Fine things (5 page)

Chapter 3

“You're going where?” His mother stared at him over her vi-chyssoise, and she seemed not to understand, as though he had said something truly ridiculous. Like he was joining a nudist colony, or having a sex change. “Are they firing you, or just demoting you?”

He appreciated the vote of confidence, but that was typical. “Neither one, Mom. They're asking me to manage the new San Francisco store. It's the most important store we have, aside from New York.” He wondered why he was trying to sell it to her, except that he was still trying to sell it to himself. He had told Paul after two days, and he had been depressed about it ever since. They had given him a phenomenal raise, and Berman had reminded him that he would be running Wolffs himself one day. Perhaps not long after he returned to New York. And more important, he knew that Paul Berman was grateful to him, but still it was hard to take, and he wasn't looking forward to it. He had decided to keep his apartment anyway and sublet it for a year or two and just take something temporary in San Francisco. He had already told Paul that he wanted to try to be back in New York in a year. And they hadn't promised him anything, but he knew they would try. And even if it was eighteen months, he'd survive. Anything more than that was questionable, but he didn't say that to his mother now.

“But San Francisco? They're all hippies out there. Do they even wear clothes?”

He smiled. “They do. Very expensive ones in fact. You'll have to come and see for yourself.” He smiled at both of them. “Do you want to come to the opening?”

She looked as though he had invited her to a funeral. “We might. When is it?”

“In June.” He knew they had nothing to do then. They were going to Europe in July, but they had plenty of time to come out before that.

“I don't know. We'll have to see. Your father's schedule …” He was always the fall guy for her moods, but he never seemed to mind, although he looked at his son with concern as they sat at “21.” It was one of the rare moments his father seemed relaxed and not preoccupied by his work.

“Is it really a step up for you, son?”

“It is, Dad.” He answered him honestly. “It's a very prestigious job and Paul Berman and the board asked me to do it personally. But I have to admit”—he smiled ruefully—“I'd rather be in New York.”

“Are you involved with someone?” His mother leaned across the table, as though asking him something intensely personal, and Bernie laughed.

“No, Mom. I'm not. I just like New York. I love it in fact. But I'm hoping to get back in less than eighteen months. I can live with that. And there are worse cities than San Francisco, I guess.” Although, at the moment, he couldn't think of one. He finished his drink and decided to be philosophical. “Hell, it could be Cleveland for chrissake, or Miami, or Detroit …not that there's anything wrong with them, but they ain't New York.” He smiled at them ruefully.

“They say San Francisco is crawling with homosexuals.” The Voice of Doom spoke up with an anguished look at her only son.

“I think I can take care of myself, Mom.” And then he looked at both of them. “I'm going to miss you both.”

“Won't you come back here at all?” There were tears in her eyes and he almost felt sorry for her, except that she cried so much when it was useful to her that he was less moved than he might have been otherwise.

He patted her hand. “I'll be back and forth a lot. But the fact is I'll be living there. You'll just have to come out. And I really want you to come to the opening. It's going to be a beautiful store.”

He kept telling himself that as he packed his things in early February, and said goodbye to his friends, and had a last dinner with Paul in New York. And on Valentine's Day, only three weeks after they'd offered him the job, he was on a plane flying to San Francisco, wondering what he had done to himself, and thinking that maybe he should have quit after all. But as they left New York, a fresh blizzard began, and as they landed in San Francisco at two in the afternoon, the sun was shining, the air was warm, and the breezes were gentle. There were flowers in bloom, and it felt like New York in May or June. And he was suddenly glad he'd come, for a while anyway. At least the weather was nice, that was something to be pleased about. And his room at the Huntington was extremely pleasant too.

But more important than that, even in its unfinished state, the store was fabulous. And when he called Paul the next day, Paul sounded relieved just knowing he was there. And everything was moving on schedule. The construction was going well, the decoration was all lined up and ready to be installed as soon as construction would allow. He met with the ad agency, talked to the public relations people about how they were starting to warm up, and had an interview with the
Chronicle.
Everything was exactly the way they had hoped it would be. And Bernie was in charge.

All that remained to do was to open the store, and find an apartment for himself, hardly two minor tasks, and he was far more concerned about the store. He rapidly rented a furnished apartment in a modern high-rise on Nob Hill; it had none of the charm of the houses he saw everywhere, but it was convenient for him, and it was close to the store.

The opening was fabulous. It was everything they had all wanted it to be. The press had been favorable beforehand. There had been a beautiful party at the store, with models wearing spectacular clothes, while impeccably dressed waiters served caviar, hors d'oeuvres, and champagne. There was dancing, entertainment, and the freedom to roam around the store with no one else there. And Bernie was proud of it. It was really beautiful, with a light airy feeling combined with enormous style. It had all the chic of New York, with the ease of the West Coast. And Paul Berman was thrilled, too, when he flew out.

The crowds that came the day of the opening required police cordons and hordes of smiling PR people just to hold them back. But it was all worth it when they saw the record sales for the first week, and even his mother had been proud of him. She had said it was the most beautiful store she'd ever seen, and she had told every salesgirl who helped her for the next five days of shopping there that the manager was her son, and one day, when he went back to New York, he would run the entire chain. She was sure of it.

When they finally left San Francisco, they went to Los Angeles, and Bernie was surprised to realize how lonely he felt once they were gone, as well as the rest of the contingent from New York. All the board members went back the day after the opening, and Paul had flown on to Detroit that night. And suddenly he was all alone, in the town he had been transplanted in, without a single friend, and an apartment that looked sterile and ugly to him. It was all done in brown and beige, and seemed much too dreary for the gentle northern California sun. He was sorry he hadn't rented a pretty little Victorian flat. But it didn't matter too much anyway. He was always at the store, seven days a week now, since in California they were open every day. He didn't have to come in on weekends at all, but he had nothing else to do anyway, so he did, and everyone noticed it. Bernie Fine worked like a dog, they said, and they all agreed that he was a nice man. He expected a lot of them, but he expected more of himself, and it was difficult to argue with someone like that. He also seemed to have an infallible sense of what was right for the store, and what merchandise they should have, and no one dared quibble with him about that. He was definite, and from what they could see, most of the time, he was right. He had an innate sense of what worked and what didn't, even in this town he barely knew, and he was constantly shifting things, and adjusting to the new information he found out. He kept things moving constantly, shipping things to other branches when they were wrong for San Francisco after all, moving things in, having buyers reorder constantly. But it worked. It was extraordinary, and they all liked him in the store. They didn't even mind the habit he had of roaming the store every day for several hours. He wanted to see what people wore, what they did, how they shopped, what they liked. He would talk to housewives and young girls and single men, he even took a personal interest in their children's wear. He wanted to know everything, and the only way to do that, he said, was to be in the front lines.

He was frequently being handed things to ring up and items to return, and he did what he could, and found a salesperson as quickly as possible, but he was happy to meet the customer every time, and the store personnel were getting used to him. They were used to seeing him everywhere, with his auburn hair, the well-trimmed beard, warm green eyes, and well-tailored English suits. He never said an unkind word, and when he wanted things done differently, he spoke calmly and quietly, explaining what he wanted done so that the employee understood. And as a result, they all had enormous respect for him. In New York, just looking at the sales figures, Paul Berman knew they had done the right thing, and he wasn't surprised at all. Bernie was going to turn Wolffs San Francisco into the finest store in the chain. He was their man all right, and one day he would step into Berman's shoes very successfully. Paul was sure of it.

Chapter 4

The first month was hectic for all of them, but by July they had things fairly well in control, and the autumn merchandise coming in. Bernie had several fashion shows scheduled the following month, and the big event in July was the opera show, which meant a great deal. The opening of the opera was the hottest event of the San Francisco social season, and women were going to be spending five and seven and ten thousand dollars on a single dress.

The racks of exquisite opera gowns were already hanging in a locked room downstairs with a security guard outside at all times, to be sure that no one pirated what they had, took unauthorized photographs, or worse yet, stole the merchandise, which was worth a small fortune. And it was the opera collection he was thinking about in mid-July as he made his way upstairs. He got off the escalator at the children's floor, just to make sure that all was well there. He knew they had had a problem getting some of their back-to-school merchandise the week before and he wanted to be sure that everything was in order again. He met the buyer behind the cash register, instructing some of the saleswomen, who all smiled at him, and he glanced around casually at the racks, and then ventured further into the department on his own, until he found himself facing a rack of bright-colored bathing suits that would be going on sale the following week, and looking into the big blue eyes of a very little girl. She seemed to look at him for a long time, neither smiling nor afraid of him, just watching, as though to see what he would do next, and he smiled down at her.

“Hi. How are you?” It seemed an odd line for a child who couldn't have been more than five years old, but he never had any idea what to say to children like that. And his best line—”How do you like school?”—seemed hopelessly out of date, particularly at this time of year. “Do you like the store?”

“It's okay.” She shrugged. She was clearly more interested in him. “I hate beards.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” She was the cutest thing he had ever seen, and someone had braided her hair into two long blond braids, and she had pink hair ribbons on, and a little pink dress, with a doll she dragged along in one hand. The doll looked well loved and was obviously a serious favorite of hers.

“Beards scratch.” She said it matter-of-factly as though it were something he should know, and he nodded seriously, stroking it. It seemed reasonably soft to him, but he was used to it, and he hadn't been testing it on five-year-olds. In fact, since coming to San Francisco, he hadn't tested it on anyone at all. And she was the best-looking girl he had seen since he'd arrived. So far the women of San Francisco weren't his type. They wore their hair long and loose, their feet bare in ugly sandals which were obviously comfortable, and they all seemed to favor T-shirts and jeans. He missed the pulled-together look of New York …the high heels …the hats …the accessories, the perfectly groomed hair, the earrings that seemed to frame a face …the furs …They were frivolous details but they made a difference to him and one saw none of it here.

“My name is Bernie, by the way.” He was enjoying his conversation with her and he held out a hand to her, which she shook soberly as she stared at him.

“My name is Jane. Do you work here?”

“I do.”

“Are they nice?”

“Very nice.” He couldn't possibly tell her that “they” in this case was he.

“That's good. They're not always nice to my mom where she works. Sometimes they're really mean to her.” She was extremely serious with him, and he had to fight not to smile at her, while wondering increasingly where her mother was. He wondered if the child was lost but didn't know it yet, which seemed like an excellent possibility. But he didn't want to frighten her by mentioning it. “Sometimes they won't even let her stay home from work when I'm sick.” She went on, obviously shocked by the callousness of her mother's employers, as she looked up at him. But the comment brought her mother to mind. And suddenly her eyes grew very wide. “Where is my Mom?”

“I don't know, Jane.” He smiled very gently at her, glancing around. There was no one else in sight, except the saleswomen who had been talking to the buyer a few moments before. They were still standing near the cash register, but there was no one else there. Jane's mother was clearly nowhere around. “Do you remember where you saw her last?”

She squinted at him, thinking back. “She was buying pink pantyhose downstairs …” She looked up at him a little sheepishly. “I wanted to see the bathing suits.” She glanced around where they stood. They were everywhere, and she had obviously come upstairs by herself, to look at them. “We're going to the beach next week …” Her voice trailed off and she looked at him. “The bathing suits are very nice.” She had been standing next to a rack of tiny little bikinis when he first noticed her. But now he saw her lower lip trembling and he reached a hand out to her.

“Why don't we see if we can find your Mom.” But she shook her head and took a step back from him.

“I'm not supposed to go with anyone.” He gestured to one of the women, who approached cautiously as Bernie saw tears bulging in the child's eyes, but she was still fighting them, which he thought valiant of her.

“What about if we go to the restaurant and have an ice cream or something, while this lady looks for your Mom?” Jane looked at them both cautiously as the woman smiled. Bernie explained that her mother had been buying pantyhose on the main floor when Jane came upstairs, and then he turned to the woman quietly. “Why don't you activate the P. A. system in this case?” They had it for use in case of fire, or bomb threats, or some other emergency, but it would be simple to use it now to page Jane's mother for her. “Call my office and they'll take care of it.” He looked down at Jane again as she used the dolly to wipe her eyes. “What's your Mom's name? Her last name I mean.” He smiled and she looked up at him trustingly, despite her unwillingness to go anywhere with him. Her mother had drummed that into her well and he respected that.

“Same as mine.” Jane almost smiled again.

“And what's that?”

“O'Reilly.” This time she grinned. “It's Irish. And I'm Catholic. Are you?” She seemed fascinated by him, and he was equally so with her. He smiled to himself, thinking that this may have been the woman he had been waiting for, for thirty-four years. She was certainly the best one he had met in a very long time.

“I'm Jewish,” he explained as the woman went off to put the message on the hidden loudspeakers.

“What's that?” She looked intrigued.

“It means we have Chanukah instead of Christmas.”

“Does Santa Claus come to your house?” She looked concerned and that was a difficult one.

“We exchange gifts for eight days.” He avoided her question with an explanation of his own, and she looked impressed.

“Eight days? That's pretty good.” And then suddenly, she grew more serious, forgetting her mother again. “Do you believe in God?”

He nodded, surprised at the depth of her thought. He himself hadn't thought of God in a long time, and he was ashamed to admit it to her. She had obviously been put in his path to straighten up his act. “Yes, I do.”

“Me too.” She nodded and then looked at him searchingly again. “Do you think my Mommy will come back soon?” The tears were threatening again, but she was in better shape now.

“I'm sure of it. Can I interest you in that ice cream now? The restaurant is right over there.” He pointed to it, and she looked in the direction of his hand, greatly intrigued. The ice cream sounded good to her, and she quietly slid her hand into his, and her braids bobbed as they walked along, holding hands.

He helped her up onto a stool at the bar and asked for a banana split, which was not on their menu but he felt certain they could come up with one, and for him, they did. Jane dove into it with a blissful smile and worried eyes. She hadn't forgotten her mother totally, but she was well occupied as she chatted with Bernie about their apartment, the beach, and school. She wanted a dog, but their landlord wouldn't let her have one.

“He's real mean,” she said with chocolate and marshmal-low all over her face and her mouth full. “So's his wife …and she's real fat too.” She shoved in a mouthful of nuts, banana, and whipped cream as Bernie nodded seriously, wondering how he had lived without her for this long. “Your bathing suits are very good.” She dabbed at her mouth and dove in again as he smiled.

“Which ones do you like best?”

“The little ones with the bottom and the top. My Mom says I don't have to wear a top if I don't want…but I always do.” She looked prim as the chocolate enveloped her nose as well. “I like the blue and the pink and the red …and the orange …” The last of the banana disappeared, followed by the cherry and more whipped cream, and suddenly there was a flurry in the door and a woman appeared with a long shaft of golden hair that looked like a sheet of gold as she flew across the room.

“Jane!” She was a very pretty girl, not unlike Jane. There were tearstains on her face and her eyes were wild as she juggled her handbag and three packages and what was obviously Jane's jacket and another doll. “Where did you go?” Jane blushed as she looked at her sheepishly.

“I just wanted to see …”

“Don't you
ever
do that again!” Her mother cut her off and grabbed her arm, shaking her a little bit, and then she quickly took the child in her arms and held her close as she fought back tears of her own. She had obviously been terrified. And it took her a long time to notice Bernard standing by, admiring them both. “I'm so sorry.” She looked at him and he liked the way she looked. She was wearing sandals, a T-shirt, and jeans. But she was prettier than most, more delicate, and terribly frail and blond with the same huge blue eyes as Jane. “I apologize for all the trouble we've caused.” The whole store had been looking for mother and child, and the entire main floor was in an uproar by then. Jane's mother had been afraid that she had been kidnapped, and she'd been desperate as she asked a salesperson to help, and then an assistant manager, and a buyer who happened by. Everyone did all they could, and finally the announcement that she was in the restaurant was made on the P.A.

“It's quite all right. We can use a little excitement around here. We had a very good time.” He and Jane exchanged a knowing look and Jane suddenly piped up, grinning at him.

“You know, you'd really be a mess if you ate a banana split…see! That's why I don't like beards!” They both laughed and her mother looked horrified.

“Jane!”

“Well he would!”

“She's right,” he admitted happily. He had enjoyed her so much, and hated to see her leave. He smiled and the pretty young woman blushed.

“I really apologize.” And then suddenly she remembered that she hadn't introduced herself. “I'm sorry, I'm Elizabeth O'Reilly.”

“And you're Catholic.” He was remembering Jane's remark and her mother looked stunned, and then he attempted to explain. “I'm sorry …Jane and I had a very serious conversation about that.”

Jane nodded sagely and popped another maraschino cherry into her mouth as she watched them talk. “And he's something else …” She squinted as she looked up at him again. “What was it again?”

“Jewish,” he supplied, as Elizabeth O'Reilly grinned. She was used to Jane, but there were times …

“And he has eight Christmases …” She looked enormously impressed and the two adults laughed. “Honest, he does. That's what he said. Right?” She looked to Bernie for confirmation and he grinned and nodded at her.

“Chanukah. Actually, she even makes it sound good to me.” He hadn't been in temple in years. His parents were Reformed and he didn't practice at all. But he was thinking of someone else. He was wondering just how Catholic Mrs. O'Reilly was, if there was a Mr. O'Reilly around, or not. He hadn't thought to ask Jane, and she hadn't mentioned it.

“I can't thank you enough.” Elizabeth pretended to glare at Jane, who looked much happier now. She wasn't clutching her doll quite as hard, and she seemed to be enjoying the last of the ice cream.

“They have good bathing suits too.”

Elizabeth shook her head and held out her hand to Bernie again. “Thank you again for rescuing her. Come on, old girl, let's go home. We have some other things to do.”

“Can't we just look at the bathing suits before we go?”

“No.” Her mother was firm, and she thanked Bernie profusely as they left. Jane shook his hand and thanked him very formally and then looked up at him with a sunny smile.

“You were nice, and the ice cream was very good. Thank you very much.” She had obviously had a lovely time, and Bernie was actually sorry to see her go. He stood at the top of the escalator, watching the hair ribbons disappear, and feeling as though he had lost his only friend in California.

He went back to the cash register to thank the employees for their help, and as he left again, the little bikinis caught his eye, and he pulled out three in a size six. The orange, the pink, and the blue—the red one was sold out in her size— and he even picked out two hats to match and a little terry beach robe for her. It all looked perfect for her and he dumped it at the cash register.

“Have we got an Elizabeth O'Reilly on the computer here? I don't know if she's a charge customer or not, or what her husband's name is.” He was suddenly hoping that she didn't have one, and the verdict was good when they checked. Two minutes later they confirmed that she had a new account and lived on Vallejo Street in Pacific Heights. “Great.” He jotted down the phone number and address and tried to make it look as though he needed it for his files …instead of his empty little address book…. And he told them to send the stack of beachwear to “Miss Jane …” and charge it to his account. He wrote out a card that said only, “Thank you for a very nice time. Hope to see you again soon. Your friend, Bernie Fine,” and handed that to the woman as well. And then with a lighter step he went back to his office with a mysterious little smile, convinced that there was a blessing in everything.