Paradise by Judith McNaught
“Are you a shoplifter, Mrs. Jordan?” Meredith countered. “Is that what you are—a common, habitual shoplifter?” Before the woman could strike back verbally, Meredith softened her voice. “Female shoplifters of your age ordinarily take clothes for themselves, or perfume or jewelry. You took winter clothes for a child. The police have no record of any prior arrest on you. I prefer to think you’re a mother who acted out of desperation and a need to keep her baby warm.”
The young woman, who evidently was more familiar with confronting adversity than compassion, seemed to crumple before Meredith’s eyes. Tears rose in her eyes and began to trace down her cheeks. “I seen on TV that you shouldn’t ever admit to doing anything unless your lawyer is present.”
“Do you have a lawyer?”
“No.”
“If you don’t admit you stole those things, you’re going to need one.”
She swallowed audibly. “Before I admit it, would you put it in writing—legal like—that you won’t set the police after me if I do admit it?”
That was a first for Meredith. Without consulting with the store’s attorneys, she couldn’t be certain that doing so might not later be construed as some sort of written “bribe,” or cause some other sort of ramifications. She shook her head. “You’re complicating this needlessly, Mrs. Jordan.”
The young mother shuddered with fear and doubt, and then she drew a long, shaky breath. “Well, if I was to admit what I did, would you give me your word not to set the police after me?”
“Would you take my word?” Meredith quietly asked.
For a long moment the other woman searched Meredith’s face. “Should I?” she asked finally, her voice shaky with terror.
Meredith nodded, her expression soft. “Yes.”
Another hesitation, a long, strangled breath, and then a nod that she accepted Meredith’s word. “Okay—I—did steal those things.”
Glancing over her shoulder at Mark Braden, who had silently opened the door and was watching the scenario, Meredith said, “Mrs. Jordan admits to taking the clothing.”
“Fine,” he said tonelessly. In his hand was the statement of admission she’d have to sign and he handed it to the forlorn woman, along with a pen.
“You didn’t say,” she told Meredith, “I’d have to sign a confession.”
“When you’ve signed it, you may leave,” Meredith replied with quiet reassurance, and was subjected to another long, searching look by the young woman. Her hand shook, but she signed it and shoved it back at Mark.
“You can leave, Mrs. Jordan,” he said.
She grasped the back of her chair, looking on the verge of relieved collapse, her gaze riveted on Meredith. “Thank you, Miss Bancroft.”
“You’re welcome.” Meredith was already walking down the hall and into the toy department when Sandra Jordan came rushing up behind her. “Miss Bancroft?” When Meredith stopped and turned, she blurted out, “I seen—I mean, I saw you on television news a few times—at fancy places, wearing furs and gowns, and I wanted to say you’re a lot prettier even than you look on TV.”
“Thank you,” Meredith said with a slight, self-conscious smile.
“And I—I wanted you to know, I’ve never tried to steal anything before either,” she added, her eyes pleading with Meredith to believe her. “Here, look,” she said, pulling her wallet out of her purse and removing a photograph from it. A baby’s tiny face with enormous blue eyes and an enchanting toothless smile gazed back at Meredith. “That’s my Jenny,” Sandra said, her voice turning somber and tender. “She got real sick last week. The doctor said I have to keep her warmer, but I can’t afford the electric bill now. So I figured if she just had warmer clothes—” Tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked fiercely. “Jenny’s father took off when I got pregnant, but that’s okay because me and Jenny—we got each other, and that’s all we need. But I couldn’t bear it if I—if I lost my Jenny.” She opened her mouth as if to say more, then she turned on her heel and fled. Meredith watched her rush down an aisle filled with hundreds of teddy bears, but what she saw was the baby in the photograph, a tiny pink bow in her hair and a cherub’s smile on her face.
Minutes later Sandra Jordan was stopped by the security guard at the main door when she tried to leave the store. “Mr. Braden is coming down, Mrs. Jordan,” he informed her, and Sandra’s whole body began to quake at the horrible realization that she’d undoubtedly been tricked into signing a confession so they could turn her over to the police. She was sure of it when Braden walked up to her carrying a large Bancroft’s shopping bag, which she instantly realized contained the pink snowsuit, along with all the other evidence of her attempted theft—including a large teddy bear which she hadn’t even touched. “You lied,” she cried in a strangled voice as Braden held the bag out to her.
“These things are for you to take home, Mrs. Jordan,” he interrupted, his smile brief and impersonal, his tone that of one who was making a speech he’d been told to make. In a daze of gratitude and disbelief, Sandra took the bag with Jenny’s warm clothes and a teddy bear in it and clutched it protectively to her chest. “Merry Christmas from all of us at Bancroft & Company,” he said flatly, but Sandra knew the gifts weren’t from him or a donation from the store either. Lifting her eyes to the mezzanine above, she searched through a blur of tears for a sign of the beautiful young woman who’d looked at Jenny’s picture with such poignant gentleness in her smile. She thought she saw her then—Meredith Bancroft standing in her white coat on the mezzanine, smiling down at her. She thought so, but she wasn’t sure because scalding tears were flooding her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. “Tell her,” she whispered chokily to Braden, “Jenny and I said thank you.”
15
The offices of the senior executives were on the fourteenth floor, situated on both sides of a long, wide, carpeted corridor that fanned out in opposite directions from the circular reception area. Portraits of all the Bancroft presidents hung in ornate gilt frames on the walls of the reception area above the Queen Anne sofas and chairs that were provided for visitors. To the left of the receptionist’s desk was the office and private conference room that had historically belonged to Bancroft’s president. To the right were the executive offices with secretaries seated outside them separated by functional as well as ornamental partitions of carved mahogany.
Meredith stepped off the elevator and glanced at the portrait of James Bancroft, the founder of Bancroft & Company, her great-grandfather, twice removed. Good afternoon, Great-grandfather, she said silently. She’d been saying hello to him every day forever, and she knew it was silly, but there was something about the man with his thick blond hair, full beard, and stiff collar that filled her with affection. It was his eyes. Despite his pose of extreme dignity, there was daring and devilment in those bright blue eyes.
And he had been daring—that and innovative as well. In 1891 James Bancroft had decided to break with tradition and offer the same price to all customers. Until that time, local customers everywhere paid lower prices than strangers, regardless of whether they came to a feed store or to Bancroft & Company. James Bancroft, however, had daringly placed a discreet sign in the window of his store for passers-by to see: ONE PRICE FOR EVERYONE. Sometime later, James Cash Penney, another enterprising storekeeper in Wyoming, had made the policy his own, and in the ensuing decades, it was J. C. Penney who got the credit for it. Nevertheless, Meredith knew, because she’d found it in an old diary, that James Bancroft’s decision to charge one price to all had predated J. C. Penney’s.
Portraits of her other ancestors hung in identical frames along the walls, but Meredith paid them scarcely a glance. Her thoughts were already switching to the weekly executive staff meeting that lay ahead.
The conference room was unusually silent when Meredith entered it, and the tension in the air was almost tangible. Like Meredith, everyone was hoping Philip Bancroft might give some clue today as to who his temporary successor was likely to be. Sliding into a chair near
Two more of the vice presidents at the conference table were in charge of activities that helped to move the merchandise out of the stores—the vice president of advertising and sales promotion whose group planned the store’s sales campaigns and bought the radio, television, and newspaper space to advertise them; and the vice president of visual presentation, for whom Lisa worked, whose staff was responsible for displaying all the merchandise within the stores.
Meredith’s position as senior vice president of operations put her in charge of everything else that involved the running of the stores, from security and personnel to expansion and forward planning. It was in this latter area that Meredith had found her niche and made her mark in the retailing community. In addition to the five new stores that had been opened under her direction, the sites for five more stores had been selected, and construction was already under way at two of them.
The only other woman at the conference table was in charge of creative merchandising. It was her responsibility to predict fashion trends in advance, and to make recommendations to the general merchandising managers. Theresa Bishop, who held that position, was seated across the table from Meredith, talking quietly with the controller.
“Good morning.” Her father’s voice sounded strong and brisk as he strode into the conference room and took his place at the head of the table. His next words jarred everyone into a state of electrified expectation. “If you’re wondering if any decision has been reached as to an interim president, the answer is no. When it is, you will all be duly advised. Can we now dispense with that topic and get down to the business of department stores. Ted”—his narrowed gaze swerved to Ted Rothman, the vice president who was in charge of purchasing cosmetics, intimate apparel, shoes, and coats—“according to last night’s reports from all our stores, sales of coats are down by eleven percent compared to this same week last year. What’s your answer for that?”
“My answer,” Rothman replied with a smile, “is that it’s unseasonably warm, Philip, and customers aren’t concentrating on outer clothing as much as they normally would at this time of the year. It’s to be expected.” As he spoke, he stood up and walked over to one of the computer screens built into a wall cabinet, and quickly pressed a series of keys on the keyboard. The store’s computer systems had long ago been updated at Meredith’s urgings—and at considerable expense—so that at any given instant, sales figures were available from every department in every one of their stores, along with comparisons based on this time last week, or last month, or last year. “Sales of coats in Boston, where the temperature this weekend dropped to a more normal seasonal level are”—he paused, watching the screen—“up by ten percent over last week.”
“I’m not interested in last week! I want to know why our coat sales are down from last year.”
Meredith, who’d been on the phone with a friend at Women’s Wear Daily last night, looked at her glowering father. “According to WWD,” she said, “coat sales are down in all the chains. They’re printing a story on it in the next issue.”
“I don’t want excuses, I want explanations,” her father bit out. Inwardly, Meredith winced a little—but not much. From the day she’d forced him to acknowledge her value as a Bancroft executive, her father had gone out of his way to prove to her, and to everyone else, that his daughter got no favoritism from him. Quite the opposite, in fact. “The explanation,” she said calmly, “is jackets. Winter jackets sales are up by twelve percent, nationwide. They’re taking up the slack in coat sales.”
Philip heard her, but he did not give her the small courtesy of acknowledging the worth of her input by so much as a nod. Instead, he turned on Rothman, his voice clipped. “What are we supposed to do with all the coats we’ll have left?”
“We cut back on our orders for coats, Philip,” Rothman said patiently. “We don’t expect to have any surplus.” When he didn’t add that Theresa Bishop had been the one to advise him to buy jackets heavily and cut back on coats, Gordon Mitchell, the vice president who was responsible for dresses, accessories, and children’s wear, was quick to point out Rothman’s omission. “As I recall,” he said, “the jackets were purchased instead of coats because Theresa told us the trend toward shorter skirts would cause women to look toward jackets this year rather than coats.” Mitchell had spoken up, Meredith knew, not because he gave a damn whether Theresa got credit, but because he didn’t want Rothman to get the credit. Mitchell never missed an opportunity to try to make the other merchandising vice presidents look less competent than himself. He was a petty, malicious man who had always repelled Meredith despite his good looks.
“I’m sure we’re all well aware and appreciative of Theresa’s fashion clairvoyance,” Philip said with stinging derision. He did not like women among his vice presidents, and everyone knew it. Theresa rolled her eyes, but she did not look to Meredith for empathy; to do so would have showed a kind of mutual dependency, ergo, weakness, and they both knew better than to show any sign of that to their formidable president. “What about the new perfume that rock star is going to introduce—” Philip demanded, glancing at his notes and then at Ted Rothman.
“Charisma.” Rothman provided the name of the perfume and the celebrity. “Her name is Cheryl Aderly—she’s a rock star/sex symbol who—”
“I know who she is!” Philip said shortly. “Will Bancroft’s get to debut her perfume or not?”
“We don’t know yet,” Rothman replied uneasily. Perfumes were one of the highest profit items in a department store, and being given the exclusive right in a city to introduce an important new scent was a coup. It meant free advertising from the perfume company, free publicity when the star came to the store to promote it, and a huge influx of women shoppers who flocked to the counters to try it and buy it.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Philip snapped. “You said it was virtually in the bag.”
“Aderly is hedging,” he admitted. “As I understand it, she’s eager to shed her rock-star image and do some serious acting, but—”
Philip threw down his pen in disgust. “For Christ’s sake! I don’t give a damn about her career goals! What I want to know is whether Bancroft’s is going to snag the debut of her perfume, and if not, why not!”
“I’m trying to answer you, Philip,” he said in a cautious, placating voice. “Aderly wanted to debut her perfume at a classy store to lend her a classy new image.”
“What could be classier than Bancroft’s?” Philip demanded, scowling, and without waiting for a reply to that rhetorical question, he said, “Did you find out who else she’s considering?”
“Marshall Field’s.”
“That’s a crock! Field’s doesn’t begin to outclass us and they can’t do the job for her that we can!”
“At the moment, our ‘class’ seems to be the problem.” Ted Rothman held up his hand when Philip’s face turned an angry red. “You see, when we began negotiating the deal, Aderly wanted that class image, but now her agent and her advisers have half convinced her that it’s a mistake for her to try to ditch the sexpot/rock star image that’s won her so many teenage fans. For that reason, they’re talking to Field’s—looking at them as a sort of compromis
“I want that debut, Ted,” Philip stated in a flat tone. “I mean that. Offer them a bigger cut of the profits if necessary, or tell them we’ll share some of their local advertising costs. don’t offer more than what it will take, but get that debut.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Haven’t you been doing that all along?” Philip challenged. Without waiting for a reply, he turned to the vice president sitting beside Rothman, then one at a time he worked his way around the table, subjecting each VP to the same curt cross-examination that Rothman had received. Sales were excellent and each vice president was more than capable; Philip knew it, but as his health had worsened, so had his disposition. Gordon Mitchell was the last to come under Philip’s fire: “The Dominic Avanti gowns look like hell—they look like last year’s leftovers, and they aren’t selling.”
“One of the reasons they aren’t selling,” Mitchell announced with a bitter, accusing glance at Lisa’s boss, “is because your people went out of their way to make the Avanti items look ridiculous! What was the idea of putting sequined hats and gloves on those mannequins?”
Lisa’s boss, Neil Nordstrom, regarded the angry VP down the length of his nose, his expression placid. “At least,” he commented, “Lisa Pontini and her crew managed to make that stuff look interesting, which it wasn’t.”
“Enough, gentlemen,” Philip snapped a little wearily. “Sam,” he said, turning to speak to Sam Green, the store’s chief legal counsel, who was seated on his immediate left, “what about that lawsuit that woman filed against us—the one who claimed she tripped in the furniture department and hurt her back?”
“She’s a fraud,” Sam Green replied. “Our insurance carrier just discovered she’s filed four other lawsuits against other retailers for the same thing. They aren’t going to settle with her. She’ll have to take us to court first, and she’ll lose if she does.”
Philip nodded and directed a cool glance at Meredith. “What about the real estate contracts on the land in Houston you’re so determined to buy?”