Into the Whirlwind (5 page)

Ulysses took a deep draught of cool cider and then wiped the foam from his lips with his sleeve. “If you don’t sign those papers, is Hartman going to take delivery of the quarterly shipment on Monday?”

It was a question that had been plaguing Mollie for days. She had a huge stock of watches in preparation for the Christmas season in her storage room. If Mr. Kazmarek made good on his
threat to cut them loose on Monday morning, she would be left with a fortune in unsold inventory. “He did not say.”

Frank’s face was grim. “And I suppose his deadline on the same day as our quarterly delivery of watches was just a happy coincidence.”

Alice put a warm arm around Mollie’s waist. “I don’t believe they would cut you loose if you don’t sell. Your father was friends with Louis Hartman. Back since before you were born, right, Mollie?”

Not quite. Mollie had been ten years old when Louis Hartman had visited her father’s tiny watch shop on Columbus Avenue. In those years, Hartman was buying property all up and down Columbus Avenue in preparation for his six-story palace of marble and crystal. Mollie’s father had been one of the many merchants who had had to move when Louis Hartman built his colossal department store, but it was a blessing in disguise. Louis Hartman was so impressed with the whimsical quality of Papa’s watches that he had begun carrying them at the store. Without the expense of maintaining a retail shop, Papa earned more money and had never been happier. The cozy relationship with Hartman’s allowed Silas Knox to let many of the business aspects slide as he developed ever more spectacular watches.

Frank looked pensive as he rolled his tankard between his hands. “This company has been in the Knox family for thirty years,” he said gravely. “Something doesn’t seem right in demanding an answer so quickly.”

Frank was right. She didn’t need to accept Mr. Kazmarek’s edict without question. There were four more days before she needed to make a decision, and she would not do so without demanding more information from Hartman’s intimidating attorney.

From his office on the sixth story of Hartman’s Emporium, Zack Kazmarek sat behind his grand desk of polished walnut and fought to keep his temper.

“Let me get this straight,” he said as he wrestled with impatience. “We’ve got fifty thousand dollars’ worth of chinchilla furs sitting at a port in New York because the tariff has not been paid.”

Anthony Willis, his clerk, cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“And the furs have been there for a week.”

“Yes, sir.”

The furs should have been loaded onto a train and speeding toward Chicago. Hartman’s sold most of their furs in the months leading up to Christmas, and any delay meant a loss of revenue. Nevertheless, his contract had been explicitly clear. The tariffs were to be paid by the Brazilian exporters, which had been figured into the negotiated price. Zack could send a wire to Hartman’s New York bank and pay the tariffs within the hour, but that wasn’t how he did business.

“Wire New York and refuse shipment of the furs,” he instructed the clerk. “Give the ship’s captain twenty-four hours to pay the tariff, or he can take the furs back to Brazil.” Zack would not submit to corporate blackmail, which sometimes happened when people underestimated him. Zack wanted those furs, but he didn’t
need
them.

“A few years ago we did business with a fox fur trader from Quebec named Babineaux,” Zack said. “Get the merchandising department to see if Babineaux can deal in time for the Christmas rush.” Fox fur wasn’t as desirable as chinchilla, but he needed an alternate plan in case the furs from Brazil failed to come through.

As anticipated, this sent the merchandising department into a fury. Within twenty minutes a red-faced Mario Girard was in his office, waving last year’s Christmas receipts inches beneath Zack’s nose. “Fox fur! Fox fur at Christmas?” The man sounded as outraged as if Zack had suggested they serve cold gruel at a banquet for the Queen. “Look at these records! Last year we sold every chinchilla fur within three weeks of delivery. We need those furs!”

Zack plucked the papers from Mr. Girard’s hands. “First, I am not using Hartman money to pay off a corrupt ship captain from Rio de Janeiro. Second, if you ever shove papers in my face like that again, I’m using them to line Lizzie’s cage.” He tossed the pages back at Mr. Girard, who snatched them against his chest before they fluttered to the ground. Making matters worse, Zack had just learned that the Brazilian ship captain also had three hundred pairs of hand-tooled leather boots that had been destined for Hartman’s. The boots were in the same legal quagmire due to the tariff issue.

“How am I to convince the ladies of Chicago that fox fur is as luxurious as chinchilla?” Mr. Girard demanded. “What kind of woman would settle for fox fur when she had her heart set on chinchilla?”

Zack’s smile was tight. “You’ll reach deep inside that clever brain of yours and conjure up a reason. Don’t make me do your job for you.” Growing up, his mother had been lucky to have a coat at all, let alone quibble over the fabric. To this day his mother refused to let him buy her decent clothing, insisting on wearing the same kinds of clothes she had been able to afford when she was a laundress. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at his door, and his clerk entered.

“Yes?” Zack asked.

“There is a woman here to see you. Miss Knox, from the 57th Illinois Watch Company.”

Zack blinked. “Does she have an appointment?”

He knew she didn’t. An appointment with Mollie Knox was not something he would have forgotten, but he needed a moment to gather his thoughts. There were only two words in the English language that could knock him off-kilter. Mollie and Knox.

“No, sir. She wishes to discuss terms for the offer of sale.”

Zack hoped the flush wasn’t showing on his face. What sort of sap was he that his heart sped up just knowing that woman was standing on the other side of the office wall? This unwelcome attraction to Mollie Knox was liable to get him fired if he couldn’t rein it in. He walked to Lizzie’s cage and slipped in a wedge of apple, which delighted the finch. She flitted about the cage, chirping and whistling, then rushing back for another piece of apple.

Actually, he was surprised it had taken Miss Knox this long to demand to see him. There were aspects of the contract that were a little odd, but the terms were nonnegotiable, and he would tell her that in no uncertain terms.

“Tell her I am unavailable,” Zack said.

The clerk cleared his throat. “I already did that, sir. She is adamant.”

Zack paused, which was enough to send Mario Girard into a renewed tizzy. “We are about to lose our Christmas supply of fur, and now you are feeding that silly bird and wasting time over some woman. I want to know when I’m getting my chinchilla furs.”

Zack slipped another wedge of apple into the cage and stared as Lizzie pecked at it. He was double-booked for most of the day, and this disaster with the Brazilian shipment was another
headache to complicate matters. The last thing he needed was Mollie Knox flinging a healthy dose of chaos into his day.

Why was he so irrational about her? Rigid, repressed women were not his preferred choice, but there was something about her, always so starchy, so uptight, that first caught his attention. And she was passionate about her watches, no doubt about that. Anyone who heard her rhapsodize about the perfection of spring-loaded mechanisms could not doubt her love for her craft. Zack knew all about hopeless romantics; he had been raised by a pair of them. To this day he was bailing his parents out of one ill-advised scheme after another as they pursued their hopeless quest. Mollie was different. She was half passionate artisan, half cold-blooded businesswoman, and the combination enthralled him.

“Kazmarek!” Mr. Girard barked. “When am I getting my chinchillas? And my leather boots?”

Zack walked back to his desk. “When a Brazilian ship captain pays the tariffs. Not before. Get some alternative sources of fur lined up in case he refuses.” Although Zack was certain the captain would ultimately pay the tariff, sometimes business required a little bare-knuckle boxing, and it was a game Zack enjoyed. He came of age sweating alongside the roughest thugs in the city and never backed down from a fight. That poor deluded captain had no clue whom he was dealing with.

The clerk watched from the doorway, exquisitely uncomfortable with the raised voices. “What shall I tell Miss Knox?”

“Tell her to come back this afternoon. I’ll see her at two o’clock.” He only wished he was as comfortable doing battle with Mollie Knox as he was with a Brazilian ship captain.

The hand-carved mahogany doors of Hartman’s Emporium looked heavy, but Mollie never knew for certain because a sharply
dressed doorman always opened them as patrons entered. She loved the scent of lemon polish and freshly cut roses that always graced the entrance. The crystal chandelier suspended over the entryway and new gaslight fixtures cast a magical glow throughout the interior. The first floor of the two-acre building was filled with a staggering array of goods. Women could buy hand-woven rugs from Persia or perfume from France. She could never resist trailing her fingers over the plush suede boots and silky scarves in the Women’s Department. Other departments stocked a sumptuous display of jewelry, china, leather goods, even food and wine.

Showing up on bended knee before Zack Kazmarek held as much appeal as a case of chicken pox, but it had to be done. Mollie wore her favorite outfit—a smartly tailored amethyst purple suit made of moiré fabric, with a tightly cinched jacket and frothy lace kerchief at her throat—to lend her confidence.

She was breathless after climbing five flights of stairs. The top floor of the building was entirely offices—some belonging to Hartman’s, some leased by other businesses. The hallway was spacious and well lit, but had nothing like the opulent splendor of the first floor open to the public. Her nerves stretched tighter as she walked to the final office at the end of a long corridor.

She was shown inside, where Zack Kazmarek sat behind his desk like a king. He did not rise as she entered the office. “Miss Knox. Braids again. Pity.”

She touched the back of her hair. She had artfully coiled the heavy braids into a compact bun at the nape of her neck. She thought it fetching but remembered what Alice had said about braids. She raised her chin a notch. “I hear braids are all the rage among the female prison wardens. It makes them look powerful.”

“That’s one word for it.” He gestured for Mollie to sit.

She arranged her skirts to release a little nervous energy. “I came to discuss finalizing the contract,” she said. With the expansive view of Chicago behind him and the massive desk before him, Zack looked like some sort of emperor ready to broker deals for world domination. Or smash a small watch company beneath the heel of his boot. She swallowed hard. “I need more time before I can make a decision.”

“And why is that?” His face remained impassive, his voice chilly.

She glanced out the window behind him, looking at the sprawling city of Chicago. The downtown area was bisected by a river in the shape of a Y, with the business district hugging the shores of Lake Michigan. Mollie pointed to an area clustered by the railway station just south of the river. “Do you see where East Street abuts the railroad tracks?”

There was a rasp of expensive fabric as Mr. Kazmarek turned to glance out the window. “I see it.”

“Those railroad tracks are new, and they are only three blocks from my workshop,” she said. “After they were laid down, the value of my building has soared. I need more time for a building appraisal. I also need to evaluate the potential new revenue streams coming in from the East Coast. All this takes time.”

His face remained unmoved as he twirled a pencil between his fingers. “Miss Knox, although I may be fascinated by new revenue streams coming in from the East Coast—and trust me,
I am
—it is not possible to extend the deadline. Monday morning. Nine o’clock. If you don’t agree to sell, I will make an offer to another watch company by ten o’clock.”

Her eyes narrowed. “The financial well-being of forty employees rests on this decision. Those people are like my family.”