[K][T] and Family Ch. 04

Having seen where Julian worked, this room was merely unkempt. The racked fabric attempted order. The changing closets had curtains. The three sewing machines had room sufficient for work. Brushing the cuttings off and sweeping the floor would make the room—untidy. Bad, but we had seen worse.

There was a knock at the door, but it was not Jonathan. A teen aged girl pushed in a rack of clothes, put a note on one sewing machine and left. My hands itched to raise the plastic covering the garments, so I could get a look at them, but no one else moved. Francine clasped her hands behind her back and tapped her foot. Watching the foot gave me something to do. It soon started doing a complicated toe/heel cadence, occasionally wandering forward or back, even sideways. In the still of the room, the scuffing was audible, but Francine made no sound. I was about to ask what piece, when the door opened.

Jonathan was so blatantly gay I suspected an act. Glancing at Sheila, I was struck by her almost absolute calm. She could model clothes in a department store window. The only comment would be how lifelike the manikin appeared. I felt my posture adjusting. Sheila was the textbook example. Christine noticed my attention. She smiled and winked. Then she glanced at Jonathan and rolled her eyes. OK. Maybe I was the slow one.

Francine, as usual, was more vocal. "Cut the crap, Jonathan. Save it for someone who has the time. You're no more gay than she is lesbian or she is innocent." Those were references to Christine and myself, in that order. "One things is certain; she's the bride. So quit playing to expectations we don't have and do your fucking job. You two, strip down to the body armor."

That was clear enough. Christine kicked off her shoes and started taking off clothes where she stood. There were booths, of a sort, but I did the same. It was a new sensation. I was used to pulling a shirt over my head and tossing it aside. This time I opened all the buttons and hung it carefully. Glancing over, I noticed Sheila watching me. It was hard to tell, but there might have been a trace of approval in her smile.

Jonathan's gasp told me that he had seen Christine's bruising. Now in the third day, her legs had devolved into a stripy mass of purple. When Francine did not tell him to pay attention, I glanced over. Her look was calculating. Sure enough, "OK, Jonathan, you've seen it. This is the Maid of Honor. Get her into her dress." He brought out Christine's cream and green dress, but an unnamed assistant handed me my suit, which occupied my attention for the next several minutes.

It was not a tux, in the sense I knew them. It more closely resembled a British morning suit. The black coat was frock length in back, but cut away to normal American suit length in the front. It had satin lapels. Instead of a vest, there was a waistcoat in green and black paisley. The shirt was white cotton and ridged rather than ruffled, with an unbuttoned high collar. The trousers were charcoal, rather than black, with suspenders instead of a belt. They were snug enough to stay up without one. I thought them overlong, until I saw the two inch heels on the boots. I was already the tallest person on Sean's side of the altar. Francine's people were underscoring that fact.

It took a couple of attempts to get the fit right. More exactly, I had to tighten the corset another inch or so. The trousers were looser but the waistcoat closed smoothly. Above the waistcoat, there was room for my breasts. My assistant suggested an Episcopalian (high and mighty) bra, rather than the Catholic (raise the masses) one I was wearing. After I stopped laughing, he told me that the other two types were Baptist (mountains out of molehills) and Salvation Army (uplifting the fallen).

After that, I had more fun. My assistant helped me into the point toed demi-boots. They looked very much like period shoes, but had a hidden zipper. He pulled my hair sharply back and secured with a silk ribbon. This allowed the silk top hat a snug fit. He had links for the french cuffs, but I had my own—gold and monogrammed. Sheila's pin was not the only thing I had found in Grandmother's room. Next was wide bow tie, of the same silk as the hair ribbon. I was told not to worry about tying it myself. Someone would be around on Saturday.

The assistant pulled out a camera and took some pictures. Then he helped me pull on the jacket. He marked the length on the sleeves and trousers, then pinned them in place. Rounding out the look were white gloves and an ebony walking stick. More pictures. I thought it looked dashing.

By the time I looked around, everyone else was gone.

Francine:

I awoke before dawn, because Mother Nature wanted a deposit. The night before I had trouble sleeping, which sometimes happens when I fly. Rather than lie in bed, I went into my living room and copped a squat on the rug. I found myself staring at the cast signed poster of Crowes of Murder, my first Best Drama Tony. It was the one Christine had stared at the first night.

Hours later, as I rose to go to the bathroom, I thought of Christine. She seemed so innocent 10 days ago. Had she changed so much, or had I misjudged? Perhaps it was both. Christine's confidence had grown in proportion to Sheila's conference in her. Sheila had also grown, so the interaction was important. Francine Vivian Martel, where is your place? Who are your special people?

I popped a couple of Hungry Man meals in the oven and did the necessary washing. An hour later Siobhan and I were on the road to Elizabeth. The Warehouse store was not open yet, so we had time for a snack. I needed one, since lunch would be light. Our time in the store was both fun and satisfying. It was a pity to rush off after only a couple of hours.

Finding Sheila took some looking. When we found her, we also found Christine. I don't know if my mouth fell open when I saw her, but Siobhan's did. Christine's naughty schoolgirl outfit was a traffic stopper. They were coming out of the resale store, so Sheila had probably spent less than $100 on it. It is murder trying to out shop that girl.

We packed and headed across the bridge to Staten Island. DeCourte Brothers Deli is just a couple blocks from the ferry. A couple kosher subs and a bag of chips took the edge off, so I arrived at the parking garage in a good mood. Parking is not a glamorous way to make money, but it's steady and reliable. It also helps on occasions like this. Most of Manhattan was built without thought for parking.

Fortunately, we were close enough to walk. When Pedro started buying things in the 1960s, much of Chelsea was a slum. He never bought residential properties, but businesses nearby tended to close. He provided work for a lot of socially disadvantaged people, who wanted to live close by. At least one of the tenement co-ops were founded by Pedro's people. Over the last fifty years, there was a renaissance in the area, which was largely driven by the arts, theater and otherwise.

All of that was personified by Jonathan. His was the third generation from Puerto Rico. Pedro had hired his grandmother, whose baby and thick Puerto Rican accent had killed most employment opportunities. She sewed costumes for some of his early off-Broadway work, while nursing her daughter. In the 1960s, that counted as broadminded and progressive. The daughter, Jonathan's mother, had graduated high school visibly pregnant with Jonathan. Pedro had hired her as a fitter and dresser, eventually making her the head of wardrobe for one of his companies.

Jonathan graduated from the famous Fashion Institute, only six blocks away. I hired him to do design work on my line of prepackaged plays for high schools. He had worked up to doing costume design for second tier and second run plays, including two that played Broadway. He was one of my young guns, which is why I let him work on Sheila's party. That said, I wished his impression of Garment District Gay would crawl under a rock and die. Even Christine was rolling her eyes.

Sheila was first on the agenda. Jonathan had not designed her dress, but the accessories were all his. The dress was one hell of place to start. The plain dress was closely tailored linen in dark green. Jonathan had disbelieved the measurements I gave him. It was a pleasure to see his eyes widen as he took in Sheila's not-at-all-standard figure. Her corset was tightly laced, so her massive breasts were even more pronounced than usual.

Sheila quickly undressed, then raised her arms. Jonathan dropped the dress over her and stepped back. I think he expected it to need major tailoring. Fat chance on a thin girl. The twenty-two inch waist would close with room to spare. The bust would cause more issues. I am grateful that Sheila never went into stripping, but Sweet Mary did she have the figure for it. With her dance skills, she passed up $Millions.

We all had to catch our breath once Sheila was wearing the dress. Even unadorned, she was beautiful. I stepped up and closed the rear buttons. Even the strain at the top was within working parameters. I signaled Jonathan to add the lace. This was non-trivial, since it was nearly two yards long, reaching all the way to the bottom of the dress. This was authentic Irish crochet lace, made to rush order in Dublin.

I did not tell Sheila, but the dress covering was worth more than the custom dress, accessories and bridesmaid's dresses piled together. One look at her face said my silence was unnecessary. Sheila knew exactly what Sean had obtained for her. Her face had that scrunched look that says I-won't-cry-because-I-couldn't-stop. I found my camera and took a lot of pictures. Sheila could make something out of even my photography.

The shoes were white open-toed sandals. Slippers are one of the interesting effects of World War shortages, but Sheila's theme predated the Great War. White opera gloves completed Jonathan's ensemble, but I had a couple of things to add. Siobhan had given her a filigree broach. I placed it above her left breast. My contribution was a pair of emerald earrings—three karats total weight, set in white gold. They caught the hint of green in Sheila's brown eyes, as well as the Irish sod green of the dress. I was pleased with the result.

More pictures. Then it was time for Christine and I to gown up.

Sean:

Friday started like many other days. Sheila and I spent some time caressing and kissing, then more time in the shower shaving hard to reach places. It was over too quickly. I grabbed my breakfast and headed to the cars. Even Francine was there, which surprised me. The girls piled into their cars and took off. I had to drive myself to work.

Normally, this would be cause for enthusiasm. I love driving the Chevelle, even though it attracts cops. That morning, nothing was going to lift my spirits. It seemed like the end of an era, but I would not be there to see it. When I realized I was jealous of CC, I snorted a laugh, but it did not change things.

Work was already stacked up when I arrived. Since I had never taken a vacation, we had no procedures for my absence. I made a note to address this at the next staff meeting. In nine months I expected to have different priorities. Our companies needed a procedure in place by then. While on the subject, I called a couple members of our real estate group: Fred Fitzpatrick and Michael Weston.

I talked to Fred about designing a new nursery in the old house, with the nanny bedroom beside it. Fred was very excited, until I mentioned Sheila. When he became guarded, I mentioned that it was a small job. Perhaps he could recommend a young designer. Fred liked that idea. He gave me a list of four young architects in the area.

The call to Michael Weston was a better experience. The old house was exactly the kind of raw material he liked to work with. Since it was suddenly famous, he could get some mileage out of that as well. We talked about some possibilities, then agreed do do a sit down after my honeymoon.

Before we signed off, I got him to recommend a CAD program for Sheila. He warned me that his recommendation was not the most user-friendly, but it was a true professional grade architecture suite. I decided to give it to Sheila on the plane. It would be a long flight.

The rest of the morning was routine stacked on more routine, crammed into routine routine. Everyone wanted every i dotted and every t crossed, in triplicate, with initialed copies filed. It was so frustrating that I text Helen, hoping to get an answer. As usual for Helen, her answer was two edged. She said that everyone wanted to touch base before my week away, but no one wanted to start anything. Argh. I was about to play hooky, when the call I hoped for came through. It was Columbia Pictures. They wanted to commit Sheila to a specific project.

I was well prepared for the call. After Helen had slapped together a virtual office, she had taken the initiative to get real a web page designed. It was still a bit rough, but that was understandable. The important part were functional links to real people in the organization. Except for Sheila and myself, everyone on the page would be available and could help, within their job description. I had sent out a memo that everyone was expected to do their job, and only their job, regardless who was on the other end of the conversation.

I also had files on Aaron Aldermann, Ivan Nevsky, Columbia Pictures, their current projects and, especially, the ones that were running late. It did not take a genius to figure out which picture they needed help with. It was just a matter of what and how much. Francine's people had proven invaluable on this point. There were flat fee rates and participation conditions on tap. I picked up.

"This is Sean Richards."

Phone: Good Morning, Mr. Richards, this is Aaron Aldermann. How's the weather in New Jersey?

"They are promising sunny and 80° for my wedding tomorrow. I wish you could come. I'll have someone send pics."

Phone: If that is an invitation, I have someone in New York that could make the drive. Face to face is always important, especially at the start. He was seriously interested. I was betting a lawyer with documents. We could do that.

"Absolutely it was. Give the details to Helen. Security is a bit jumpy, what with all the press. You are probably comfortable with it, but it's new to us. To business. What can I do for you?"

Phone: We were all very intrigued by the editing Sheila Schwartz did on some pictures Ivan Nevsky sent her. Given that it was done in only thirty minutes, it was most impressive. We would like to see what her undivided attention can produce. How does her schedule look, after she begins officially working of course. We have a standard contract, which I can message over.

"Which standard contract is that? I am sure you have several to choose from."

Phone: It's the standard consulting contract, such as we give to a sound company, for example.

"What are conditions on the residuals?"

Phone: A percentage would be premature at this point. This is fee for service.

"I see. What multiple of standard rates?"

At that point, the trading got serious. AAA wanted to give Sheila a basic contract, with no incentives. It was understandable, but a poor move on his part. He was in a bind and we knew it. Starting with a minimum contract, he had left himself without fallback position. On the other hand, we were the new kid. Once we saved his ass, we could dictate the next contract. Both sides had some leverage, but I had been at this crossroads before.

When I took over the family business, I inherited some consulting firms. I quickly changed their SOP. We developed a two tiered system—either a high flat fee, or a lower fee plus am equity participation. I cribbed the idea from a Robert Heinlein book, The Cat Who Walks Through Walls. The beauty of the idea was to let the client make the choice. Wide eyed speculators wanted all the profits. They would pony the flat fee. Smart, well prepared operations would often choose the second option, because it kept their startup costs down. It had worked well for close to ten years, but this project could dwarf the rest. It was time to close the deal.

"At the risk of overdoing a movie cliché, let's cut to the chase. You have a turkey and we are the long shot that might turn it into Thanksgiving dinner. Long shots are cheap to play and big on the pay, so let's go with that. Send over that standard contract. Attach to it some open ended incentives. Draw a line. If the gross goes above that line, we get a percentage. Likewise re-release and international. If you make some nice change, we will get recognition. If this turns into the Terminator, we do a whole lot better.

"Do you think you can sell that to your investors?"

Phone: [pause] You are actually asking a lot. You know that, right?

"You know Francine Martel and you probably know that she is tight with my fiancée. What you may not know is that she and I dated in high school. Sheila is not the only one in her loop. She recommended an attorney to check your contract. But, I'll give you an option. You can send a flat fee contract, suitable for the Vice President of a firm with billings of $120 Million. That is what our Events and Promotions Division did last year. Your choice. If it passes the sniff test, we'll sign it."

Phone: You read science fiction, don't you. Heinlein was a smart guy and a real SOB to do business with. OK. I will take your proposal to the investors. I think you can guess which way they'll fall. But, as you say, they get their choice of poison. It will make them think they matter.

Is she any easier to deal with?

"You know Francine. My sister Jo has a Yale PhD. Neither of them will even try verbal fencing with Sheila."

Phone: YHWH protect us. Are you sure you want to marry her?

"My situation is somewhat different. I can make her Chatelaine of her own castle. Sheila is trained for the theater. It shows. By the way, call me Sean. I doubt this is the last time we talk."

Phone: I'm Aaron. It has been an education.

After that, going back to routine office work was really difficult.