Verizon store, a Starbucks, an Urban Outfitters, and an Applebee’s.”

  “What’s wrong with Applebee’s?”

  I can see my mistake on her face.

  “This town might be boring to a lot of people, but it’s who I am. It shaped me into the person I’ve become. As a kid, I played down by the creek beds. Rode my bike along the promenade. We used to go down to Whippersnapper for burgers after school. And whenever we met up with anyone downtown, we’d say to meet at the clock tower, by the entrance to the museum. And now there’s a stupid Verizon store there.”

  I take a mental step back. The emotion is clear on her face. I won’t make jokes, and if I’m smart, I’ll find something sympathetic to say. I feel transparent. Not only do I own an out-of-town company myself, I know the name Newport. During my research into Williamsville, I learned that Newport Investments has purchased many of the town’s oldest buildings, and Carlo the realtor told me they’ve become a public scourge. The city sold to them during desperate times and is now battling over building plans that will convert more of the town’s precious memories into Starbucks and Applebee’s.

  More specifically, Newport owns the Billings & Pile Building, which I’m inches from buying. Based on what they paid versus what I’m paying, ours is a deal that will make Stacy’s mortal enemy very happy.

  “At least the clock is still there,” I say.

  “There’s an easement or something, apparently,” Stacy says. “I don’t understand the details, but luckily they can’t knock down the tower or even charge people for tours. I guess the steps up into the tower are too rickety to pass code for something like that, and the historical restrictions say that the tower’s structure can’t be modified, even just to add safety railings. So at least that part will stay how it is. For now.”

  Stacy’s face is fury fighting with sorrow. She’s glaring at the building as if it punched her mother. I guess now isn’t a good time to say that I’ve met Newport’s CEO as part of our deal, and shook his hand just three days ago.

  I want to end this conversation, so I’m about to shift it. But Stacy’s stare breaks and she faces me. “I know you think things are backward here. But quaint is how we like it. And since we’re the ones who live here, who is anyone else to judge?”

  By “anyone else,” she could easily mean me. It’s me she’s asking, and me she’s looking at. I have some answers, from agreement to argumentative. I could tell her that the market decides what thrives or dies and that if nobody went to the old museum while the Urban Outfitters does brisk business, then the townspeople must not like quaint as much as she says. But I don’t want to spar with Stacy. Nor do I want to deepen her pain, or make her sad.

  “Should we walk and talk?” I say after the moment of tension dissipates.

  Stacy takes a big, unladylike mouthful of cone, more of a moosh with her lips than a bite. She nods, and we stand.

  “Where should we go next?” she asks.

  It’s a curious question. Yes, we need to know where to go, but under her words lies the song of an ongoing adventure. Where should we go next? is what teenagers ask each other when they go out. Where should we go next? is what people ask each other when they’re on a date and all that matters is being together and having fun.

  But what’s between Stacy and me is business, no matter what happened last time. It can only be business. It’s all either of us seems to want, judging by how sharply we’ve turned our heads from the scintillating truth.

  “To The Perfect Fit, of course,” I say, “to see your designs.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  HAMPTON

  AS USUALLY HAPPENS WHEN I’M around interesting people, I get the seed of an idea on the walk back to Stacy’s shop. More accurately, the idea I’ve already had and talked about with my leadership team at EC is growing meat on its bones.

  I glance at Stacy as we walk, but she’s gone silent. I’m not sure if my quips back at Brain Freeze have pissed her off or if it’s something else, but she’s barely spoken since I suggested we go back and look at her sketches.

  I watch her profile every so often, looking for signs. It’s lovely, so when she doesn’t seem to notice my stare, I keep right on looking. Thoughts enter my head that shouldn’t be there. I remember my palm on that soft cheek, my fingers running through that dark blonde hair. I remember the touch of those lips, now pressed together as if in worry. I remember the way her face changed when I slipped inside her.

  I force myself to look away. It’s no good to mix signals. She’s angry now, I guess, and that’s okay. She’ll show me what she’s created, and then she’ll be glad to see me go. I’m a pompous out-of-town asshole who doesn’t fit in here, who thinks her dinky town is an adorable little armpit, ripe for exploitation.

  Isn’t it? There’s a reason you want to buy here, after all.

  I focus. That’s not true. I want to buy in Williamsville because the price and location are right. I wouldn’t run a sweatshop. We’d make ourselves part of the community. Everyone would benefit. As Stacy said, and I’m coming to believe, my values are as much about helping as they are about cash. Unless she’s changed her mind about me after today, which makes sense. My team says I only want an “all-American line” to look good for the figurative cameras. And it’s true.

  I turn away from Stacy. If she’s decided I’m an exploiter and a cad, so be it. If she’s mad at me now, that’s fine. If she wants to go quiet and not talk, I’ll use the time to think.

  I have this idea, and it’s getting clearer by the minute.

  We keep it simple. “All-American Clothes.” We ride that shit hard — like we practically put a waving flag in the commercials while blaring the national anthem. Expendable Chic is hardly the only clothing company that sends its labor overseas, so declaring “all-American” sets up an amazing “us versus them” to distinguish EC from the other stores in the mall. And we can back it up, by doing as Stacy suggested. We’ll create a sub-brand based on her designs, then manufacture one hundred percent of those higher-quality items in the USA. We’ll tie two concepts together: “made in America” and “quality construction.” People will draw all sorts of patriotic conclusions, and we can ride two trends at once. Maybe it’s a publicity ploy, as my team says. But it could propel the entire company forward, like a booster shot for our public image.

  I glance again at Stacy. Maybe the emotion I see isn’t anger. Maybe she isn’t pissed, or sad, or frustrated. This looks almost like worry.

  What is she worried about?

  I decide it doesn’t matter. If she doesn’t hate me, maybe she’ll be willing to keep working with me.

  Maybe she’ll be willing to take the lead on the All-American clothes division of Expendable Chic, as I proposed to my team. She’ll have to learn management, but she already strikes me as meticulous. That will make her a good list-maker — someone who’s excellent at tracking the details. All skills that are required for a director-level position, managing the new factory here in town.

  I can picture the marketing.

  I can picture how the new line will fit into the stores on a proud but tidy display in the rear of each Expendable Chic location.

  Maybe Stacy is right. Expendable Chic shoppers will pay more for longer-lasting, less-fad-driven items. Maybe, with enough luck, the All-American Clothes line could even be profitable.

  I buy it, even if my leadership team still thinks I’m an idiot.

  “Work on the name,” i
s all they said when I brought it up. As if they hate the idea so much, it’s all they can say now that I’m fixated on making it happen.

  Clothes that last. What a concept.

  When we enter the store, Stacy holds the door. Then I turn, and she turns, and we run chest to chest. She appears to be terrified. The affection she had at the restaurant is gone, so is the fire she had while talking about the clock tower. Fear has taken their place.

  But of what? And why?

  We stay pressed together for too long. My hands have ended up around her waist. It’s because the foyer of The Perfect Fit is too small. Because the space is too tight.

  Her hands are on me, too.

  Our eyes meet. They linger. There’s a moment. Then I break it, turning away.

  Stacy moves behind the counter. Begins sorting order chits, as if we have no business together.

  “Let’s see what you have for me,” I say, swallowing past a curious obstruction.

  The worry on Stacy’s face collapses into acceptance. I see something like regret. Then she sighs.

  “I’ll get them,” she says, “but in advance, I’m sorry.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  STACY

  WHEN I SAY THAT I made prototypes from my new sketches, Hampton almost smiles. It’s the delight when the subject is business. I feel guilty. Because I’m peeking around the corner, my out-of-sight hands holding the hangers.

  I know what he’s about to see. I know that the prototypes are failures, and how disappointed I’m about to make him. Perhaps worse, I know how pleased I am by these disappointments, once I set Expendable Chic’s expectations aside. I have to admit, looking at them now, they’re two of my proudest accomplishments. This is how clothing should be made. The dress and shirt are both fat middle fingers to fast fashion. They walk up to stores like Expendable Chic and poop on their doorsteps.

  I don’t know why I let myself make these things on Hampton’s dime, if not to spite him.