“And what do you think you are, Midge?” the man asks, handing me my bag of goods. “You’re a business lady, and thank God for it. Without you, I’d run this place into the ground.” He kisses her cheek.
“Oh, stop it, John.” Midge playfully pushes him away.
“Family business?” I ask.
“It’s been in my family for three generations.” John puffs his chest out proudly before deflating it fast. “Though it never turned a real profit until this one started working here.” He puts his arm around Midge. “Had to marry her to make sure she stuck around.”
Midge rolls her eyes. “Honestly. There were easier ways to turn a profit than marry me.”
“Yeah, but none with so many benefits.” He waggles his eyebrows at her, making her laugh. It’s obvious this is a timeworn argument, loving and playful.
“Here now, don’t let us keep you.” Midge hands me the receipt. “Come back soon!”
I nod. “I’m in New York for business, but I’ll be sure to come back.” I gesture to the bakery case. “Those black and white cookies are calling my name.”
John tries to give me one on the house, but I manage to resist. “Gotta keep me wanting more, right, Midge?”
She agrees with a smile and a nod, going back to playfully fending off her husband’s advances as the bell rings with my departure.
The cab ride to Moore’s is made more pleasant by the smell of warm carbs.
“Ma’am.”
I smirk at the security guard, a straitlaced, buttoned-up, suit-wearing guy (no mall cop uniforms for Moore’s). He is about as far from Texan as you can get in his shiny oxfords, but the ma’am gets me every time. Instead of arguing, though, I just nod back, determined to get these bagels to our scheduled conference room without any nipple-exposing incidents.
“Could you tell me where the security office is? My team and I have an appointment this morning with Mr. Moore. I need to sign in and get an elevator key. I’m Campbell King.”
He places a finger at his ear, like a CIA agent on assignment. I purse my lips in amusement. Moore’s has secret agent security but no social media plan? That’s just crazy.
Two women glide into Moore’s wearing more diamonds than Beyoncé and Rihanna at the Grammys. One has an Hermes Kelly bag on her arm, the other a Fendi Selleria. How do I know about these bags and their five-figure price tags? Personal dreams and professional research.
So maybe high-end security isn’tthatcrazy.
“This way, ma’am.”
“King. It’s Ms. King.”
“Yes, Ms. King.” He gestures forward. “This way.”
Tamping down my annoyance at having to be escorted, I follow the security guard’s well-fitted dress pants down the hall and past the restrooms to an Employee Only marked door. Security-man slides a key card next to the door and stands back to let me through.
Feeling slightly childish for thinking he’d been escorting me because I am a woman, not because there’s actual security protocol, I shuffle forward in my slingbacks.
“This is Ms. King. She needs her key card.”
The man behind the desk jumps up. “Ms. King?”
Wondering at his enthusiastic reply, I simply nod. “Yes, that’s me.”
“Here, let me take that for you.” He reaches for my bag of bagels and places it on the counter. “I’ll get your key card for you. I just need your license for verification.”
“Sure.” I retrieve my ID from my briefcase and slide it toward him. “All this to get to the office?”
“The office elevator doesn’t just access the offices. It also accesses inventory. And as some of our inventory can be worth quite a bit, we need to verify everyone who gets access.”
“Oh. That makes sense.” It does, but it doesn’t help the twinge of anxiety rearing its head again. Social media campaigns can focus on many different things. I’ve marketed oil companies, state colleges, and yes, clothing stores. But I hadn’t needed security clearance at Cavendish’s or been surrounded by diamond-wearing clientele.
“Mr. Moore asked to be informed as soon as you arrived.” He reaches for his phone. “I’ll page him now.”
