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,” is 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.”