Chapter 3

“You're going where?” His mother stared at him over her vi-chyssoise, and she seemed not to understand, as though he had said something truly ridiculous. Like he was joining a nudist colony, or having a sex change. “Are they firing you, or just demoting you?”

He appreciated the vote of confidence, but that was typical. “Neither one, Mom. They're asking me to manage the new San Francisco store. It's the most important store we have, aside from New York.” He wondered why he was trying to sell it to her, except that he was still trying to sell it to himself. He had told Paul after two days, and he had been depressed about it ever since. They had given him a phenomenal raise, and Berman had reminded him that he would be running Wolffs himself one day. Perhaps not long after he returned to New York. And more important, he knew that Paul Berman was grateful to him, but still it was hard to take, and he wasn't looking forward to it. He had decided to keep his apartment anyway and sublet it for a year or two and just take something temporary in San Francisco. He had already told Paul that he wanted to try to be back in New York in a year. And they hadn't promised him anything, but he knew they would try. And even if it was eighteen months, he'd survive. Anything more than that was questionable, but he didn't say that to his mother now.

“But San Francisco? They're all hippies out there. Do they even wear clothes?”

He smiled. “They do. Very expensive ones in fact. You'll have to come and see for yourself.” He smiled at both of them. “Do you want to come to the opening?”

She looked as though he had invited her to a funeral. “We might. When is it?”

“In June.” He knew they had nothing to do then. They were going to Europe in July, but they had plenty of time to come out before that.

“I don't know. We'll have to see. Your father's schedule …” He was always the fall guy for her moods, but he never seemed to mind, although he looked at his son with concern as they sat at “21.” It was one of the rare moments his father seemed relaxed and not preoccupied by his work.

“Is it really a step up for you, son?”

“It is, Dad.” He answered him honestly. “It's a very prestigious job and Paul Berman and the board asked me to do it personally. But I have to admit”—he smiled ruefully—“I'd rather be in New York.”

“Are you involved with someone?” His mother leaned across the table, as though asking him something intensely personal, and Bernie laughed.

“No, Mom. I'm not. I just like New York. I love it in fact. But I'm hoping to get back in less than eighteen months. I can live with that. And there are worse cities than San Francisco, I guess.” Although, at the moment, he couldn't think of one. He finished his drink and decided to be philosophical. “Hell, it could be Cleveland for chrissake, or Miami, or Detroit …not that there's anything wrong with them, but they ain't New York.” He smiled at them ruefully.

“They say San Francisco is crawling with homosexuals.” The Voice of Doom spoke up with an anguished look at her only son.

“I think I can take care of myself, Mom.” And then he looked at both of them. “I'm going to miss you both.”

“Won't you come back here at all?” There were tears in her eyes and he almost felt sorry for her, except that she cried so much when it was useful to her that he was less moved than he might have been otherwise.

He patted her hand. “I'll be back and forth a lot. But the fact is I'll be living there. You'll just have to come out. And I really want you to come to the opening. It's going to be a beautiful store.”

He kept telling himself that as he packed his things in early February, and said goodbye to his friends, and had a last dinner with Paul in New York. And on Valentine's Day, only three weeks after they'd offered him the job, he was on a plane flying to San Francisco, wondering what he had done to himself, and thinking that maybe he should have quit after all. But as they left New York, a fresh blizzard began, and as they landed in San Francisco at two in the afternoon, the sun was shining, the air was warm, and the breezes were gentle. There were flowers in bloom, and it felt like New York in May or June. And he was suddenly glad he'd come, for a while anyway. At least the weather was nice, that was something to be pleased about. And his room at the Huntington was extremely pleasant too.

But more important than that, even in its unfinished state, the store was fabulous. And when he called Paul the next day, Paul sounded relieved just knowing he was there. And everything was moving on schedule. The construction was going well, the decoration was all lined up and ready to be installed as soon as construction would allow. He met with the ad agency, talked to the public relations people about how they were starting to warm up, and had an interview with the Chronicle. Everything was exactly the way they had hoped it would be. And Bernie was in charge.

All that remained to do was to open the store, and find an apartment for himself, hardly two minor tasks, and he was far more concerned about the store. He rapidly rented a furnished apartment in a modern high-rise on Nob Hill; it had none of the charm of the houses he saw everywhere, but it was convenient for him, and it was close to the store.

The opening was fabulous. It was everything they had all wanted it to be. The press had been favorable beforehand. There had been a beautiful party at the store, with models wearing spectacular clothes, while impeccably dressed waiters served caviar, hors d'oeuvres, and champagne. There was dancing, entertainment, and the freedom to roam around the store with no one else there. And Bernie was proud of it. It was really beautiful, with a light airy feeling combined with enormous style. It had all the chic of New York, with the ease of the West Coast. And Paul Berman was thrilled, too, when he flew out.

The crowds that came the day of the opening required police cordons and hordes of smiling PR people just to hold them back. But it was all worth it when they saw the record sales for the first week, and even his mother had been proud of him. She had said it was the most beautiful store she'd ever seen, and she had told every salesgirl who helped her for the next five days of shopping there that the manager was her son, and one day, when he went back to New York, he would run the entire chain. She was sure of it.

When they finally left San Francisco, they went to Los Angeles, and Bernie was surprised to realize how lonely he felt once they were gone, as well as the rest of the contingent from New York. All the board members went back the day after the opening, and Paul had flown on to Detroit that night. And suddenly he was all alone, in the town he had been transplanted in, without a single friend, and an apartment that looked sterile and ugly to him. It was all done in brown and beige, and seemed much too dreary for the gentle northern California sun. He was sorry he hadn't rented a pretty little Victorian flat. But it didn't matter too much anyway. He was always at the store, seven days a week now, since in California they were open every day. He didn't have to come in on weekends at all, but he had nothing else to do anyway, so he did, and everyone noticed it. Bernie Fine worked like a dog, they said, and they all agreed that he was a nice man. He expected a lot of them, but he expected more of himself, and it was difficult to argue with someone like that. He also seemed to have an infallible sense of what was right for the store, and what merchandise they should have, and no one dared quibble with him about that. He was definite, and from what they could see, most of the time, he was right. He had an innate sense of what worked and what didn't, even in this town he barely knew, and he was constantly shifting things, and adjusting to the new information he found out. He kept things moving constantly, shipping things to other branches when they were wrong for San Francisco after all, moving things in, having buyers reorder constantly. But it worked. It was extraordinary, and they all liked him in the store. They didn't even mind the habit he had of roaming the store every day for several hours. He wanted to see what people wore, what they did, how they shopped, what they liked. He would talk to housewives and young girls and single men, he even took a personal interest in their children's wear. He wanted to know everything, and the only way to do that, he said, was to be in the front lines.

He was frequently being handed things to ring up and items to return, and he did what he could, and found a salesperson as quickly as possible, but he was happy to meet the customer every time, and the store personnel were getting used to him. They were used to seeing him everywhere, with his auburn hair, the well-trimmed beard, warm green eyes, and well-tailored English suits. He never said an unkind word, and when he wanted things done differently, he spoke calmly and quietly, explaining what he wanted done so that the employee understood. And as a result, they all had enormous respect for him. In New York, just looking at the sales figures, Paul Berman knew they had done the right thing, and he wasn't surprised at all. Bernie was going to turn Wolffs San Francisco into the finest store in the chain. He was their man all right, and one day he would step into Berman's shoes very successfully. Paul was sure of it.





Chapter 4

The first month was hectic for all of them, but by July they had things fairly well in control, and the autumn merchandise coming in. Bernie had several fashion shows scheduled the following month, and the big event in July was the opera show, which meant a great deal. The opening of the opera was the hottest event of the San Francisco social season, and women were going to be spending five and seven and ten thousand dollars on a single dress.