Doomed by your own ineptitude. You should have taken care of this yesterday. There is no way Kathy could or should have handled this on her own, so blaming the norovirus doesn’t get you out of the hot seat. At this point, you deserve what you get.
His fingers went numb. His head ached. He could handle boardrooms filled with Armani-clad executives. Toss him into dinner gigs staffed by tuxedo-wearing waiters who faded into the background while taking particular care to be attentive, and he’d be totally on his game.
But this?
Mermaid gowns with laser-cut lace? Dresses suited for a medieval drawing room with acres of organza? He wasn’t even sure what organza was, but he was pretty sure he hated it by default.
Satin-filled walls pressed in on him as the clock ticked on.
Why did Donna Martin have to go and have twins, anyway? Wasn’t the world populated enough?
With less angst than he was feeling right now, he had faced down oppositional executives and told them that his law firm was about to take over their company, slice it up, and sell it off piecemeal, like leftovers from yesterday’s garage sale. Nothing fazed him. Nothing but . . . well, but this.
The bridal team hadn’t listed phone numbers next to the names in the appointment ledger. If they had, he’d call these women, apologize profusely, and lock the doors on Elena’s Bridal forever. Except that doing so would break his heart.
If he had a heart . . .
He must have one somewhere, because it ached when he thought of his mother, the time he missed, the long weeks he barely saw her, even though they lived in the same quadrant of the city. His corporate ladder-climbing kept him forward focused, but now she was gone, unexpectedly, and there was no more time.
There were no more chances. He was surrounded by the business she spent thirty years developing after his father took off with a long-legged blonde. From three days shy of his fourth birthday, it had been him and his mother, taking on life side by side.
And now it was just him. What could be more distressing than shutting down? How could he even consider ruining thirty years of all her hard work in six short months? He hauled in a deep breath and checked the book again.
Yup. Still six brides scheduled for their initial appointments, a day his mother referred to as “feast or famine.” Shopping for a gown either brought folks together or ripped them apart.
Great.
He stood and squared his shoulders. He could do this. He needed to do this.
He didn’t have to dress the women. Their friends or sisters or mothers could do that. Worst-case scenario, they could dress themselves, right? The sight of an alterations room at the end of the right-hand hallway gave him an idea. He’d call the seamstresses and see if any of them were available to help.
No one answered. He left messages for all three, hoping someone would hear his plea and take pity on him. Having one of those talented alterations women on hand would be a huge help, but if none of them came through, he needed a Plan B.
What would his mother do?
He didn’t have to think twice. If Maria Elena Elizondo were here, she would do it herself. Her example had trained him to handle whatever came his way. Today was no different, but it was a whole lot lonelier.
So that was it. He would show the brides and their entourages through the store, let them pick out what they wanted to try on, then guide them through the sales process.
Could it be that simple?
Common sense said no. If selling a wedding gown were that cut and dried, why did his mother list follow-up phone calls as part of her training manual? With hundreds of gorgeous designer gowns to pick from, didn’t women usually just find one that looked great, plunk down their debit card, and leave?
Fittings and alterations. Hems. Veils. Tiaras. Jewelry. Shoes. Hosiery, hoops, petticoats . . .
His mother’s checklist went on to undergarments he didn’t know existed.
The panic re-spiraled. In twenty minutes the store would open, the first January appointment would walk through the door, and he’d be toast. And once word got around that Elena’s Bridal had no help, online reviews would tank and he’d be putting a For Sale sign in the front window.
So much for all his mother’s hard work. Everything he needed in life—everything he was—had come from this shop. Parochial school. Holy Ghost Prep. The University of Pennsylvania. Harvard Law.
His mother had gone the distance for him, working night and day, never a word of complaint. Losing her suddenly was bad enough, but ruining her hard-won business because he was clueless?
That would cost a bunch of jobs. No one wanted to be jobless in Philadelphia right now. Not in today’s tough economy.
So the economy is your fault? Don’t you have enough to do with the Weatherly merger? If you want a job alongside the heavy hitters in Manhattan, focus on what you do best: dissecting inept companies and selling them for parts.
A sharp rap on the front glass snagged his attention.