The Designer

by Aubrey Parker

  I didn’t have a good answer, so I explained the Pillar Collection. Mateo should get it. He wears a capsule wardrobe himself without knowing what to call it. But I couldn’t articulate what’s special about Stacy’s work, and without that articulation, I seem like a fool.

  But that’s not the worst of it. Sometimes I wonder if my perception is skewed. I can’t think about Stacy’s prototype garments without imagining us wearing them, unintentionally bespoke, naked beneath, fucking like animals.

  I had a joke for Stacy, as we lay in the afterglow. She made the dress and the shirt, and without intending to, she fitted one perfectly to each of us. As we drifted, I thought about making a seamstress pun: It’s like we were MADE for each other. But I couldn’t open my lips to say it. Maybe because it wasn’t funny. Maybe because part of me wants to believe it’s true.

  From the realtor’s lips, my mind seems to hear only the words that reflect my thoughts, all metaphors of cloth and thread:

  … custom built.

  … stitched together.

  … crafted with care.

  … made to last.

  And most fitting:

  I think it will suit you perfectly.

  Jocelyn is only talking to hear herself talk. Carlo made it clear that this is more of an inspection than a pitch. I’ve already decided to buy. We have a signed contract, and I’ve made an earnest money deposit. I just need to clear the contingencies. Run through it, make sure things are okay in a final run-through. She’s going on and on about this grand historical building, and how the sturdy walls will hold whatever I put in here once I’ve gutted the rot that Newport or the previous tenant left behind. The whole thing can be modernized far cheaper than building new. Jocelyn — even now, even though we’ve been through all of this — assures me that the city has insisted on no undue zoning rules. I can do pretty much whatever I want with this place without any bluenose history snobs trying to stop me.

  Mateo takes my arm, dragging me back. “Your realtor is annoying. Let’s ditch.”

  “I’m here to inspect. I don’t want to ditch.”

  “You’re not an inspector. And you already had an inspector go through it. Plus three contractors and a painter.”

  “That might change if I want this for the Pillar Collection.”

  Mateo rolls his eyes. He doesn’t like my new and improved name for what was formerly called “All-American Clothes” any more than he likes the new improvements themselves.

  “A storefront is a storefront, no matter what stupidly conceived clothes you sell from it. The plant itself remains a plant. You fill the main floor with workers, wall off the front corner and erect a facade to modernize the outside, then fill it out with a few local design team rooms if you have the space and insist on hiring more staff. It’s your funeral regardless of what Chatterbox up there goes on and on about. So, let’s ditch.”

  I wonder where Mateo would have us go. It’s a bit much to hop on the plane instead of ditching to somewhere nearby, but maybe that’s what he has in mind. He can’t stop talking about strategies to convince the mountain-bitch to sell despite the fact that she apparently hates Mateo and doesn’t remotely need the money. I, on the other hand, am in no rush to go there.

  I face Mateo. Jocelyn and Carlo keep walking, oblivious to the fact that they’ve lost us.

  “You don’t like my idea for the Pillar Collection,” I say.

  “I can’t believe you got that impression. It’s not like I’ve been calling you stupid and shitting on the idea since you first brought it up and then made it worse or anything.”

  “Why don’t you like it? As a concept, I mean.”

  “The concept is fine. But for you? For Expendable Chic?”

  “You’re missing the point. The fact that it’s part of Chic is what makes it perfect. It’s not notable if Brooks Brothers announces a high-quality line. But if we do it, and if the items in the Collection are as good as I’m telling you they are, it’s not just something worth a press release and a PR campaign. It works for the larger brand.”

  “People don’t buy Expendable Chic clothes because they’re cheap,” I say.

  “Yes, they do.”

  “No, they don’t. The fact that they’re cheap allows our ideal customer to buy enough items that they can achieve the real goal of buying Expendable Chic clothes. It’s not the goal itself, or the reason for pursuing it.”

  “Fine. So what’s the goal of your trashy party clothing?”

  “To feel good. To wear something that improves the way they see themselves.”

  Mateo laughs, but I’m serious. Stacy and I talked about this last night on the phone. It kills me that I can’t see her on this trip, but I have to keep whatever’s between us a secret for now. The board wouldn’t accept Stacy or the Pillar Collection if they knew that we are … whatever it is that we are.

  “The Pillar Collection does the same thing, just from a different angle.”

  “Dude. The shirt and dress you showed me? Nothing like the rest of Chic’s clothes.”

  “Which is exactly the point. They’re not flashy. But they’re good clothes. Built to last. When the Pillar Collection makes jeans, they’ll last for twenty years. Timeless, classic styles with quality construction, from formalwear to the best T-shirt you’ll ever own. It’ll change the way people think about Expendable Chic. The company will end up with two wings, both of which will make the customer feel and look fantastic in different ways. Separate stores, Mateo, like how Victoria’s Secret has separate stores for Pink.”

  This doesn’t impress Mateo. It’s okay. I know I’m right. Once Stacy explained the idea of a capsule wardrobe, I lit up immediately. Men, in particular, used to own a lot less clothing, but what they had was bulletproof, immune to the ravages of wear and shifts in style. A man might only own thirty things, excluding underwear, accents, and athletic wear, but they’d be things that man could wear anywhere, forever.

  Classic suits in charcoal and navy.

  Two or three pairs of slacks and some tough-as-nails, straight-cut jeans.

  T-shirts as immune to the years as my lucky shirt.

  All-purpose shorts.

  Two to four pairs of shoes, in neutral colors.

  Shirts, perfectly tailored, with enough fabric behind the hems to be let out, should he gain weight.

  For women, it’s basics that go with everything. Swappable tops and bottoms, full-body garments that a savvy girl can mix and match for endless variety. Again, all tailored. All the highest quality possible, justifiable in price because you could wear them forever.

  Seasonal changes, here and there, but otherwise sealed. The opposite of the wear-and-burn I’ve helped popularize.

  A capsule wardrobe.

  Items that stand in a person’s closet as pillars, trusted to make the wearer look his or her best.

  How do you like the name “The Pillar Collection”? I asked Stacy.

  And she purred with satisfaction, drifting off into sleep.

  Mateo walks on, into the dim third-floor space. There aren’t many lights over there, Perfect windows or not. He’s going to step on a nail and get tetanus. Serves him right.

  “Mr. Brooks?”

  It’s Jocelyn, the bright-eyed pixie realtor on her stilt-like heels. She and Carlo approached me from behind, like an ambush.

  “I’m sorry. We must have lost you somewhere,” she says.

  I point. “It’s Mateo’s fault.”

  Her eyes follow Mateo’s silhouette. “Your friend?”

  “Yes. He wants to buy in Williamsville, too.”

  He doesn’t. At all. Mateo hates it here.

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  And Jocelyn tip-taps after him, even more likely to trip and get a rust-metal cut than Mateo.

  When we’re alone, Carlo says to me, “I think you stopped paying attention a while ago, Mr. Brooks. I guess you’re ready to release the contingency and buy this big fella?”

  But my mind
is wandering. Over the past few days, a lot of paperwork regarding this building has crossed my desk. I see the Newport name every time. It makes me think of the clock tower. Of Newport’s reputation for raping the town in the name of profit. It makes me wonder, in ways I don’t want to. But I put it out of my head. Business is business.

  But I feel a shiver whenever we walk by the Billings & Pile Building. I haven’t told her I’m buying it. I’m keeping a secret, and I’m not even sure why.

  She wouldn’t mind. I don’t even think she’d be interested. It’s not the same as the clock tower, which was a thriving downtown business with a museum. This thing is farther outside the center circle, empty, and falling apart. I’m going to revive it, and nobody will miss the mess I’ll clear out when I do.

  But then why haven’t I told her?

  “Carlo,” I say, “what do you think of Newport?”

  “Don’t know much about them. Just a company, is all.”

  But I can tell he’s holding back. Lying, even.

  “You work for me, Carlo, not them. You can tell me the truth.”

  He takes a moment. Sighs. I can tell he’s trying to be polite in a global way, to give everyone the benefit of the doubt.

  “They don’t understand Williamsville,” he finally says. “And lots of people ‘round here think they don’t care what happens to the town at all, as long as they make their money.”

  “What do you think about me, dealing with them?”

  “Are you asking for my approval, Mr. Brooks? Because I hardly think you need it.”

  “Just curious.”

  Carlo shrugs. “You seem like a nice fella. Dealing is dealing. Someone needed to buy this place, and it’s not like Newport made a mint. They bought it too high, then settled pretty low.”

  “What would the average person think, do you imagine?”

  “Huh?”

  “What would the average Williamsville citizen think of this deal,” I ask, “who’s not making a commission.”

  Carlo smiles. “Depends on the citizen.”

  I pretend to choose at random. “Well, what about that lady I met at the alterations shop? What do you think she’d think?”

  “Stacy?”

  “Sure.”

  Carlo smiles a little. I haven’t fooled him at all.

  “I guess you don’t know Stacy much. Not like you’ve given her lots of business.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re—”

  “This is a small town,” Carlo says, not even letting me finish my faux confusion. “Word gets around. I think it’s great. Stacy needs someone. She’s had a tough time. She’s had to prop that shop up all by herself, now that her dad’s hands went bad. She supports them all, you know, by selling clothes on some internet site. You ask me? She could use someone like you.”

  “We’re not … I mean, when you say ‘someone like me’ …”

  “To answer your question, though, I suspect she’d be happy with anything that shows respect to us here. Take care of Williamsville, and Williamsville takes care of you.”

  I want to hold back, to not show Carlo how much better that makes me feel. I don’t particularly like him — and, I’d guess, half the town — knowing that I’ve been spending time with Stacy for weeks. But I’m sure that Carlo sees my relieved smile.

  Take care of Williamsville, and Williamsville takes care of you.

  That’s what I’ve said from the start. It’s win-win. Expendable Chic will bring jobs and Williamsville will bring my company income. One less Newport building in the city, and I managed to screw them with a rock-bottom price.

  Yes. Thank you, Carlo. That helped a lot.

  Jocelyn returns, and Mateo is at her side like a reluctant dog. She probably just gave him a sales pitch about buying a building here, and he’s surely annoyed at me because of it.

  She produces a document and a pen. “So, Mr. Brooks, does the building meet your satisfaction?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ready to sign to release the contingency?”

  “No,” I say. “I’d like to make a change to the contract.”

  She looks slapped. This is the eleventh hour, and now her buyer is threatening to rock the cart. Carlo is looking at me funny, too. We just had our little chat, and I’m sure he assumed this was in the bag.

  “And what change is that, Mr. Brooks?”

  “The clause where I receive two hundred thousand dollars back after closing. Where the building is over-financed, to provide Expendable Chic the funds we need to fix the place up?”

  She nods slowly. That was a tricky clause to arrange because it means the bank is making the loan based on the building’s value once renovations are complete, not its shitty, lower value now. But my company has billions, so they granted it.

  “Yes?” Jocelyn says.

  “I changed my mind. I don’t want the two hundred thousand to come back to us for construction.”

  “But Mr. Brooks, changing the loan amount means we’d have to—”

  “I don’t want the loan amount changed. I just want that two hundred thousand dollars to go somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  I’ve been crazy to feel bad about this.

  I’ll see Stacy tomorrow, and I’ll tell her everything.

  “Give the money to Williamsville,” I tell Jocelyn, “to use however the town sees fit.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  STACY

  “HON,” MY MOTHER SAYS WHEN I open the door. “Can I talk to you a bit?”

  I step aside. She enters.

  “What’s up, Mom?”

  She sits on my couch. I get a weird flash and am freaked out for a quarter second, my mind equating the downstairs couch with the one up here, in my apartment. But Hampton and I didn’t have sex on this one. We did it downstairs a few places, up here on my bed a few times, and in the shower twice. Once he drove me to the airstrip and we had sex in his plane, then again on the limo ride back. Only now am I realizing how much fucking that is for a long-distance relationship that’s only about a month old.

  Mom composes herself with her knees together, hands atop them. She seems to be waiting for me to sit down, too, so I settle into the chair.

  “Your father and I have heard some things.”

  “What things?”

  She takes another pause. I don’t like this. The vibe is wrong. She is clearly troubled, but I don’t know why.

  “That man. Hampton Brooks.”

  Shiver.

  “What about him?”

  “Carla at the Rite-Aid said she saw you with him the other day. And when I dropped off at Salvation Army on Tuesday, Paula was there, and she asked about you and that rich guy in the suit. Are you seeing him, Stacy?”

  “What does it matter, Mom? That’s my business.”

  I hate my answer. Because without a denial, I’ve confirmed her suspicions. I’m feeding right into the teenage rebellion fantasy, wherein I assume she’s prohibiting and I’m about to stand up for my rights. We’ve never really clashed. My parents accept my choices. I hate the hint of a rift or the suggestion that they might not trust me.

  “It is. And we’ll respect whatever’s the case. But if you don’t mind saying … are you …?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say, snapping more than I mean to.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean …”

  Sigh. Am I supposed to tell my mother that we’re having a lot of sex, but it’s not clear yet whether we’re more than fuck buddies? Even if I’m reasonably sure how I feel, and have dreams in which Hampton feels the same way?

  “He’s a nice guy, Mom.”

  “And you’re dating?”

  “I don’t see why it matters.” I have to give her something, so I add, “Okay. Fine. Yes, I guess we’re dating.”

  “Your father says you talked to him a while ago when Mr. Brooks came into the shop. He says you were hopping mad.”

  “I didn’t think I liked him, but I didn’t know
him yet.”

  “Your father also says you have a grudge against his business.”

  “A grudge?”

  “You know. I read your internet page about him at the library. You talk about his business like they’re the devil.”

  “I just don’t agree with their philosophy, is all. Or what I thought their philosophy was.” I shake my head. “What’s this all about, Mom? I’m a little too old for you to be giving me dating advice.”

  “It’s not advice. It’s—”

  “Or for you to be disapproving of my boyfriends.”

  I’ve said the word before I mean to. Mom flinches but quickly regroups. “It’s not any of that, Honey. Do you know the Billings & Pile Building?”

  I shake my head.

  “Off of Elm. Where they used to have the smithery.”

  “Speak English, Mom.”

  “The smithery,” she repeats the word as if will make more sense the second time. Then she rolls her eyes. “With the horses?”

  Now I remember. Every October, we used to have a family ritual where we’d go to the orchard, pick apples, do a corn maze and a few other things I long ago got too old for. Then we’d go to this big street festival on Elm where they’d block off traffic to fill the place with games for kids, plus hot cider and spiced donuts and pumpkin desserts for everyone. It always took place in front of this big building that once made horseshoes, of all things. My mom called it a “smithery” even though only one corner used to house a blacksmith’s shop. But there was still a city police horse stable next door, and to go with the theme the city used to bring the horses out as if they were about to be shod. We always pet the horses, fed them long grass, and stayed in the blocked-off section of the street until midnight.

  I didn’t realize it until later, but apparently, the smithery had been owned by a candle manufacturer for the years I remember it. What used to be bellows and furnaces became assembly lines for pouring scented wax. The candle company sponsored the street fair, which is why it happened where it did. When the company died, the whole affair went with it. There was no fair that next year, no pumpkin desserts, and the police horses stayed inside.

  “What about it?” I ask.