Suede to Rest (14 page)

I returned to
the closet and pushed the evening clothes out of the way. I found a black sheath dress and jacket in a plastic garment bag. It was clearly from another era, but it would have to do.

I changed out of my tunic and leggings and into the outfit. The jacket had a jeweled collar and laid perfectly over the neckline of the dress. Both garments were the same length. I left the buttons, round shiny black balls, unbuttoned down the front. I felt along the top shelf of the closet for a pair of shoes and knocked over a box of memorabilia. I scooped up the mess and set it on the bed. Aunt Millie's feet were bigger than mine, but I lined the bottoms of a pair of black crocodile pumps with a piece of foam from the batting section of the store, then secured each foot with black ribbon tied over the instep. The heels were low enough that I felt stable.

I left the store and followed the directions to McMichael Development and Investments. I missed the turn onto the highway and ended up turning around in the parking lot of Gnarly Waves, a water park that was closed for the winter. Instead of doubling back, I followed the winding roads alongside of the reservoir until I saw Parkhurst Airfield. My GPS told me McMichael Development and Investments was across the street.

I'd expected a multifloor office building with shiny chrome elevator doors and judgmental doormen. What I found instead was a two-story office building, beige siding with dark brown trim. Jacaranda trees lined the property, spilling bright purple blossoms over the parking lot and the yard. The parking lot sat off to the side, only a handful of cars occupying the numerous spaces. I parked by the doors and went inside.

“May I help you?” asked the uniformed man behind the marble counter.

“I'm here to see Vic McMichael.”

“Sign in here.” He pushed a leather guest book toward me. I considered writing a fake name, but didn't see the point. I wasn't trying to hide my identity. I was trying to head off a hostile takeover.

“Down the hall, second office on the left.”

I followed the directions and let myself into the room. A fortysomething receptionist sat behind a modest desk. A small silver bud vase sat next to her phone and an array of photos sat to the other side by the Tiffany lamp. I wondered if she'd been called in to work on a Sunday because of Carson's appointment and considered apologizing.

“Mr. McMichael is expecting you. Go right in.” She gestured toward a wooden door with
Vic McMichael
embossed on a brass nameplate on the outside. I grabbed the knob and turned, boosting my confidence with one last deep breath before entering.

Vic McMichael sat behind a desk that made his secretary's look like the Fisher-Price model. Every white hair on his head was in place. Small rimless glasses sat on his face, barely noticeable except for the steel arms that ran from the lenses to his ears. He wore a navy-blue suit, light blue shirt with white collar, and a navy and red diagonally striped tie. It was from one of the Ivy League colleges, I thought. Or it might have been the standard-issue tie for businessmen around the world. I wasn't sure which.

Before he had a chance to offer me a drink from the assortment of bottles that sat on a cart to the side of his desk, I spoke up. “Why do you want to take the store from me?”

“Ms. Monroe, have a seat.”

Before blurting out an immature response about standing preferences, I thought about something Carson had told me once when I asked why he wasn't afraid of anyone in his business meetings.
Act like you're scared and they'll treat you like you don't belong. Act like you do and the next thing you know, you're having a rational conversation. It's only after you enter the conversation phase that you start to get stuff done.
While I may have blown a decent chance at normal with my outburst, I figured there's no time like the present for a do-over.

Tentatively, I sat, more because sitting was the appropriate behavior in his mostly wood office, while stamping my foot and refusing was childlike. I scanned Mr. McMichael's desk for clues to his personality. I found those clues in the framed pictures on the bookcase behind his desk. I recognized Vaughn in a couple of the photos, and a younger version of Mr. McMichael in others. At first it was hard to tell their images apart. In his youth, Mr. McMichael looked just like his son did today. The only thing missing were the dimples. But they were there, on the face of the attractive brunette who stood next to him in the photo: Adelaide Brooks.

“Ms. Monroe, I can appreciate that you want to honor what your relatives built. Land of a Thousand Fabrics was the jewel of San Ladrón, once.”

“What makes you think it can't be again?”

He studied me. “So it's true. You're thinking of reopening the store? Have you run a business before?”

“I helped my family with the store when I was growing up. I know the ins and outs.”

His lips curled into the tiniest hint of a smile. There were no dimples. I didn't like the thought that he considered me a joke.

“That was before I graduated FIDM and learned the other side of the business. I started working for a garment shop in Los Angeles, where my daily responsibilities include selecting fabrics, negotiating business deals, managing the payroll, and generally ensuring quarterly profits.” I stopped speaking, more surprised by my outburst now than when I'd entered the office. Aside from the weakness of “generally,” did it sound as good as I thought, or did I sound like the lead in a Reese Witherspoon movie?

The smile faded from Mr. McMichael's face. “Ms. Monroe, I had no idea your degree was in business.”

It wasn't, but now hardly felt like the time to correct him.

“My son told me you weren't going to sell. At the time, I wasn't aware of your intentions with the store. Now that I know what you have in mind, and that you're aware of the risks, may I offer you my help?”

“With what?”

“First, you'll need to clear the taxes on the store, update the seller's permits. Reestablish the name as a formidable business. Create a buzz. Then there's the condition of the store's interior. I imagine ten years of neglect have created a need for repairs. I deal in flipping businesses regularly. I have construction crews at my disposal and can pull some strings to get you bumped up on their priority list.”

My hands, folded in my lap, tightened around each other.

“Modernize your business practices, from your phones to your registers. Cast a critical eye toward your inventory, dumping what has no value and investing in what the homemaker of the new millennium might want. Assuming, that is, that there is a millennial homemaker and he or she is interested in fabric.” Again he paused, this time the smile returning. “But I'm sure you thought through all of this.”

“And what would you like in return for all of this help?”

“A split. Fifty-fifty ownership. I can have new paperwork drawn up this afternoon and have Mr. Watts deliver it before close of business.”

“I understand that you've been buying up the properties along that stretch of Bonita and mine is the only one left. If I agreed to your terms, what would keep you from selling the strip to a developer?”

“That would be a wise business move.”

“You don't care about the businesses that would be ruined? The people whose lives would change?”

“Each of those business owners knew the risks involved when they signed their leases.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his fingers together. I felt the scrutiny of his stare and I forced myself to maintain eye contact, despite the heat I felt under the collar of my jacket. “These terms don't give me ownership. They merely give you a safety net. If you agree, I can have a construction crew go over the interior by the end of the week.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Because you don't have much of a choice. Reopening a store that's been hanging under a cloud of sadness for ten years is an uphill battle.”

“Mr. McMichael, I know reopening the store will be a lot of work. I'm not afraid of hard work.” I stood and pushed my chair under the desk. “Just like I'm not afraid of you.”

I left Mr. McMichael's office and walked past his secretary without a word. As I waited for the elevator, I considered going back and asking for parking validation. I caught my reflection in the mirror. I looked like I was playing dress-up. I was in over my head, and a fifty-year-old power suit wasn't going to make a shred of difference. I called Carson.

“Where have you been?” he demanded. “I had an appointment today. Because of you everything's screwed up.”

“I kept your appointment.”

“I know. When you took the car, I knew I wasn't going to make it there. I called McVic's office to reschedule. His secretary told me you'd shown up. I don't know what you were thinking, but I wish you would have at least asked my advice. Now we're going to have to figure out damage control.”

“Carson, we can talk about this later. I'm going to swing by the fabric store and pick up a few things, then I'll meet you at the hotel.”

“There is no hotel, Poly. I refused the room.”

“Where are you?”

“I took a taxi to the fabric store but you weren't there. Now I'm at some silly mom-and-pop coffee shop. This must be the only town in America that doesn't have a Starbucks.”

“You're probably at Jitterbug. I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”

I drove to the fabric store, pulled into the alley that ran behind it to the parking lot, parked by the Dumpster, and let myself in. I tossed my handbag and keys on the wrap stand and went upstairs to change clothes. The last thing I needed was for Carson to criticize my fashion choices for the meeting with Mr. McMichael.

I stepped out of the dress and jacket and hung them back in the closet. My outfit from earlier lay on the comforter on top of the box I'd spilled earlier. I put it back on. One black outfit for another. I felt as though I was going through the motions, changing costumes for different acts of my life. Business Poly. Girlfriend Poly. Worker Bee Poly. I glanced back into the closet and stared at the beaded shrugs and the shimmery silk gowns. Was there a Party Poly who could wear those? And when?

I climbed onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. I didn't know what to think about my meeting with Mr. McMichael. I'd surprised myself when I'd spoken up about my experience, but it had all been true. If I wanted to, I could do this.

On any given day at To The Nines I could be negotiating with vendors communicating in Korean-to-English in the workroom, helping young girls pick out their prom dresses, or fixing broken equipment in the sewing room. I had even managed a couple of meetings with the bank when Giovanni was suffering from a stomach flu. He'd been planning to go but felt frequent trips to the bathroom would undermine his credibility. My degree wasn't in business, and I knew I'd make mistakes along the way, but also knew I could figure it out if I wanted. And I finally could admit that I did.

The strangest thing about my meeting with Mr. McMichael was that he hadn't acted like we were at war over the property. He'd appeared calm. Almost helpful.

But then he mentioned the construction crews at his disposal. Were these the same men who had threatened me at The Broadside? And why did Mr. McMichael care so much about what I did with the store? Why was he willing to help me in order to gain possession of it? Was he hoping to get in and destroy evidence that he knew still existed?

I felt something tug the side of the comforter and I screamed, pulling my legs up to the middle of the bed and hugging my knees tightly. A soft meow came from the floor. With my heart already pounding in my chest, I peeked over the edge. The gray kitten stared up at me and meowed again.

“How did you get up here?” I asked. I twisted around until I was on my belly on the bed, and scooped him up with one hand and set him next to the box. He was dwarfed by the queen-sized bed. I bent back down, dangling upside down over the side of the bed and looked under the edge of the damask cover for the other kitten. She wasn't there.

To me, it was a small apartment. To a kitten less than six inches long, it was probably like getting lost in Milan. “Wait here,” I said to the one on the bed. He stood next to the box and dropped his head to sniff it. “I'll be right back.”

I had to find the orange tabby kitten. I couldn't explain it, but since I'd arrived in San Ladrón, I'd felt like I was alone, like there was nobody there to talk to, nobody to keep me company while I figured out what I was going to do. Those kittens had been alone in the Dumpster. The only thing they had was each other. It was up to me to keep them together.

I entered the hallway on bare feet, happy to step onto the plush Oriental carpet runner to keep me from coming in contact with the cool hardwood floor. I gently blew kisses in the air and tapped my thigh, peering around corners and under chairs. After half an hour, I came up empty. Either the kitten had found a very good hiding spot, or she was downstairs in the store.

I jogged down the metal staircase and called out in a soft, comforting voice. She was small, small enough that I might not see her. I hit the switches on the control panel, but nothing happened. Confused, I turned them to off and back to on. There was no longer any electricity.

I cursed under my breath. The electric company must have shut it off when they didn't receive payment from my uncle. Tomorrow, right after I had the water turned on, I'd call them and set up new billing arrangements. But for tonight, I was destined to live in the dark ages.

Upstairs, afternoon light had kept the room illuminated, so I hadn't used any electricity. Down here, the store was dark. I unlocked the front door and pulled it open, letting the waning sunlight improve my vision. The shadow of the metal fence left cross marks on the concrete floor. I moved past the first large square bin of fabric and peered around another corner.