me? She should be quivering in her daisy-embroidered blue espadrilles.
Thérèse stands next to her, her hands folded neatly in front of her. Unfortunately, Thérèse has been with our store for forty years. My father hired her; he poached her from Bonwit Teller when she was a shop girl. She doesn’t like me much, and underneath the thin veneer of civility she doesn’t bother to hide it, but she’s an absolute legend in her field. She’s got exquisite taste, and her rolodex – yes, she still has one – is crammed full of more stars than the Milky Way. She’s the reason that celebrities and royalty and tech moguls come back to our store again and again, dropping a million dollars on a single shopping spree.
She’s never made a bad decision – until yesterday. And I’ve never confronted her about any of her hiring choices until today. That must be why she’s gone pale, beads of sweat gathering on her forehead.
Of course, it’s not unusual for me to make my employees blanch in terror. I demand excellence and I don’t apologize for it. Apparently, according to some, I’m a mean son of a bitch with an icebox where my heart should be.
When I say “some”, I mean mostly my sister. She yelled at me after my last firing spree, which happened right before Christmas. I haven’t had any more problems with inventory control or sloppy looking displays since then, might I add. So Blake “Ice-Box” Hudson it is.
But Winona’s memorized every department in the freaking store. Of course she wouldn’t make this easy; she thrives on challenging me. Well, right back at her. I come from a long line of Hudson men who eat challenges for breakfast.
I pull out my trump card.
“Frankly, none of this matters. Your ultimate goal is to be a fashion journalist. My contacts tell me you’ve applied at several women’s magazines. You even have a blog.”
“Actually, it’s part of a neighborhood bulletin run by my friend Clarita.” She shrugs. “I write about upcycling clothes and furniture, and the best places to find local bargains. And why would that even matter? My ultimate goal is to work in the fashion industry. I’ve always loved it, especially the more unique, individual pieces, which Hudson’s specializes in.”
“It’s a conflict of interest. You’d be reporting on sensitive company matters and exposing confidential information to our competitors. That’s the only reason you’re even applying here.” It’s a wild, ridiculous accusation. I’m grasping at straws.
“I would what?” Her eyebrows shoot up in astonishment. “Of course I wouldn’t. First of all, if I get this job, I’ll step down from the bulletin And secondly, the bulletin has nothing to do with a store like Hudson’s. Our followers would never shop here; one pair of jeans would be their month’s rent. I’m happy to sign an NDA or anything else you require.”
I start to speak, but she plows on ahead. “And I do want to work at Hudson’s. I always have. Ever since I was a little girl, my family and I would come here in December to enjoy your Christmas displays. We’d drive to New Jersey and stay in a motel there, and take the train into the city, and my parents would save up all year long to buy me one toy from your toy department.” Her eyes are shiny with emotion, and for once, she’s not snarky or angry or defensive. She’s swept up in memory, all open and raw and vulnerable. “They didn’t think I knew, but I did. They’d put aside their spare change in a jar that they hid in their closet. We have a farm, but my dad would work shifts at a canning factory in town just to make sure I’d have a special Christmas. And Hudson’s was always a part of that Christmas. It was this beautiful magic city unto itself, and I want to be part of that magic.”
The heated emotion in her voice snatches my breath away. I imagine her as a little girl, all big brown eyes and red curls and pure, innocent excitement, rushing through the fairytale aisles of my family’s store. It speaks to something achingly soft and pitying in me that I didn’t even know existed. Alice always snarks at me that I was born without the section in the brain that feels empathy. If this is what it feels like…I’ll scoop it out myself, with a scalpel. It’s the worst.
Winona looks as if she’s about to shed real tears.