Page 39 of Things I Overshared
“This, a homeless man’s tie?” He holds it out, so I walk closer to him. I want to reach out and touch the fabric. It’s irrational and honestly a bit scary how badly I want to touch that glowing yellow silk. But my dinner alone, his brow that is already itching to be pinched, his shudder when I grabbed him on the plane—they stop me. I lean over and take a close look instead.Crap! Now I’m in his manly scent cloud!
I hop back. “Okay. You didn’t steal it from a homeless man. A dying rich man, then.” He sighs. “And there it is! My first sigh of the day!” I turn and start to head toward the door at the same time he does. “Think I’ll reach twenty today? Fifty?” He says nothing as we head down the hall. “One hundred? Boy. Ambitious goal, but I’ll do my best.” He pushes the button on the elevator and turns to me and sighs with passion.
I smile and raise my eyebrows. “Man! I am off to a great start!” I laugh as we get onto the elevator. Emerson, on the other hand, looks miserable. I decide to stop talking to spare the poor man. I decide inwardly to see if I can actually keep his exasperation to fewer than ten sighs today.
“Hold it, would you please!” a gruff, accented voice calls from the hall. Emerson holds the door for a family to join us. The man is a giant, his wife is not petite, and two teen boys, in uniforms of some sort, are about the size of two small houses. They also have a good-size toddler boy in tow. Emerson and I shift back into the corner to give them room. The toddler stares at me, so I make goofy faces the entire ride. Eventually, he starts giggling and making my crazy faces right back.
But I barely register what my face is actually doing. Because the entire side of my right arm is touching the left side of Emerson. My arm starts to warm, even though I tell it not to. Even though I remind my brain that the man next to me is rude and grumpy and cannot stand me. I tell that thump in my chest that he is too old, too stiff, too vanilla, and too frigid for any of my parts to be melting around him.
None of me listens.
________
“Bernard!” I say as I bound into the Canton Cards shop on the east side of the city. I’m ecstatic our first few days are with our home team of franchisees. Bernie, as I call him in my mind, is the owner and manager of this location, and he’s approaching the front door as we step in. His face, which looks like a young Santa Claus, is sporting a wide welcoming smile.
“Miss Canton, welcome, welcome.” He beams as he reaches us and extends a hand.
“Samantha, please.” I smile. “And this of course is Emerson Clark. Emerson, as you know, this is Bernard Johns.”
Emerson gives him a polite grin and says “Pleasure” as Bernie moves from shaking my hand to his. I take in the store. I am not at all distracted by that word coming out of Iceman’s mouth.Not at all!
“It looks great in here!” I say, turning to survey the aisles, and it mostly does. The space is cozy but bright. The signs and displays in signature Canton purple pop against the wooden shelves and tables. Every inch is covered in cards, paper goods, and cute little gifts. There are areas of the store that clearly need work, but I never open with anything even close to negative when I audit our shops.
“Oh, thank you. I’m sure you’ll have lots of tips for us to spruce up the ole gal.” He gestures his arms around the shop, showing his nerves a bit.
“We’re here to help, yes.” I spin back around. “I thought I’d work my way around the shop while you two dig into your numbers, and then we can break for a late lunch.”
“Lovely, right,” Bernie says.
“Will Stacy be joining us for lunch?” I ask him.
“Oh, she’d be gobsmacked, I think. Are you sure?”
“Yes, please, we’d love to meet her! We’re a family company, you know that!”
“Quite right. Big boss’s daughter here and all, yes, she’ll love that.”
“Perfect. I’ll just put my purse behind the counter and dive in.”
“Shall we go to the office then?” Bernie looks up at Emerson.
“After you.” Emerson opens up his arms. I force myself to look away from the man who truly stands out like a Greek statue, handsome and chiseled and towering over me and Bernie and all the displays.
I move to the front display windows with my pen and notebook, waiting for my excitement to kick in. I am not one of the merchandising geniuses Dad has back in Tulsa who comes up with the creative in-store displays, but I know how they’re meant to look. I know when something is off, or how a small adjustment of product can make a display pop.
I make small notes of what I notice, but the rush of giddiness I used to find in our stores doesn’t greet me, like it hasn’t for at least a year. I was hoping that seeing our brand in Europe would rekindle my fire for this work, but now that the excitement of trip planning has worn off, I’m wishing I was just out sightseeing.
Still, I lose myself in the tasks that need to be done. There are so many small tweaks to be made that will really help Bernie’s numbers. I move shelving units and adjust shelves. I carry various items back and forth across the store as I rework a few of the displays. I take off my jacket and put my hair up, and at one point without realizing it, I take off my shoes. Susan would absolutely die, but the store is carpeted and I’m steering clear of any customers.
I bend over to pull some tea towels off a bottom corner shelf when I hear a throat clearing behind me. I snap up and turn to see Emerson, whose eyebrows are up high above those light blue lady-killers that dash down my sweating, jacket-less figure and land at my bare feet. I’m about to mutter some almost-apology about my impropriety, but he turns to leave.
“Lunch,” he says flatly.
“Lunch,” I mimic him softly, sticking out my tongue. No one hears or sees it, but it makes me feel a bit better. I find my shoes and jacket and purse, and we head out to a nearby pub. Bernie and his wife Stacy are delightfully laid-back, laughing at my jokes and sharing funny stories about their kids. I gush over their family photos and share stories of my nephews. Emerson says almost nothing the whole meal, but the rest of us don’t seem to notice or mind. After about an hour, Stacy excuses herself and I start to go through my notes with Bernie. It’s then that I’m attacked by a case of the yawns.
As I launch into my second page of ideas, coffees appear at the table and Emerson thanks the server. I look over at him for the first time in maybe the whole meal and realize he looks nearly dead. I wonder what I must look like.
“Well, between the two of you, we’ll be right sorted for next quarter.” Bernie grins as I take a couple sips of coffee.
