CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HAMPTON
IT’S BETTER AFTER LUNCH. THE weirdness is gone. Out here in the fresh Williamsville’s air, it’s easier to see Stacy as some woman who happens to be walking the town by my side. A guide. A business acquaintance.
And that’s good because after thirty seconds of being in her alterations shop, I was starting to see her as I last saw her. Naked on the couch, beneath me as we moved together, in my arms after it was over.
And that made me respond in several telling ways. My hands started to sweat. I wanted to touch her. Lord help me, I wanted to kiss her. A week’s worth of distance had dulled most of that — truth be told, I’d hit pause on it all, hoping it could resume when I got my head straight — but in her shop, Stacy’s orgasmic cries are like echoes.
And that made me want to nudge things in directions they ought not to be nudged. Not that I was uninterested. But Stacy? She seems distant about the whole thing. Weirded out, maybe. I wouldn’t want to push her. Maybe what we had was a one-night stand, and if so, maybe she’s embarrassed. I don’t want to blow this and lose her as a designer.
Things thaw over lunch. We don’t discuss our exact business and sure as hell don’t discuss our history. It’s interesting. And by that, I mean pleasant. The only reason it takes me time to admit to myself that I’m enjoying her company is a sense that I shouldn’t — that I should keep an arm’s length distance between us, for obvious reasons.
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.”