It Takes a Rebel. Stephanie Bond

he nodded.

      “Size twelve shoe?”

      “Thirteen if I can get them. Why?”

      Tuesday waved her hand in a shooing motion. “Go take a shower and shave that hairy face. Hurry, and yell for me when you’re finished.”

      Jack wasn’t sure if he was simply too tired to argue, or just glad to have someone tell him what to do. The Tremont’s account was lost now anyway—he would merely go through the motions for Derek’s sake.

      He retreated to the bathroom in the back, grateful for the shower the landlord had thought to build. Shaving had never been a favorite chore, and it took some time to clear the dark scruff from his jaw. He checked in the cabinet on the wall, and sure enough, Derek had left a couple pairs of underwear, along with a pair of faded jeans and a few T-shirts. Derek was more thick-bodied than he, but the underwear would work. Jack had barely snapped the waistband in place when an impatient knock sounded at the door.

      “You through in there?”

      “Give me a second,” he called, then wrapped a towel around his waist before opening the door.

      Tuesday strode in, carrying a comb and a pair of scissors.

      “Oh, no,” Jack said, shaking his head. “You’re not cutting my hair.”

      “Oh, yes,” she said, motioning for him to sit on the commode lid. “That wooliness has to come off. Come on, now, don’t argue.”

      He stubbornly crossed his arms and remained standing.

      She pointed the scissors at him. “Don’t make me climb up there. Do you want to blow this chance completely?”

      Jack sighed and shook his head.

      “Then sit.”

      He sat. And she cut. And cut and cut and cut.

      Cringing at the mounds of dark hair accumulating on the floor around him, Jack pleaded, “Gee, at least leave me enough to comb.”

      She stepped back, made a few final snips, then nodded and whipped off the towel protecting his shoulders. “There, you look human again.” Tuesday exited the bathroom with purpose.

      Half afraid to look in the mirror, Jack did so one eye at a time. Damn. He pursed his mouth and lifted a hand to his sheared head. It was short, but it didn’t look half bad. He turned sideways and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Long time, no see,” he murmured. He leaned over the sink and wet his short hair, then combed it back. “Hello, ears.”

      “Here you go, handsome.”

      Tuesday was back, this time holding a vinyl suit bag.

      “Suit, shirt, cuff links, tie, socks, belt and shoes, size twelve—your toes’ll be pinched just a mite.”

      Jack’s eyes widened. “Where did you get this stuff?”

      “My son, Reggie,” she said. “Remember, he works for Tremont’s?”

      “Oh, right,” he said. “Menswear?”

      She nodded. “Natty dresser, my Reggie.” She handed him the bag. “Clothes make the man, you know.”

      Touched, Jack reached for the bag, then stopped and stared at her. “Tuesday, you’re a genius.”

      She gave him a dismissive wave. “I know that, son. What took you so long to catch on?”

      Jack unzipped the bag, his mind jumping ahead to his blank sketch pad. He had about an hour to get a new idea down on paper.

      “Tuesday, I’m going to be cutting it close. Will you call me a taxi?” A trip across town on his motorcycle might compromise the condition of his portfolio, he realized.

      “I did. It’ll be here at a quarter to ten,” she said, then turned and closed the door.

      Jack grinned at his own reflection, suddenly feeling young again. He was back, and good wasn’t a big enough word to express how he felt. He felt…he felt…energized. And lucky. And teeming with fiery anticipation at the look on the ice princess’s face when he walked through the door.

      “Look out, Ms. Alexandria Tremont,” he murmured. “Ready or not, here I come.”

      THE FAVORITE PART of Alex’s day was walking through the various departments of Tremont’s before the doors opened to the public. This morning, she acknowledged, the routine also served to soothe her anxiety about the impending advertising meeting. Actually, she felt a little sorry for Jack Stillman—the clueless man was in way over his swollen head. But regardless of her opinion of him and his agency, she honestly didn’t enjoy watching people make fools of themselves. Alex sighed and sipped coffee from a stoneware mug. Hopefully the meeting would be mercifully short.

      Her mood considerably lighter this morning than the previous evening, the store seemed exceptionally pleasing: the sweep of formal gowns on so-slim mannequins, the musky blend of popular perfumes, the neat stacks of thick towels on cherry tables, the flash of silver tea sets. In the past decade, Tremont’s had made the subtle move from a discount department store to a more upscale shopping experience for the upper-middle class of Lexington and the surrounding area. Alex liked to believe her sales and marketing policies of pushing retail boundaries had something to do with the transformation.

      She stopped to compliment Carla, one of the most senior salesclerks who always arrived at her station in the jewelry department early enough to give the glass counter an extra swipe, then Alex moved toward the stairs by way of menswear. A tall well-dressed youth was tagging slacks for alterations, his hands moving swiftly. Alex’s mind raced as she tried to recall his name—she’d seen it at the top of the commission lists often enough. Ronnie? No, Reggie.

      “Good morning, Reggie.”

      He jerked up his head and dropped the pants he held. “G-good morning, Ms. Tremont,” he said as he hurriedly knelt to retrieve the clothes. “Sorry, I’m clumsy today.”

      Alex dipped to help him. “Nonsense.” But she did squint at his dark head that was tilted down. She’d spoken to the young man several times and she’d never known him to be nervous, yet his hands were practically shaking. “Is everything all right, Reggie?”

      “Hmm? Oh, yes, ma’am. Just fine.” But he made only fleeting eye contact as he straightened.

      “Good.” Alex stood and brushed off the behavior with a smile, then rescued a navy and gray barber-pole striped tie in danger of falling from a display table. “Are the new ties selling well?”

      Glancing at the tie she’d smoothed, he swallowed, sending his Adam’s apple dancing. “Yes, ma’am. Especially the C-Coakley line.”

      “My personal favorite,” she said, pleased that the line of ties her father had gruffly pronounced as “damnably expensive” were selling well despite the admittedly steep price tags. “Keep up the good work, Reggie.”

      Her chunky-heeled black leather pumps felt nice and solid against the polished marble floor as she walked toward the stairs. The stairs themselves, although a mainstay in her casual exercise program, were a bit of a test today in her shorter than usual skirt—black crepe with no slit. She climbed the four flights of stairs slowly to prevent perspiration from gathering on the paper thin indigo blouse beneath the black jacket. Near the top, she checked her watch. Nine-thirty. Just enough time to grab another cup of coffee and sift through the previous week’s sales figures. Might as well head for the conference room early and claim a good vantage point. Things could get interesting, and she wanted a view.

      Her secretary Tess, an efficient and animated young woman who studied fashion merchandising at night, was holding out the sales reports before Alex even reached the woman’s desk.

      “Thanks, Tess.”

      “You look tired.”

      So much for her new under-eye concealer. “I