8. Vaughn
EIGHT
VAUGHN
Charlotte had recovered from her fever and woke me up on Saturday by jumping on top of me in bed. “Wake up!” she screamed, lips approximately a quarter inch from my ear.
Groaning, I rolled onto my side and caught her in my arms. She squealed and giggled as I tickled her, and then I planted a kiss on the side of her head and lay back on my pillows. “I need your help with something today, turkey.”
Charlotte flopped down with her head next to mine on my pillow. She petted my face and smiled. “Okay. With what?”
“I need a new suit, and I need a haircut. Maybe you can help me decide what to get.”
My daughter sat up, intrigued. “I can help you.”
“Good. Now it’s time to get up.”
Our Saturday morning tradition—when I wasn’t at work—was pancakes and bacon in our pajamas. I served it up on her favorite plate, then sat down across from her with my own breakfast. Billie had arrived midway through the pancake making and was sitting next to Charlotte at the table.
“The barber will be here in an hour, and then we’ll be visiting the tailor,” I told Charlotte before biting into a strip of bacon. “You can help me decide what color suit to get.”
“Blue!” my daughter decreed. “To match your eyes. And mine.” She opened hers wide and looked at me, then at Billie. “See?”
I huffed a laugh. “All right.”
An hour later, the doorbell rang, startling me from an email-induced trance. I glanced over at my daughter, who was playing with dolls by herself close by, and tried to squash the guilt that sprouted. I had so little time with her; I had to stop working during it.
We both glanced up when Billie appeared, two men in tow.
The barbers I’d hired to make a house call.
A man with a full beard and a sharp haircut entered with another, shorter guy, and I directed them to the second living area on the ground floor.
They set up their gear, and I sat down in front of a tall mirror in a chair they’d carried in.
Charlotte hovered around us, bouncing from one leg to another. “What are you going to do? Are you going to shave it like usual?”
I glanced at the barber, brows arched.
He shook his head. “We’ll do a fade on the sides and keep your length on top,” he said, running his fingers through my hair to check the length. “We can grow this out and go for a more textured cut in a few months.”
His touch was professional, but it reminded me of the last time someone had run their fingers through my hair.
When Alba had reached over to touch my head, a bolt of lightning had gone through me.
She’d tugged at my hair and then dropped her hand, and my entire body had buzzed for an hour afterward.
The logical thing to do was to stay away from her. The last thing I needed right now was a distraction. Between meetings with potential investors, my daughter, and the mountain of work required to keep my businesses going, I didn’t have time to add a woman to the mix.
But logic wasn’t driving my new lunchtime ritual.
Every day, I woke up with an itch under my skin that only seemed to ease when her eyes landed on me and rolled.
In a world of work and teetering business empires and over-budget projects and sick five-year-olds and custody drop-offs, Alba was a simple, bright spot in an otherwise drab week. Could anyone blame me for wanting more?
Besides, she was the one who’d pointed out my hair—and when the barber revealed my fresh cut in the mirror, I had to admit that she was right.
I angled my head from side to side to have a better look and couldn’t help the smile that curved my lips.
He’d shaved my beard as well, and the line of my stubble defined my jaw.
I looked good.
Charlotte threw herself at my legs and beamed at me. “Daddy! You look so handsome!”
I laughed and ran a hand over her little head, feeling the soft, fine strands of her brown hair. “Thanks, turkey.”
“Are we going to get you a new suit now?” she asked, big blue eyes shining with excitement.
“Let’s go,” I told her. She ran out to go find Billie, and I shook the barber’s hand.
“Same time next week?” he asked.
“Can you come to my office during the week? I like to keep my weekends free for my daughter.” Or I tried to, when work wasn’t as crazy as it was now.
“No problem,” the barber replied. “I’ll talk to Hillary and set up a time.”
I saw them out and then caught my reflection in the foyer mirror.
Alba was right. I’d looked scruffy and unkempt before.
It worked fine when I was a contractor, walking around dirty construction sites all day long—but I was a business owner now.
If I wanted to attract big money from investors, I needed to look the part.
We took a cab to the tailor. The front of the shop was fairly unassuming, with gold lettering on the window and green trim around the door. But the inside oozed style. Bolts of fabric lined one wall, with the other dominated by various suits, shirts, and silk ties.
Even from a distance, I could tell there was no polyester in the building. The tailor, Mr. Koval, looked up when we entered, and nodded. “Mr. Avery,” he said. “Right this way.”
He was a short man with salt-and-pepper hair that was combed back from his face.
He had a slight Eastern European accent and wore a measuring tape draped around his neck.
Charlotte’s eyes were big as saucers, and she darted to the side of the room to touch one of the suit jacket’s sleeves.
“I like this one,” she told me in her version of a whisper, which wasn’t much quieter than her speaking voice.
Mr. Koval led us to the back room, then he gestured to the dais in the middle of the space and began measuring me. “You need the suit for Monday, yes?”
“Yes. Monday morning if possible.”
“No problem,” he said, taking meticulous notes in a tiny notebook.
Then he looked up and speared my daughter with a look.
She sat back on her chair next to Billie, looking nervous.
“You,” Mr. Koval said, and Charlotte leaned farther back, as if she wanted to get away from him. “Show me the jacket you liked.”
Charlotte looked at me. I nodded. My daughter slithered out of her chair, and I watched her and Mr. Koval go through to the front room, where she pointed out the navy jacket she’d shown me on the way in.
The tailor grabbed the coat hanger on which it was draped and gestured for Charlotte to head to the back room again. She rushed back to her seat, where Billie smiled at her.
“Your daughter has good taste,” Mr. Koval announced, entering behind her. “This is good fabric for an everyday suit. Plain weave wool, soft touch. Feel.” He presented a sleeve for me to touch, and I did, nodding.
“It’s nice,” I said, not really knowing what I was supposed to say.
I was way out of my element here, but I didn’t hate it.
Mr. Koval recommended a similar wool for my new suit, and he let Charlotte choose the color from a selection of fabric bolts on the wall.
When she chose a dark navy, he gave her a solemn nod—but I saw the twinkle in his eyes.
He liked children, and I appreciated him including my daughter.
“Come back tomorrow for a fitting, same time,” he told us, then waved us away.
We walked to a nearby coffee shop and Charlotte bounced next to me, her cheeks red in the January cold. “That was fun!” she announced. “You’re going to look so handsome, Daddy.”
I put my arm around her shoulders and smiled. “I hope so.”
The next day, I went in for a fitting. It was mostly me standing on the dais while Mr. Koval grunted and scowled at me, moving pins around and making notes.
“Tomorrow, I deliver,” he said, then made a shooing motion toward the door.
And deliver, he did.
I got into the office around noon, after a long visit to the Midtown construction site, and found a garment bag hanging on a hook behind my desk.
Hillary poked her head in and smiled. “Nice hair,” she said, then nodded to the garment bag. “And that looks nice too. I’ve emailed you notes about Arlo Noble ahead of your meeting this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Hillary,” I said, eyes on the bag. I closed the door to my office and kicked off my boots.
Then I looked down at the carpet and swore.
I’d forgotten to brush them off again. I quickly put them on the shoe tray next to the door and scanned my desk.
Nothing from my snarky cleaning woman—until I pulled back my desk chair and found a gold wrapper right in the middle of the seat.
One of the wrappers from the chocolates I’d given her.
That’s what she thought of me chastising her for sitting in my chair. I laughed, delighted.
It reminded me of Alba, snarky and resentful as she dropped my food off, lobbing advice over her shoulder like it was nothing.
I glanced at the garment bag—a suit bought on her advice. Unzipping the bag, I touched the navy fabric inside, begrudgingly admitting that it felt a lot nicer than the suits I already owned. I hadn’t known wool could be this soft.
I changed in the private bathroom attached to my office, then stared at myself in the mirror.
Almost without my conscious input, my shoulders rolled back and I stood straighter.
I hardly recognized the man looking back at me.
I looked broader, more imposing. Even the crinkles around my eyes looked less obvious.
I looked like I belonged in some fancy boardroom in a skyscraper.
I caught myself at the thought.
I was already in a skyscraper, and much of my day was spent in a boardroom. So why did it feel so weird to finally look the part?
Mr. Koval had thrown in a free tie with the suit, which was nice of him, except for the fact that his suit cost more than what I would’ve considered a reasonable mortgage payment before I made it big.
The tie was dark navy as well, with black thread forming a subtle pattern.
I wrapped it around my neck and started to tie it—then stopped.
The four-in-hand tie knot was unacceptable, according to a certain opinionated waitress. But she hadn’t told me what tie knot I was supposed to use.
I checked my watch. I had time to spare.
I grabbed my jacket and left the office.