Straight Stalk

Chapter 1

One

Walk-In Closet was doing okay. Not great. Not fantastic. Not an overnight success. But for a relatively new SoHo boutique, it was doing okay.

Two years in business and going strong.

Still, it could be better.

Things could always be better.

If a great windfall fell my direction, I wouldn’t step out of the way.

The bell over the front door tinkled just as I finally found a home for a box of shantung neckties in the overcrowded back room. Quickly dusting off my toile skirt, I pushed through the sage green damask curtain separating the showroom from the storage to find my mail carrier walking to the counter.

“Good morning, Fred.” I smiled even as I cringed at the thought of another delivery. If he had anything bigger than a clutch purse I would have to start turning the boxes into displays.

Or he might have bills. Bills would be worse.

“How was your weekend?” I asked.

Fred answered with a terse, “Fine.”

One word responses were his forte.

He was never much for conversation. In fact, in the two years since Walk-In Closet opened, I couldn’t think of a single time he had actually spoken more than two words to me. And those were usually, “Sign here.”

I only knew his Christian name because Albert, the Saturday mail carrier, was a friendly older gentleman who loved taking the time for a chat. Fred seemed to resent the fact that I had learned and called him by his name, but I took a perverse pleasure in being friendlier than his behavior warranted.

Eventually the honey would sweeten him up.

Without another syllable, he handed over the small stack of envelopes—all disgustingly bill-shaped—and walked back out the door.

Sometimes I felt he would prefer my absence so he could leave my mail on the counter. But I was convinced I must be the only pleasant interaction he got all day and that he needed all the help he could get. One day I would break through that gruff veneer. One day he might even say, golly, three words.

A girl can dream.

Quickly flipping through the pile, I saw two bills that absolutely had to be paid by Friday and several more that could be put off another week.

This was not how I had imagined running the store. A financial balancing act between downright necessities and necessary improvements. I downright needed to pay the rent. But I also needed to order better quality padded hangers before another careless shopper left the floor around the lingerie display littered with slinky camisoles and lace garter belts.

Footprints didn’t wash out of pastel silk.

The SBA loan that jump-started the shop had gotten me the lease and the décor and the initial stock with a little left over for advertising. But that was gone. Now that I knew what I needed.

Too soon old, too late wise.

I pulled the portable file tote from beneath the register and filed the vital bills in the “Pay Now” file and the rest under “Pay Someday.” The “Pay Now” file was a little plumper in the pants than I last remembered.

With the business bank account hovering precariously above the red, I had to bring in some bill-paying cash soon.

Whenever I needed extra cash flow there was one easy answer. Well, two, but I wasn’t about to call and ask my father for help. His opinions on my choice to stay in the city and start my own business rather than return home and marry a nice, successful Southern boy were unequivocal: he would neither forgive nor assist me.

So, it was time to hold another trunk show.

They always brought in a crowd of fashion hunters desperate to get the newest, hottest couture. When they found the perfect piece, they usually bought an item or two from the shop to go with. When they didn’t, they usually bought something from the shop so they didn’t leave empty-handed.

Thanks to Lydia’s connections, I could always get a Ferrero Couture trunk show when I needed one—occasionally with an appearance by Ferrero himself. And the last one had been nearly four months ago.

Right around the time Evan and I broke up. Le sigh.

At least that relationship had dissolved over another woman—not another man.

I had the card for the Tri-State sales rep tacked up in the storeroom. Pushing back through the damask curtain, I hadn’t taken two steps into the cardboard maze when the doorbell tinkled again.

I groaned.

At least it couldn’t be more bills. Unless one of my creditors had resorted to couriered delivery or repo men.

Maybe it was a customer.

Actually, I noted as I stepped into the showroom, it was two.

A pair of well-dressed-if-a-little-on-the-West-Village-artistic-side men stood inside the doorway, scrutinizing the store. Though Walk-In Closet carried both full men’s and women’s wear, most of the men’s wear was bought by women shopping for men. Hiding my surprise, I stepped forward and greeted them.

“Welcome to Walk-In Closet, gentlemen.”

Their attention turned to me, assessing me as avidly as they had the shop.

“My name is Bethany. How can I help you?”

One man, the taller of the two, stepped forward and asked, “You’re the owner?”

Not usually the first question out of a customer’s mouth.

If not for their generally professional appearances, I might have reconsidered them for repo men.

“Yes,” I answered.

They smiled. The tall one nudged the blond one in the ribs.

“I need a shirt,” the blond announced.

The tall one nodded in enthusiastic agreement. A well-dressed bobblehead.

“Wonderful,” I cooed. Clapping my hands together, I led them to the men’s shirts. “What kind of shirt are you looking for?”

“Oh dear,” the blond said, “I hadn’t thought of that.”

This seemed an odd comment from a man who had presumably entered the shop with a purpose. But after two years, very little walked through that door that still surprised me. I’d seen much, much stranger things.

“All right. Let’s start with type. Dress shirt, sport shirt, or t-shirt?”

The two men looked at each other, conferred for a moment, before deciding on a dress shirt. Making a mental evaluation of the blond’s style—youthful, energetic, a little flamboyant—I headed for the latest shirts from Vanny-O, a talented young designer who lived in my building.

I took every opportunity to promote local designers. It had to be good karma to help someone on the way up.

Pulling three of the more colorful designs off the rack, I wagered with myself that he would choose the one with bright yellow, purple, and lilac variegated stripes. I was rarely wrong.

For a moment, when I held the shirts up, his eyes brightened like a schoolboy. Then the thrill banked and he approached my outstretched hand cautiously.

“I’m not sure,” he mused, taking the pale green shirt covered with bright turquoise pinwheels and holding it up to his chin. “This seems awfully bold for the office. I’m not sure I could carry it off.”

The tall man stifled a snicker.

“Nonsense,” I assure him. “Of course you can… I’m sorry, what was your name?”

Small business success hinged on relationships. The first step to creating a relationship with a customer was an open, friendly atmosphere. That was why I always introduced myself by name to new customers and asked their name at the first opportunity.

That was how I had regular customers today who had first walked through my doors two years ago.

“Steven,” he answered with a grin.

And that was how I would get and keep Steven as a customer.

“Pleasure to meet you, Steven.” I took the pinwheel shirt out of his hands and handed him my choice. “Office fashion is overwhelmingly relaxed these days. Even many professional workplaces have eliminated ties from the dress code. That leaves a man little room for color in his wardrobe. The dress shirt, whether worn with cargo pants, dress cords, or a pinstripe suit, is your canvas. You don’t look like a man who’s afraid of a little color, now are you, honey?”

Steven beamed. Nearly ripping the hanger from my grasp, he held it beneath his chin and turned to admire himself in the full-length mirror. “What do you think, Trevor?”

The tall one, Trevor, nodded in considered approval. “I think we have a winner, Steven.”

Steven clapped his hands in unrestrained glee. “Wonderful.” He grabbed Trevor’s wrist, pulling him to the mirror. “Now do him!”

Between them, they tried on nearly every item in the shop—including some pieces from the women’s collection. By the time Steven and Trevor left, their purchases rang up at nearly three-thousand dollars.

What a way to start a Monday.

Looked like new padded hangers might make the cut. One more sale like that and the new mannequins for the storefront would have a chance, too.

Coming down from the euphoria of an excellent sale, I knew not to let one successful sale eclipse a thin bank account. I still needed an influx of cash if I wanted to pay the bills and make all the improvements on my list. Heading once again through the damask drape, I wound my way through the maze of boxes. I finally reached the bulletin board next to the restroom. Just as the doorbell tinkled.

Another customer, I hoped.

Determined not to navigate the maze again, I quickly snagged the business card and tucked it in my only available pocket. My bra.

Back through the boxes and the curtain.

I found the shop empty.

That was strange. I knew I’d heard the bell.

I stepped into the shop, the periwinkle heels of my peep-toe slingbacks clicking on the parquet floor. To my right, a head of tight black curls popped up from behind my display of men’s shoes. Followed by a cheery round face I recognized instantly.

“Cassie!” I cried.

“Bethany!”

She darted around the display, throwing her arms around me with abandon when I met her halfway. I returned the hug with equal enthusiasm—though perhaps a bit less abandon. Southern women always show a little restraint.

“Cassie, good Lord,” I exclaimed. “What are you doing in New York?”

“Didn’t you hear?” she gasped. “I’ve got a new job.”

No, I hadn’t heard. And why hadn’t she called me?

“In the city?”

She nodded emphatically. “I’ve been back nearly a week, but haven’t had a spare moment outside work. This job is keeping me on my toes.”

“I’m glad you found time today.”

She bit her lip, the pencil she habitually chewed on noticeably absent. “Actually, this is work, too.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

The last time I saw Cassie Bishop was graduation day at Columbia. Ten years ago. I’d stayed in New York and laid the groundwork for opening Walk-In Closet. She’d headed for California and a career in television.

Over the years she had risen through the ranks from coffee gopher to second assistant production manager to assistant production manager, mostly on soon-canceled TV shows and movies of the week. The jobs weren’t always the greatest, but by Hollywood standards she was a resounding success.

Seeing her again made me feel a decade younger than my thirty-two years.

She hadn’t changed. Still the same riot of black curls framing her fair, heart-shaped face. Still cherub-cheek-popping bright smile and light blue eyes that sparkled with possibility. Still dressed entirely in black—I had hoped the bright colors of California style might have rubbed off on her just a little bit—not even a pastel accent piece.

At least Hollywood hadn’t changed her.

Though we hadn’t seen each other in all that time, we had worked hard to keep in touch with more than the occasional email. We spoke on the phone at least once a month.

It felt like we had never been apart.

“What I mean is,” she explained as she headed for the floral chintz settee in the corner, “I’m not here for social purposes. This is business.”

She collapsed on the settee, grabbing my hand and pulling at me to sit next to her.

“I’m here to offer you a job.”

With my legs crossed at the ankles, knees held chastely together, and skirt smoothed into place, I let her guide me down onto the settee.

“A job?” I shook my head at the nonsensical notion. “Cass, I don’t know anything about television.”

“Of course not, silly,” she admonished. “But you do know about fashion.”

I couldn’t argue that point. For the better part of ten years I had been working in fashion retail, even before opening the shop. My resume included a stint as a buyer at Bradford’s, a display designer at Louis Jewelers, and a sales associate at more than half a dozen clothing stores.

Since the shop opened I’d kept on top of all the latest, subscribed to all the trade and fashion magazines, even got interviewed once for a small feature in Lucky titled “Southern Gals in the City.”

But what did that have to do with television?

Cassie tucked one foot behind the opposite knee and turned to face me. Her eyes widened as she settled into a more serious pose.

“Have you heard of One Straight Guy at a Time?”

I shook my head.

“It’s a new makeover reality show. A cast of five gay guys with various specialties—culture, fashion, cuisine, grooming, decorating—take a disaster dude and turn him into the perfect man. A whole life make-better.” She leaned back with a self-satisfied smile. “I’m the production manager.”

“How wonderful! Very impressive title.”

“It is,” she agreed without modesty. “And as production manager I’m in on all the creative meetings. At the last one, the producers and director were talking about outside consultants we need on the show.”

I listened carefully, still not sure how this related to me, but happy to see Cassie so enthusiastic about this new job.

“When they said they needed a fashion consultant with loads of real-world experience, I recommended you.” She leaned in close. Placing a hand on my shoulder, she explained, “Bethany, they love you. They love your shop. The job is yours. If you want it.”

“A job?” I repeated. “As a fashion consultant? What does that mean?”

“It means, babe, that the show pays you for your expertise. For your advice. And, if the contractual agreements with the other consultants are any indication, they’ll dress the cast in clothes from your shop whenever you want, list your shop in the opening and closing credits, and use your shop on the show a minimum of four episodes every season.”

After the full sixty seconds it took for this information to sink in my lungs failed. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak.

This was everything my shop needed. Exposure. Advertising. Customers. Income.

This was my windfall, and it fell right in my lap.

My ecstatic shock must have shown on my face because Cassie hugged me close and exclaimed, “We’ll have so much fun working together!”

When the doorbell tinkled I barely noticed the UPS man prop the door open and load up his hand truck with boxes.