Unrivaled (17 page)

“So what do people do around here for Christmas?” I asked Nelson the question as I helped him wax Louise on Sunday afternoon. It was the end of October, but a stiff wind had blown in from the north that made me think of Christmas rather than Thanksgiving.

“Oh . . . this and that.”

“Isn’t there any big event?” There had to be something, somewhere that would be the perfect place to sell Royal Taffy. Since the candidates’ night at the club, I found myself, surprisingly, agreeing with my father. The sooner we could put City Confectionery out of business, the better. Better for us, but more than that, better for Lucy. I’d come to believe that my father was telling the truth. It wasn’t a matter of whether we’d buy the company, it was a matter of when. And with Lucy’s father dying, it seemed kinder to put an end to her misery—and her hopes—than to prolong them. “Isn’t there something everyone in the city looks forward to? In Chicago we had Marshall Field’s.”

“Who?”

“Marshall Field’s. One of those big department stores. They always did the windows up for Christmas.”

“We got one of those, too. Only it’s called Stix. Stix, Baer and Fuller. December first, every year, they have a big to-do when they unveil the display.”

A big to-do. That’s what I’d been hoping for.

As soon as I got to the factory, I asked Mr. Mundt to telephone the store manager and arrange a meeting.

“For what purpose, Mr. Clarke?” he asked as he picked up the telephone.

“Money, Mr. Mundt. I’d like us both to make a whole lot of money.”

I met with the store manager the next day and asked how they planned to decorate their window for Christmas.

“Windows, Mr. Clarke! We have several of them. And we’re quite proud of our decorations.”

“Have you planned the display yet?”

“Planned it? We designed it back in May! We’re already building it. It’s the end of October, after all. We’ve really only a month left!”

As I sat there feeling foolish, I pushed my hands into my pockets. My fingers closed around something. I brought it out. A taffy wrapper. “I was hoping Standard Manufacturing could be a part of your display.”

“Standard? As in . . . candy?”

“Every kid dreams of candy, don’t they? Think of all those . . . sugar plums dancing in their heads.” I didn’t even know what a sugar plum was. “I know Santa is usually thought to bring big gifts, but sometimes a Royal Taffy is all a child really wants.”

His brow folded in doubt.

“I’m not saying that Royal Taffy should be the only thing in the display.”

“Certainly not! Our customers expect a certain sophistication. If they want Royal Taffy, they can find it in the confectionery department.”

This wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. “I know they can, but Christmas is about wishes, isn’t it? Children wish for candy. And . . . besides . . .” I looked down at the Royal Taffy wrapper in my hand. “They’re
red
!”

“They’re . . . red?”

“Royal Taffy wrappers. They’re the color of Christmas.”

Now he was looking at me as if I were crazy.

“Can’t you can find some way to use some of these?” I pushed the wrapper toward him.

“I suppose . . . maybe . . . ?”

“What is the display this year?”

“It’s a parlor, filled with gifts. With an electric fire in the fireplace.”

Gifts. That was good. “Why couldn’t Royal Taffy be one of the gifts?”

“It’s just . . . candy.”

“It might only be candy to you, but to the newsie on the street corner, it’s a symbol of . . . luxury and everything that’s good in the world. He might not be able to afford a . . . train set or a . . . a sled. But a Royal Taffy is something he might just be able to hope for.”

“Maybe . . .” He fiddled with the wrapper I’d pushed toward him, crumpling it into a ball in his hand.

“Stix, Bauer and Fuller should be about Christmas for everyone, not just for the few who can afford to do it up big. What if . . . what if I gave you some Royal Taffy?”

“And . . . ?” He was looking at me as if he wanted more.

“And . . .” What? What else could I do? “You could . . . make . . .”

He twisted the wrapper and looped it around his finger.

“You could make—what are those things you hang on the wall? You know . . . those big circles that have holes in the middle?”

“Wreaths?”

“Yes! You could make wreaths with these wrappers. See, if you twist them just so . . .” I tried to make a flower the way Jennie had, but I failed in the doing of it. “If I brought you enough of them, could you do that? And you could make . . . garlands. Garlands out of the Royal Taffy wrappers too. It would be like a . . . a child’s best fantasy come to life! A real candyland.”

He pursed his lips as he seemed to consider my words.

“And we could make you a poster. Special. Just for the store display that would say
Santa’s Sweetest Gift
.”

“It’s unorthodox.”

“But then, Stix isn’t any old store.”

“No . . .”

“And just think, you’ll have children staring at your windows all day long. And when their parents ask them what they want for Christmas, they’ll say. . . .”

“They’ll say they want what they saw at Stix.”

“You want to give away how many?” My father frowned as he thumped on the desk with his fingers.

“Several hundred. And some empty wrappers.” Lots of empty wrappers.

“For what?” He leaned forward in his chair.

“For the Stix Christmas window. Just think how many people
will see Royal Taffy at the display. They’ll see it along with all those toys and presents they’re wishing for. With a big sign saying
Santa’s Sweetest Gift
. Even the newsies who can’t afford to buy any of those things will see the poster. We couldn’t pay for that kind of advertisement.”

“Apparently, we can.” He leaned back as he rolled his cigar between his fingers.

I forced myself not to beg. It hadn’t gotten me anything when I was a child. It wouldn’t do anything for me now.

“‘Santa’s Sweetest Gift,’ eh?”

I nodded.

“I like it. We’ll give it try. Just this once.”

“Just this once.”

I had Mr. Mundt call the store manager and arrange for another meeting the next day. I was driven over to Stix by Nelson. We were followed by a delivery truck carrying cases of Royal Taffy and rolls of wrapping. I met with the display supervisor, and we talked through the ideas.

“When can you have that sign to us?”

I had to figure out how to have it made first. “I think . . . well, when do you need it?”

“Sooner would be better.”

“Then you’ll have it soon.”

Soon was easier said than done. The company that usually did our printing didn’t have the time. “We’re booked through Christmas. Busiest time of year.” The supervisor shoved a pencil behind his ear as he shouted the words over the rattle and bang of the presses.

“But I really need—”

“Can’t do it.”

“It’s only one poster.”

“Then I really can’t do it.”

I returned to the car and climbed into the back seat, slouching into the corner.

“Something wrong, Mr. Charlie?” Nelson shot me a glance over his shoulder before pulling the car out into the street.

“I told my father I could have a poster done up for the Stix display and I don’t think I can do it.” I didn’t want to see his face, didn’t want to see the disappointment when I told him. I’d seen enough disappointment on my parents’ faces to last a lifetime. I really thought I’d had a great idea when I’d come up with the display. A way to increase our sales without directly harming City Confectionery. I didn’t mind outselling them, I just didn’t want to know that I’d hurt Lucy and her company directly.

“You’ll think of something.”

I wished I felt as confident as he sounded.

I was still worried Wednesday evening while at the opera. It was some story about a man and a woman who were madly in love but couldn’t be together. Truth be told, it seemed to me that’s what they were all about—at least the three operas I’d seen. Only this one was set in Persia. The stage background was a palace painted in gold and blue and green. Last week’s had been some kind of workshop decorated with orange and red and brown. From where I sat, the background almost looked real. I wondered how it was they managed that.

During intermission, I went down front to take a look.

No one was really watching, so I walked up onto the stage and ducked behind the curtains. If the theater was empty behind me, it was a madhouse there on the other side of the curtains, with people running here and there, carrying things on and off the stage.

“Hey, you! Get out of here.” A man with a surly look to him
picked up a candlestick and pointed it out toward the theater beyond me.

“I just . . . I was only taking a look.”

“Not allowed.”

I pointed to the background scenes. “I was hoping to talk to the person who painted these . . . these things.” Whatever it was that they were.

“The backdrops? That’s me. What do you want?”

“I wanted to tell you how swell they are.”

He crossed his arms. “Are they now?”

“
I
think they are. They’re the best I’ve ever seen.” They were the only ones I’d ever seen. At least up close.

His stance relaxed. “I like to think I do good work.”

“The best. A man of your talents shouldn’t be so modest. You do the
best
of work.”

“I went to school to study.”

I blinked. Isn’t that what people usually did at school? Study?

“For art.”

“Ah.” He went to school for art. That meant . . . he was an artist! “Say. You wouldn’t be interested in doing a little something for me on the side, would you?”

“What? You mean, like a commission?”

“Exactly. A commission. I want to hang your work in a place where everyone in the city can see it.”

November swept by in a whirlwind of conventions and banquets and balls. Needing a reprieve from my duties, I’d found comfort in the kitchen, where Mrs. Hughes was bustling about.

I was quickly losing hope that we could save the company. I wished I had the time to develop a premium line of sweets, the way I had hoped to when I’d come back from Europe, but my failure with the hazelnut chews made me reluctant to try again. Besides, any new recipe required experimentation, and experiments took money.

I looked down at the colorful nuts I held in my hand.

If only we could sell something fancier than Fancy Crunch. Although . . . Fancy Crunch was fancy. At least . . . it was supposed to be. All those brightly colored candy-coated dragées. Father had created them from an old French recipe. I’d seen dragées by the jarful in Europe.

Maybe . . . was there any way to make them even fancier? What if I could turn
them
into my premium line of confections?

If we didn’t mix the colors . . . and if we put them into a different sort of package and tied them up with a ribbon . . . Maybe, just maybe, we could charge more for them.

The next morning, I mentioned the idea to Mother.

The Women’s Society at church was having a rare Saturday meeting to sort through donations for the missionaries. I found her in front of the hall mirror adjusting the position of the feathers in her hat. She pulled one of her hat pins out and then stuck it back in with a vengeance that made me wince. Then she stopped and sighed as she listened to me speak.

“Do you realize this is the first time I’ve left the house since that candidates’ meeting last month? I was hoping to be able to go somewhere I wouldn’t have to think about heart attacks or candy or money. For one blessed hour I would like to pretend that everything is all right. Is that too much to ask?”

As she turned I realized dark circles had gathered in the hollows beneath her eyes. And lines had been pressed into her cheeks. When had she gotten so old? And why hadn’t I noticed before?

She clamped her handbag beneath her arm as she pulled on her gloves. Then she turned and walked toward the door.

I followed her outside, down the front walk to the carriage. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Never mind.”

The coachman offered his hand, but she stopped and squared her shoulders as she faced me. “No. Tell me again. You were talking about different packaging for Fancy Crunch. What are you proposing?”

“Well . . .” I hadn’t thought that far ahead. And I hadn’t realized the toll that Father’s illness had taken . . . now I wished I’d never opened my mouth. But she was standing there looking at
me, waiting for me to continue. “What about clear cellophane instead of that green wrapper? So that the color of the candies could be seen?”

“There would still need to be a label.”

“And there would be one. We’d paste it on the front, just like we do now.”

“I don’t see what difference any of this makes. I’ve already told you, Lucy, the company is going to be sold.”

“I just thought maybe—”

“All of these thoughts about candy are a waste of your time. Especially since you have more important things to think of. Like suitors.”

“But if it didn’t cost any money . . . ? Please?”

“It serves no useful purpose. The company will be sold whether the packaging stays the same or changes.”

“Please.”

“In fact, it’s not a bad idea, and if I say yes, it’s not because you’re changing my mind about anything. It’s because if we don’t finish this conversation, I’m going to be late.” She put her hand into the coachman’s.

He helped her up into the carriage.

“So you’re saying . . .”

“I’m saying
yes
.” She pinned me with her look. “But I don’t mean anything by it except to hope that you’ll finally stop all this foolishness. I have plans, Lucy, and I won’t be dissuaded from them.”

“I know.” I was hardly able to refrain from clapping, but I did let a smile slip. I couldn’t wait to try my idea.

On Monday morning, I went down to the confectionery to talk with Mr. Blakely. The staff was panning Fancy Crunch,
layering on the candy coating, so I had to shout over the din of a thousand nuts tumbling back and forth across the metal trays.

“You want to what?” He squinted as he leaned closer.

“I want to change the packaging.”

He blinked. “Why?”

“So we can charge more.”

“So we can . . . ? How?”

“If we can separate them by color, and sell them in clear cellophane and tie it all up with a ribbon, then we can say they’re fancy.”

“They already are. They’re Fancy Crunch.”

“Fancier.”

“Fancier.” He looked up at the ceiling for a moment and then began to nod. “All right. If we don’t have to mix the colors, then we can save some time. That might help. Only . . . what do you want to charge?”

“Seven cents? Instead of a nickel?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

“And do you think we could get some boxes out by the end of next week? So they can go on sale those first few days in December?”

“We’ll try.”

Thanksgiving was on Thursday and then Christmas was coming. With a new year on its way and Fancy Crunch becoming even fancier, the Kendall family’s luck was about to change. I could just feel it.