Cutwork (17 page)

11

Godwin shooed the last customer out right at five, and turned the needlepointed sign around to CLOSED. The money was counted, the deposit slip made out, the coffee urn unplugged, emptied, and washed, stock replaced, the radio shut off, and all but one light extinguished.

They both stood a moment, looking around, going down the close-up list in their heads. This was Betsy’s favorite time of day, and not just because another hard day at work was finished. The air in the shop seemed full of small vibrations and a very fine dust, as if a herd of horses had just gone through. Betsy felt as if she were exhaling slowly after having inhaled all day, and the shop was exhaling with her.

Though it was still bright daylight outside, in the shop with the lights off the glowing colors of the yarns were dulled and the shimmer of the flosses was gone, and the little herd of yarn baskets in the corner had blended into a mass of smooth wicker and fuzzy wool. Godwin sighed softly, changing gears himself, then turned toward Betsy, who was standing behind the big old checkout desk. “Well?” he said.

He’d been very patient all afternoon, disarming and amusing every customer who came his way with his usual gay-on-parade behavior, only very rarely looking at his watch and rolling his eyes at heaven for arranging such a pokey passage of time.

“Yes,” said Betsy. “Let’s sit down.” She picked up a legal-size yellow notepad and made for the library table that filled the center of the room. She pulled out a chair and seated herself. She put some effort into not smiling; she wanted this to be a real surprise.

“All right,” said Godwin, hurrying to take another chair.

“I had a talk with my financial advisor last night,” began Betsy, speaking with some deliberation. She turned over the blank top page of the pad, revealing some notes on the second page. “He suggested several changes I need to make in my fiscal planning for the next few years.”

“Oh, my
God,
he told you to declare
bankruptcy
!” shrieked Godwin in faux hysteria. “I
knew
we weren’t making much
money
the last two months, but I
didn’t
know it was as bad as all
that
!”

“Godwin, for heaven’s sake!”

“Sorry,” said Godwin, not very contritely. “But can’t you talk any faster? Or just give me the summation? I’m simply dying of curiosity.”

Betsy allowed her smile to appear, and accepting the challenge, she said rapidly, “All right, here’s the bottom line: I propose to double your salary, offer you a benefit package like my own, and arrange for you to have power of attorney if something happens to me and I can’t take care of things myself.”

Godwin took in a great gulp of air and stopped there, staring at her for long enough that his complexion turned deep pink. His hands splayed on the table and then began to scramble as he struggled for control. He finally managed to exhale and draw another breath.
“Strewth!”
he exclaimed.

“Was that succinct enough for you?”

“Have
mercy
!” he gulped. “I guess it is! Why, this is so amazing! I—I—” A slow-going grin morphed his expression from amazement to delight. “John will just
shit
!”

“Good. I’ll teach him to mess with my employees.”

Godwin held out his arms, wrists together, then yanked them apart. “The golden handcuffs are
broken!
”

She patted the air with one hand. “Now, don’t get too excited. Even on double your current salary, you won’t be able to jet to New York on weekends to attend Broadway shows and dine at whichever restaurant is hottest at present.”

“Salt,” said Godwin absently.

“What?”

“Well, L’Impero, then. Does this mean I get to make more decisions about running the shop?”

“You already make decisions.”

“But I mean like a, a
manager
! Could I be
Manager
of Crewel World?”

Betsy laughed. “Why stop there? Why not be Vice President in Charge of Operations?”

“Could I? Really? Could I?”

Caught up in his excitement, she laughed and said, “Why not?”

Godwin rose from the chair to dance in a series of curved-spine, arms-forward, Gene Kelly turns all the way around the table. He wound up standing behind the chair he’d occupied, one arm bent in front, the other up and out.

Betsy, still laughing, rose to give him a standing O, and he bowed deeply, then sat down. “What does an operations manager do?” he asked.

Betsy hesitated. Her main purpose had been to thwart John, and she had reacted impulsively in saying Godwin could be an officer of Crewel World, Inc. But Godwin was not just a golden, eager puppy, and she was not going to be like John, winning him with trifles, to betray him when it came to realities. “If you’re serious, I’m prepared to give you real responsibility.”

He grinned and spread his arms. “Lay it on me.”

She reached into a coffee can in the center of the table that held scissors, rulers, crochet hooks, a pair of size eleven knitting needles, and an assortment of marking pens and pencils. She pulled out a pencil, turned over another page in the notebook, and wrote the numeral 1 on the top line. “All right, manager, you run the shop.” She went back and wrote MANAGER on top of the page, then went to number 1, and numbered the rest as she wrote them down. “First, you set the hours we’re open; second, you decide how much off the regular price we’ll give for sales—and third, you can set the dates of sales. Fourth, we work together on ads, but you’re in charge of ordering stock from now on. And you can set the work schedules, too—which means you can hire and fire part-timers as necessary.” She dotted the last item with a firm mark and put the pencil down. “But run your decisions past me, at least at first, so I can approve them.”

Godwin had been nodding eagerly, watching the list grow. “Yes, yes, I can handle all of that,” he said. “Can I do a newsletter, too?”

“Come on, isn’t this enough?”

“Please?”

“Goddy, newsletters are a lot of work. It’s easy to do one or two, or even three, but then they turn into a real chore. I helped put out a monthly one for a book club a long time ago, and I came to hate that deadline. Trust me, you will, too.”

“Yes, but Stitchville has a newsletter, so it’s not like it’s impossible. Susan Greening Davis says they’re important, and since they go only to customers who want them, they aren’t wasted like newspaper ads can be. And they’re cheaper than any other kind of advertising except a sign in the window.”

Susan Greening Davis was a needlework shop maven, appearing at conventions and markets and putting out her own newsletter full of advice and suggestions. Betsy subscribed to it, but Godwin also read it, and he was always trying to get Betsy to use more of her ideas.

“They’re way, way more work than you think, Goddy.”

“I’m up for it! You wouldn’t believe how much material I’ve already got. Please, I’ve always wanted to do one, I have a computer at home with a newsletter program.” He raised his right hand. “I
swear,
you won’t have to lift a finger, I’ll do
all
the work.”

“Okay, all right,” yielded Betsy, but then she picked up and pointed the pencil at Godwin as if it were a pistol and warned him, “If you come to me
one time
for help, that will be the last issue.”

“Yes! Yes! Yes! Vice President
and
Editor in Chief!” Godwin pumped a fist in the air while she wrote “7. Newsletter” on the list. He shifted mood instantly to worry, “What shall I call it?”

He looked at Betsy for advice, but she refused to be drawn. “It’s your project, you name it.”

“All right.” He pressed a forefinger into his cheek, composing. Godwin was a really good actor; Betsy could almost see the green eyeshade and ink stains.
“Crewel World News? Stitchin’ Print? A Stitch in Time?”
He looked over to see if Betsy had brightened at any of these.

She hadn’t. “May we talk about some other things now?”

“Sure, like what?”

“Like the apology I owe you for not doing something like this a long time ago. Mr. Forseth was rather sharp to me about that. He says I should be more willing to respond generously to valuable employees.” She went back a page in the notepad. “In fact, one thing he also suggested is that I take out ‘valuable employee’ insurance on you. Even though I told him that no amount of money would bring me a replacement with all the qualities you bring to Crewel World.” Betsy felt her face grow hot.

Godwin swallowed hard and said carelessly, “Oh, I don’t know. Donny DePere can stitch. And he’s even more flamboyant than I am.”

“Yes, but is he as handsome?”

Godwin smiled and preened just a little. “No.” This broke the sentimental moment satisfactorily. Godwin frowned. “What did you mean about becoming incapacitated? Oh, my God, you’re sick, aren’t you?”

“No, no, of course not! But remember how I was in the hospital twice winter before last? Suppose I’d had to stay longer, or had to stop working for a long while? Who would have paid my bills, ordered more stock, arranged to have the parking lot plowed?”

“I suppose Shelly and I could have handled that.”

“No, you couldn’t. Neither of you are legally able to sign checks or withdraw funds from my bank account. That’s what this is about. Mr. Forseth is drawing up a legal document called a ‘springing durable power of attorney,’ and that means if I become incapacitated, you’d be able to do those things. In fact, if I’m in a mysterious coma due to ingestion of an unnamed drug, or chained to a wall in the farthest reaches of a secret dungeon constructed by the maniacal Doctor Dread, you could even make decisions about my other holdings.”

“Hey, what else are you investigating?” asked Godwin, alarmed.

“Nothing, nothing,” she replied. “The only way I can talk about such things is by making a joke of them. But you know what I mean. If I get run over by Lars’s Stanley Steamer, or fall through the ice on Lake Minnetonka . . .”

“All right, I get it,” Godwin said, nodding. “If I might be allowed a serious remark, I’m honored you think I can handle things like that. But why me? Why not Shelly?”

“Because while she knows quite a bit about running Crewel World, she can only work regular hours here in the summer. You know how it should be run even better than Shelly does. Or me, for that matter.” She looked around the shop, at the six door-like flats on one wall that held painted needlepoint canvases, and the white dresser near the door on whose mirror were taped announcements of classes and needlework events. “I wouldn’t have this place if you hadn’t been there from the start for me.”

He looked around, too, at the box shelves with their burdens of books, magazines, and needlework gadgets. “That’s true,” he said, not kidding. “But I don’t know much about the other things. I suppose I could collect the rents. I’ve been a tenant enough times to have a little understanding of how that works. But what about the other stuff? Like New York Motto?”

“What about it?”

“I don’t know how it works.”

“Frankly, I don’t understand it very well, either. They buy bankruptcy estates, and have a semisecret way of finding out about them. Every so often I get a phone call or an e-mail advising me that X amount of dollars is needed, or that X amount of dollars is being forwarded to me. So far, more has come in than gone out. In fact, it paid off my car and it helped buy the new roof. Goddy, will you formally advise me that you accept my offer?”

“What, write you a letter?”

“I’ll write you one and you reply. But just for now, to make it real, say you accept in so many words.”

“Okay. I formally accept your offer to become Vice President in Charge of Operations of Crewel World, Incorporated, and Editor in Chief of its newsletter. Since it’s two titles, shouldn’t you triple my pay?”

She laughed. “Not until we double our profits.”

“All right, then how about a pension plan?”

“All right. I’ll come halfway to matching any money you put into a special savings or investment account for your retirement.” She wrote that down so she’d remember to put it in her letter to him. It was a perfectly safe offer; Godwin was the eternal grasshopper.

“Done.” He grimaced suddenly and she realized he was trying not to cry.

“Tears on this occasion are entirely suitable,” she said.

“Oh, Betsy! You don’t know, you don’t know!” A tear escaped, rolled down the side of his nose, and crossed his upper lip, where it was captured by a nimble tongue.

“What don’t I know?”

“How scared I’ve been. John has been so mean to me lately, and I’ve been behaving badly because I’m scared. I keep waiting for the axe to fall, and waiting, and
waiting,
so I’ve been pushing his buttons, just to get the damn thing over with. Now . . .” He blinked rapidly. “Now I can be myself again, because I’ve got my own feet on solid ground.”

“Oh, Goddy, you make me feel so guilty for not doing this sooner!”

“No, never feel guilty! You were working your own way through some bad things. That divorce and your sister, and trying to learn how to own your own business and manage your money—it hasn’t been easy.”

“No, it hasn’t. But I was lucky to have some good friends to show me the way.” She reached out and took one of his hands. It was warm and grasped back firmly, and they sat like that for a minute.

He said at last, “Well, it’s nice that you’ve learned enough so that the store and the building can pay both our ways now.”

She gave her head a wry twist. “Not quite. The money from Crewel World will pay only my employees’ salaries. I have a money market account that pays my salary and helps with other bills. The rents I collect are paying the mortgage, taxes, and some of the upkeep on the building. The money I have in stocks and bonds doesn’t need much tending.”

“Did you take a bath on the stock market?”

Betsy nodded. “I thought Margot’s holdings were way too conservative, so I moved quite a bit into tech stocks.”