It Takes a Rebel

4

“DON’T DROP THE BALL, JACK.”

Derek’s words from much earlier in the workday reverberated in his head. In the middle of the crisis with the IRS guy, Jack had somehow explained away Tuesday’s presence—later he’d given her a fifty dollar bill and told her not to come back—and he managed to convince Derek that he had everything under control, including the Tremont’s presentation.

Jack swore, then tore yet another sheet from his newsprint drawing pad, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it over his shoulder with enough force to risk dislocating his elbow. His muse had truly abandoned him this time. Three-thirty in the morning, with no revelation in sight. Forget the printer—this presentation would have to consist of raw drawings and hand-lettering.

If he ever came up with an idea, that is.

“Think, man, think,” he muttered, tapping his charcoal pencil on the end of the desk, conjuring up key words to spark his imagination. Clothes, style, fashion, home decor. He needed a catchy phrase to convince people to shop at Tremont’s.

Shop till you drop at Tremont’s spot.

If you got the money, honey, we got the goods.

Spend a lot of dough at Tremont’s sto’.

Okay, so he was really rusty, but at least it was a start.

He sketched out a few unremarkable ideas, but a heavy stone of dread settled in his stomach—this was not the best stuff that had ever come out of his pencil. The tight little bow of Alexandria Tremont’s disapproving mouth had dogged him all evening. The woman obviously didn’t expect much and, despite his efforts to the contrary, that was exactly what he was going to deliver. Dammit, he hated wanting to impress her…not that it mattered now.

Pouring himself another cup of coffee from a battered thermos, he raked a hand over his stubbly face and leaned back in his chair. Jack winced as the strong, bitter brew hit his taste buds at the same time a bitter truth hit his gut: He was washed up. Being at the top of his game—no matter what the arena—used to come so easily, and now he was struggling for mere mediocrity.

His college football career had been a joyous four-year ride of accolades, trophies and popularity—a young man’s dream that afforded him unbelievable perks, including as many beautiful women as he could handle, and enough good memories to last a lifetime. But for all his local celebrity and natural talent, he hadn’t even considered going pro, partly because he didn’t want to put his body through the paces, and partly because he’d simply wanted to do more with his life, to strike out and experience new settings, new people. And frankly, he’d always hated doing what was expected of him, whether it meant playing pro football or working for the family ad agency. Until now, he hadn’t realized how much he missed striving for something beyond having enough beer to wash down the native food of wherever he happened to be.

But inexplicably, the yearning that had lodged in his stomach the previous day had permeated other vital organs until he could feel it, see it, breathe it—the need to achieve. The need to make something out of nothing. The need to prove to others that he could hack it in any environment. The need to prove to himself that he still had his edge. And, he admitted with the kind of brutal honesty that comes to a man in the wee hours of the morning, Alexandria Tremont played a startling role in his reawakening. Just the thought of the challenge in her ice-blue eyes brought long dormant feelings of aspiration zooming to the surface. He hadn’t felt this alive since he was carried off the football field on the shoulders of his teammates for the last time. He wanted this win so badly, he could taste her—er, it.

The rush of adrenaline continued to feed his brain, which churned until the light of early dawn seeped through the windows. Jack discarded idea after idea, but he refused to give up hope that something fantastic would occur to him.

Around seven, and with little to show for his sleepless night, Jack heard a scratching sound on the front door. He went to investigate, stapler in hand for lack of a better weapon. To his abject consternation, Tuesday opened the door and marched inside, flipping on lights as she went. She wore an attractive flowered skirt and a modest blouse. “Morning,” she sang.

“How’d you get in?” he demanded.

She held up a Tremont’s department store credit card, of all things. “I jiggled the lock—this is no Fort Knox, sonny. You’re here early.”

“I didn’t leave,” he said, scowling. “And I thought I told you not to come back.”

“You were having a bad day,” she said cheerfully. “So I thought I’d give you another chance.” She leaned toward him and grimaced. “Oooh, you don’t look so good.”

“I know.”

“Did you finish the presentation?”

“Yes.”

“Is it good?”

“No.”

She sighed, a sorrowful noise. “Well, you’ll have to wow them with charm, I suppose.” She squinted, angling her head. “What were you planning to wear?”

He looked down at his disheveled beach clothes and shrugged. “I hadn’t thought about it, but I’m sure I can rustle up a sport coat.”

Tuesday grunted and picked up the phone. “What are you, about a forty-four long?”

He shrugged again, then nodded. “As best as I can remember.”

She looked him up and down. “Six-three?”

Again, he nodded.

“Size twelve shoe?”

“Thirteen if I can get them. Why?”

Tuesday waved her hand in a shooing motion. “Go take a shower and shave that hairy face. Hurry, and yell for me when you’re finished.”

Jack wasn’t sure if he was simply too tired to argue, or just glad to have someone tell him what to do. The Tremont’s account was lost now anyway—he would merely go through the motions for Derek’s sake.

He retreated to the bathroom in the back, grateful for the shower the landlord had thought to build. Shaving had never been a favorite chore, and it took some time to clear the dark scruff from his jaw. He checked in the cabinet on the wall, and sure enough, Derek had left a couple pairs of underwear, along with a pair of faded jeans and a few T-shirts. Derek was more thick-bodied than he, but the underwear would work. Jack had barely snapped the waistband in place when an impatient knock sounded at the door.

“You through in there?”

“Give me a second,” he called, then wrapped a towel around his waist before opening the door.

Tuesday strode in, carrying a comb and a pair of scissors.

“Oh, no,” Jack said, shaking his head. “You’re not cutting my hair.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, motioning for him to sit on the commode lid. “That wooliness has to come off. Come on, now, don’t argue.”

He stubbornly crossed his arms and remained standing.

She pointed the scissors at him. “Don’t make me climb up there. Do you want to blow this chance completely?”

Jack sighed and shook his head.

“Then sit.”

He sat. And she cut. And cut and cut and cut.

Cringing at the mounds of dark hair accumulating on the floor around him, Jack pleaded, “Gee, at least leave me enough to comb.”

She stepped back, made a few final snips, then nodded and whipped off the towel protecting his shoulders. “There, you look human again.” Tuesday exited the bathroom with purpose.

Half afraid to look in the mirror, Jack did so one eye at a time. Damn. He pursed his mouth and lifted a hand to his sheared head. It was short, but it didn’t look half bad. He turned sideways and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Long time, no see,” he murmured. He leaned over the sink and wet his short hair, then combed it back. “Hello, ears.”

“Here you go, handsome.”

Tuesday was back, this time holding a vinyl suit bag.

“Suit, shirt, cuff links, tie, socks, belt and shoes, size twelve—your toes’ll be pinched just a mite.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “Where did you get this stuff?”

“My son, Reggie,” she said. “Remember, he works for Tremont’s?”

“Oh, right,” he said. “Menswear?”

She nodded. “Natty dresser, my Reggie.” She handed him the bag. “Clothes make the man, you know.”

Touched, Jack reached for the bag, then stopped and stared at her. “Tuesday, you’re a genius.”

She gave him a dismissive wave. “I know that, son. What took you so long to catch on?”

Jack unzipped the bag, his mind jumping ahead to his blank sketch pad. He had about an hour to get a new idea down on paper.

“Tuesday, I’m going to be cutting it close. Will you call me a taxi?” A trip across town on his motorcycle might compromise the condition of his portfolio, he realized.

“I did. It’ll be here at a quarter to ten,” she said, then turned and closed the door.

Jack grinned at his own reflection, suddenly feeling young again. He was back, and good wasn’t a big enough word to express how he felt. He felt…he felt…energized. And lucky. And teeming with fiery anticipation at the look on the ice princess’s face when he walked through the door.

“Look out, Ms. Alexandria Tremont,” he murmured. “Ready or not, here I come.”

THE FAVORITE PART of Alex’s day was walking through the various departments of Tremont’s before the doors opened to the public. This morning, she acknowledged, the routine also served to soothe her anxiety about the impending advertising meeting. Actually, she felt a little sorry for Jack Stillman—the clueless man was in way over his swollen head. But regardless of her opinion of him and his agency, she honestly didn’t enjoy watching people make fools of themselves. Alex sighed and sipped coffee from a stoneware mug. Hopefully the meeting would be mercifully short.

Her mood considerably lighter this morning than the previous evening, the store seemed exceptionally pleasing: the sweep of formal gowns on so-slim mannequins, the musky blend of popular perfumes, the neat stacks of thick towels on cherry tables, the flash of silver tea sets. In the past decade, Tremont’s had made the subtle move from a discount department store to a more upscale shopping experience for the upper-middle class of Lexington and the surrounding area. Alex liked to believe her sales and marketing policies of pushing retail boundaries had something to do with the transformation.

She stopped to compliment Carla, one of the most senior salesclerks who always arrived at her station in the jewelry department early enough to give the glass counter an extra swipe, then Alex moved toward the stairs by way of menswear. A tall well-dressed youth was tagging slacks for alterations, his hands moving swiftly. Alex’s mind raced as she tried to recall his name—she’d seen it at the top of the commission lists often enough. Ronnie? No, Reggie.

“Good morning, Reggie.”

He jerked up his head and dropped the pants he held. “G-good morning, Ms. Tremont,” he said as he hurriedly knelt to retrieve the clothes. “Sorry, I’m clumsy today.”

Alex dipped to help him. “Nonsense.” But she did squint at his dark head that was tilted down. She’d spoken to the young man several times and she’d never known him to be nervous, yet his hands were practically shaking. “Is everything all right, Reggie?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, ma’am. Just fine.” But he made only fleeting eye contact as he straightened.

“Good.” Alex stood and brushed off the behavior with a smile, then rescued a navy and gray barber-pole striped tie in danger of falling from a display table. “Are the new ties selling well?”

Glancing at the tie she’d smoothed, he swallowed, sending his Adam’s apple dancing. “Yes, ma’am. Especially the C-Coakley line.”

“My personal favorite,” she said, pleased that the line of ties her father had gruffly pronounced as “damnably expensive” were selling well despite the admittedly steep price tags. “Keep up the good work, Reggie.”

Her chunky-heeled black leather pumps felt nice and solid against the polished marble floor as she walked toward the stairs. The stairs themselves, although a mainstay in her casual exercise program, were a bit of a test today in her shorter than usual skirt—black crepe with no slit. She climbed the four flights of stairs slowly to prevent perspiration from gathering on the paper thin indigo blouse beneath the black jacket. Near the top, she checked her watch. Nine-thirty. Just enough time to grab another cup of coffee and sift through the previous week’s sales figures. Might as well head for the conference room early and claim a good vantage point. Things could get interesting, and she wanted a view.

Her secretary Tess, an efficient and animated young woman who studied fashion merchandising at night, was holding out the sales reports before Alex even reached the woman’s desk.

“Thanks, Tess.”

“You look tired.”

So much for her new under-eye concealer. “I guess I need more caffeine.”

“Let me get your coffee, Ms. Tremont.” Despite Alex’s numerous requests for Tess to call her by her first name, her secretary insisted on addressing her formally. Before Alex could protest, Tess had relieved her of the stoneware mug and refilled it with black Irish roast from a coffeemaker on a credenza. “Do you have anything for me to add to your agenda today?”

“No,” Alex said, inclining her head in thanks as she took the mug. “Just be on the lookout for a Mr. Jack Stillman for the ten o’clock meeting, and show him to the boardroom, please.”

“How will I know him?” Tess asked, her green eyes wide and interested.

Alex bit back a smirk. Her pretty secretary was a bit of a flirt, and always perked up when a man came around. Shaggy Jack Stillman was probably right up her alley, too. “Believe me, you can’t miss him.” She shook her head good-naturedly as she walked down the hall to the executive conference room, nodding good morning to a half-dozen peers and subordinates as she went. Tess ran through men like most women ran through panty hose.

Alex frowned down at her own durable black hose. Funny, she hadn’t bought a new pair in ages.

At the door to the conference room, she hesitated only a second before stepping inside. In her opinion, these four walls encompassed the most unappealing space in the entire five-story building. Alex had attempted to overhaul the depressing room many times, but she’d finally tired of butting heads with her father, who insisted the conference room be left as is. As is, however, was an oppressive collection of dark, clubby wood bookshelves studded with sports paraphernalia. A thoroughly masculine domain, the three darkly paneled walls adorned with gaping fish frozen into curling leaps, and worse, two antlered deer heads. Alex felt nauseous every time she looked at the poor creatures.

The furniture wasn’t much better, the bulky chairs so unwieldy she could barely move them in and out from the broad-legged table. She chose the chair at the head of the table, farthest from the door. After setting down her coffee cup and the reports, she crossed the gloomy room to open the window blinds on the outside wall. As far as she was concerned, the sole good feature of the room was the view.

Rolling hills of pasture land and forests provided a backdrop for the modest Lexington skyline. The fiery October hues threw the white board fences encircling distant grazing land into stark relief. The flying hooves of two yearlings sprinting across a slanted field reminded her that fall horse racing season at Keeneland started in a couple of days. Alex smiled, momentarily distracted, and experienced a rush of gratitude to be living in such a beautiful area.

Winding, tree-lined roads led residents into the downtown area, a myriad of old tobacco warehouses, new office buildings, slender town houses and fountained courtyards. Brick, stone, metal, concrete, glass, water, one-and two-way streets—all these elements combined to create the casual, eclectic cityscape that embodied Lexington: part urban, part rural, totally accommodating.

Tremont’s flagship store and administrative offices occupied a five-story building on Webster Avenue just a few blocks from the center of downtown, and walking distance from Alex’s loft apartment. They had managed to compete with the malls by building an adjacent parking structure and, at her persistent urging, by developing a food court on the entire first floor of the building, including a sidewalk café that had become very popular with the business lunch crowd and the Junior League. As a result, gift shops and service businesses had popped up all around them.