CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
STACY
I’M SWEEPING THE FLOOR OF The Perfect Fit when I first notice the smell.
It draws me like a siren’s song. I find myself drifting toward my propped-open front door like a floating cartoon, nose forward and eyes closed, toward something pleasant.
There’s a vendor’s cart outside. I have no idea why. This isn’t that type of street. I’ve never seen one anywhere near my shop. Even in downtown, we only get them during special events.
But it’s not just any cart.
It’s one selling donuts.
And it’s not just any cart selling donuts. It’s the same cart — selling pumpkin donuts — that mom and dad and I used to visit every time we went to that old street festival in front of what my mother calls the smithery.
Curious, I walk to the cart. The man is fat, with a little mustache. Same guy, if my memory serves.
“Hi.”
“Hello, Miss.”
“You’re selling donuts? Here?”
“Yes, Miss. You want a bag?”
They smell amazing. “How much?”
“Six dollars.”
The donuts are miniature, and the bags are tiny. Two dollars would be overpriced. But I pull cash out of my pocket anyway. “You’d get more customers at three. People around here don’t like to spend money.”
“Not up to me, Miss. Carnival pricing.”
“What carnival?”
“Up there, Miss.” He points.
I strain to listen, because now that I’m out here, I do hear something.
I give the man his money, but he has to call after me to give me my donuts. I’m walking slowly up the slight hill, rounding onto Telford Avenue. I hear the clatter and clank of activity. More commotion than I’d expect during the week, at this time of day, in this part of town.
I can hear a few kids laughing. I look at my phone. I suppose school is out by now, but what the hell are they doing up here?
I realize where I’m headed, toward that stupid building. I’ve built a blind spot in my head. On my mental map, there’s nothing in this part of the city. It’s a big black hole that once held my childhood.
But now that I’m closer, I see strange things. Things that I remember, even though they are from years ago. Things I never expected to see again.
Thick black electrical cords and hoses, bound into bundles, snake through the streets. Blocked roads, detouring traffic.
And when I emerge onto Elm, I see that it’s filled with food carts, booths, laid-out family games. Not a lot of people yet, but I know festival prep when I see it.
Vendors are blowing up balloons.
Roadie-types are milling between the new booths, checking connections.
Food trailers are prepping, filling the air with the scent of nostalgia.
And the police horses. As in my memories, the police horses are outside of the stable next door.
Across the street, the Billings & Pile building looms. It’s enormous. The festival is in its foreground, its entrances all obscured. There’s one way in, through the emergency exits. If Hampton were here to see what’s happened during his construction, he’d be pissed.
I look at the building to see what he’s done to it.
But the chimneys aren’t belching.
There is no ridiculous, eyesore of an Expendable Chic store facade at the forward corner.
In fact, there’s something wrong with the old building that it takes me a while to place. It’s something across the front. Having to do with the original brick, or what’s on it.
But then I have it. There used to be a plain-looking sign bearing the name of the candle company, but it’s gone. There’s no sign at all in its place, for Expendable Chic or anything else. Even the brackets have been removed, and the anchor holes patched. In its place, sprawling across the front is this stencil in white paint: Billings & Pile Smithery.
Someone’s re-done the original signage. It was there the entire time, but faded. Now, while still looking original and perfectly weathered, I can read it just fine. Same as a century before.
“I see you got my donuts,” says a voice.
I look back and see Hampton Brooks.
“They’re not your donuts,” is all I can think to say. But obviously, he had the cart placed where I’d see it. He spoke to the vendor. All of this, somehow, is his doing.
“Well, can I have one?”
“No.”
“Maybe I’ll get a corn dog, then.”
I’m still shell-shocked. The festival is just as I remember, save the relocated donut cart. It’s the wrong time of year, but it’s here and happening. I’m having trouble keeping my mouth closed.
“I don’t suppose you want to ride the Tilt-a-Whirl. It looks phenomenally unsafe, and the guy running it looks like he’s on heroin.”
“You can’t just buy me off,” I say.
“Fine. Get your own Tilt-a-Whirl tickets. I don’t want to be responsible for getting you on that death trap.”
“I mean by throwing this festival. You can’t just buy your way into my good graces.”
Hampton is looking at the street full of workers and early festival-goers. He doesn’t look over when he says, “Oh, no. I didn’t do this.”
“You didn’t?”
“No. The city did it. They wouldn’t let me do something like this no matter how much I wanted it. The local ordinances around here are really strict.”
But obviously, something is up. I’m not an idiot. There was a donut cart practically on my front stoop, and Hampton put it there. This is happening too early in the year, and shouldn’t be happening at all. He just walks up to me while I’m surveying the scene? No. That man is behind this.
“What is this, Hampton?”
“It’s a good time for all. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”
“Why is it happening? What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Why does your building say ‘Billings & Pile Smithery’ across the front? Shouldn’t it have some big, ugly Expendable Chic logo? You know, to modern up this dull little town?”
Hampton doesn’t flinch. “That’s not my building.”
“You own it.”
He shakes his head. “The city of Williamsville owns it. This festival couldn’t be happening if it didn’t.”
That’s true. I remember the heated discussions at the town hall meetings, about this very thing. The city enacted the ordinance to keep Williamsville from coercion, but it ended up putting a nail in the festival’s coffin forever after.
“You sold it to the city?”
He nods.
“They couldn’t afford it.”
“They could afford my price.”
“Which was?”
“One dollar.”
I look over at him.
“I’d have made it zero, but there had to be a monetary exchange unless I wanted to figure out how to donate it. The city would have to form a charitable LLC … oh, it’s a whole thing. I’m a busy man with a company to run.”
I look at the building. I know, without him telling me, that Hampton had the white stencil re-done. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Or seeing.
“What about your factory?”
“Plant.”
“Fine. What about your plant?”
He nods. “It’s in there.”
“You said you sold the building to the city.”
“I did. Then I leased it back from them. I took one hell of a loss on the building itself, but my CFO likes it that way. It’s a whole tax thing. We lose now, then make it up over time. The city gave me a very nice, low rent as a condition of sale. And it’s a 99-year lease, so we’re now a permanent part of this town whether you like it or not.”
I look up at Hampton. He’s trying to pretend he doesn’t see me looking, but he sees me fine. His smile is small, but it isn’t a smirk. It’s clear he’s pleased with my reaction. Confident. Kind of like an asshole, but the sort I’m finding it harder and harder to hate.
He finally looks down. “Would you like a tour?”
I blink at the building. “It’s done?”
“We move fast. It was cleared out by the time I gave up trying to call you. After I signed with the city, we still had 30 days with an expedited commercial closing. Plenty of time to do all that the lease allowed us to do.
“‘What the lease allowed you to do’? But you were in control of the lease!”
“We set some of the conditions, yes. But as I said, this town’s council is a stickler about ordinances. Zoning laws. What kinds of things they’d let a big, bad corporation like Expendable Chic do within its borders.” He takes my hand. “Come. I want to show you all the things we’ve ruined, dragging this backward little burg into the 21st century with our modern, disgusting factory.”
Hampton leads. I follow. I’m still not sure of the feel of my hand in his. Twenty minutes ago, I was minding my little alterations shop, never wanting to see him again. Now he’s here, skin on skin, and all I can do is let him drag me.
We move around to the back, where a door next to the loading bay has been propped open. The first glance steals my breath. Someone — Hampton, maybe the city — has had the brick restored, and all of the original woodwork re-done. The big space is bright. It looks like something from old Philadelphia, like an original town hall.
“We don’t need much in the way of a loading bay,” Hampton says. “Trucks may pull up here from time to time, but they’ll be small, and half the time I bet they won’t have high enough decks to use the big door. We can load and unload mostly by hand, and there’s a small forklift over there if we get lucky matching deck heights.”
“Why don’t you need a big loading bay? It’s a plant, right?”
“Yes, but it’s mostly handmade. Come on.”
He pulls me into the next room. I see rows of sewing machines. Cutting tables and other utilities line the periphery. But it’s a much smaller space than it should be. He’s had the cavernous interior walled at one end.
“This is it?”
“You aren’t impressed?”
“I just assumed it’d be bigger.”
“You’d be surprised how fast some of the best people can work, using our methods.” He holds up a finger. “But when I say, our methods, I don’t mean they’re cutting corners and making cheap stuff. They’ll do it right, but they’re still fast. This is the home of the Pillar Collection, after all.”
I try to count machines, but my head is spinning. He’s right about top people; they can haul ass if they’re working patterns on repeat. And this is clearly an assembly line. Rather than one tailor building a garment from scratch, it will be cut by one person, sewn on some seams by the next person, and so on down the line. The space isn’t what I expected, but it’s not small. So yes, they’ll craft fast. And Hampton told me all along that if this program were green-lit, it’d start as a pilot. He’d sell the Pillar Collection via a few key stores, then expand if needed.
I look at this world with fresh eyes, trying to accept what I see.
This isn’t a factory. Not by any stretch. It’s what I do every day, multiplied.
“What’s the rest of the building, if this is all the space devoted to making clothes?”
His smile widens. “Oh, that’s the best part.”
I get the rest of the tour. It turns out there is an Expendable Chic store in the building. It’s just concealed and non-ostentatious. He takes me around the side and shows me the small, almost adorable sign, then explains that if the Pillar Collection is to work, its reputation will spread slowly.
The last thing Hampton wants is to blast its existence to the corners of the globe. If he did that, the wrong people would come in, lured by Expendable Chic’s current reputation. They’d see the simplicity of the clothes, and the high price tags, then leave. Worse, they’d complain. The Collection would be finished before it started.
Hampton wants slow, purposeful growth, to attract the right customers. That’s why his building proclaims “Billings & Pile Smithery” rather than “Expendable Chic.” It’s more important that the company’s values fit with the town.
At that, against my will, I melt.
As we continue through the building, Hampton explains the restrictions in his lease — restrictions the city wrote, but that I secretly suspect he suggested, maybe even for my sake. His plant can’t vent harmful emissions. It can’t employ workers at less than a generous percent above minimum wage, and it can only grow so large. He has to share the building; he doesn’t have a lease to it all. That part is very specific and refers to another document called Addendum A.
“What’s Addendum A?” I ask.
“It’s a copy of another tenant’s lease. I have to abide by their terms, and respect their tenancy next door to mine.”
“Who’s the other tenant?” I ask.
Hampton pulls me toward another door. This one, he has to unlock with a key — presumably because the next space is owned by someone else.
In the next room, my breath escapes me.
The building’s other tenant is the city itself, and in the space is a museum.
The same museum, I see, that used to be in the clock tower building. I don’t know how he found out what used to be there or where it all was, or who he talked to or how he got them to dig for those old, buried artifacts. But here they are, just the same.
“Hampton …”
“It’s a historical building, so I figured it was only fair for my neighbor to be a historical entity. But it’s not all roses for them either, you know. The museum is on the hook for as long as I am. Their lease is also 99 years.”
He looks at me. Smiles.
“But on the plus side, their rent is better than mine. It’s only one dollar per month — and it comes with a generous allowance, from the tenant next door, to put on a street festival each year.”
I blink. Tears fill my eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say that you love me,” Hampton says, “because unfortunately for my company’s bottom line, it turns out I love you.”