Katie's Sketchbook - Christmas at Famous-Barr 1976 - 2. Part 1 – Scene Two: Kismet

Part 1 – The Week Before Thanksgiving

Scene Two: Kismet

Stunned into a bout of silence, Sloan could not quite recall leaving the establishment, or what his parting words had been to Hirshhorn, although he knew he had offered some. Now he stood in front of Boyd's and suddenly felt the press of time on him again…but he resisted that. On purpose, he avoided looking at his watch, instead thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets – something he had been trained expressly not to do – and decided he'd take the long way around to his next appointment.

He tried to distract himself with thoughts of work while waiting for the light on Olive Street to change. He leisurely crossed when it did, and resolved to check out the Menswear windows fronting Sixth Street while he was here.

In the center of the block along Sixth was a horizontal marquee over the sidewalk with the store's name on it. The overhang was locked in suspension by two massive bronze chains linking it to lions' mouths sprouting from the building's walls. The two windows on either side of this front door to Famous-Barr were under the exclusive purview of Menswear – they had the other matching four flanking the marqueed entry on the Seventh Street side as well.

Sloan got to the center of the first window and looked in. College boys, with the entire shell of a '57 Buick, were ready for 'the Big Game' in their snazzy fall casual-wear. Autumn color, and a carpet of leaves left no doubt about what season it was.

Sloan scanned the display, but he didn't really see it. He was wondering if he truly wanted to leave Famous. 'If things continue to be…difficult…' he thought, 'maybe I should go over to Boyd's. I'm not sure I want to leave FB, but I have to be honest that Richardson makes it hard…makes it painful to stay.'

As Sloan's attention drifted over the vignette of a young man tossing a ball for a golden retriever, there was something in the canine's expression that made him smile; smile and remember how they first met.

Sloan was spending a leisurely Friday evening at Clementine's listening to one of the better-vocalled patrons sing an old standard. He had been sipping his Harvey Wallbanger and wondering where some of his older gentlemen friends were, but soon found himself forgetting all about them.

A handsome man was sitting at the upholstered bar built in around the piano when their eyes met. And what eyes too. That first impression remained intact with Sloan, although six months of feeling himself get lost in Richardson's gaze had followed. Now, he failed to be surprised anymore, but that never stopped him from being overawed by their beauty. In the bar that first night, all he knew was a pair of hazel-green searers were grinning at him, and that they were attached to a man in his mid-thirties with a naturally good physique, and ashen-blond hair touched nobly with gray at the temples.

Sloan shook himself out of his recollection. He stepped to the next window. Here was a Thanksgiving display, with handsomely dressed men of three generations gathered around a dining room table. They and the roast turkey made up the left side of the tableau, while a post-dinner game of touch football occupied the right half. Again, autumn colors of gold and brown predominated both scenes, and Sloan's heart glowed despite his apprehension.

The man with the hazel-green eyes got up from his stool, and with unaffectedly well-studied glances and head nods made his way to Sloan.

"…never knowing a right thought from a wrong…

my hand from my glove…"

The bar patron with the mic 'coincidentally' happened to be singing 'Misty' at that moment, and that's exactly how Sloan felt. He was forced to latch on tight to his theoretical notions of 'independence,' and 'playing the field' as the beautiful man slid into position next to him.

"Hi," he said. "I'm Richardson."

"Sloan." And they shook hands.

Most of the rest of that first evening was a blur to the boy from Ohio, but what was not fuzzy was his shock later in the same night to hear that this handsome hunk with the ashen hair had a twelve-year-old daughter asleep in bed at home. A shock it had been, but not one large enough to prevent Sloan from handing over his FB business cards with the invitation "to stop by so we can have lunch one day."

Richardson indulged in a single glance at the card and smiled. "How about tomorrow?" he said, slipping his own FB card into Sloan's hand.

"Small world," replied Sloan.

"Or," Richardson suggested. "It's kismet. So, you'll let me buy you lunch tomorrow?"

"Noon," the younger man answered, letting his own artless grin come to the fore.

Sloan caught his own reflection in the window glass; he looked the fool.

He suddenly regretted being late, and jerked his hands out of his pockets. He'd have to remember to tell Giulio not to do that anymore; it was unprofessional in the extreme, and perhaps the kid did not know any better, but Sloan certainly did.

Dashing through the chrome-framed doors, he barely had a moment to think how much he liked that the store was an amalgam of its own history – the original elements from the 1912 building blended seamlessly with Moderne ones from the 20s, 30s and 40s, and also with the updated Studio 54 touches of today. 'Everywhere you look,' he thought. 'This store tells a story.'

He moved on to the main floor, with its sixteen-foot-high ceilings where not a defect showed: no access panels, no pipes, no conduit for cables or the veins of vacuum tubes coursing dollars and cents to every register of this behemoth store like oxygenated blood from the heart of mighty Central Accounting.

He hurried over the marble floors, thinking once more how remarkably warm they were – a beautifully veined white stone, but of an almost pinkish hue. He wouldn't have been surprised to learn that a few acres of an Italian quarry had been stripped and imported directly here to lend just the right atmosphere – Famous-Barr never skimped on design, never.

Sloan's musings were distracted by the lunchtime crowd of young ladies at the thirty-foot long candy counter. FB bonbons, pralines, and chocolate-covered mints were held in the highest regards; 'Because,' Sloan thought, 'we make them in-house, and they're a damn sight cheaper than Stix's imported French chocolates.'

He veered to the left and to one of the matched banks of elevators on opposite sides of the building. At the southern bank, he waited patiently with several ladies and toddlers in strollers. As he did, he thanked the blessèd Otis designers, who in 1940 not only installed the store's first automatic elevators – subsequently replaced with newer, faster ones – but who provided a huge poster-sized lighted panel. This graphic display must have been delighting children for generations now, for the flashing green and red lights showed where each of the half a dozen elevators in this bank were located in the building: moving green blips were going up; descending red ones were coming down.

Bing!

Just like the display promised, the elevator arrived right in front of them.

As he allowed the chatting ladies to board, he suddenly realized he had never seen such sophisticated elevator signage in any other structure. Maybe when it was new it was simply too expensive for anybody but Famous to install on every floor.

Sloan pushed '6.' "What floor, ladies?"

"Five, please."

He pushed it, and as the doors were closing, chuckled silently to himself. 'Of course, Children's Wear is on five.'

"Up, up and away…" was the pleasant elevator music for their ride, and it naturally made Sloan consider how his timing was perfect to hear that song.

The ladies got off on Five, and Sloan took the smooth jaunt up one more story.

He loved Six. The Book Department was over by the escalators, while Linens, Fabrics, and other House Wares took up the northwest quadrant of the floor. The other half of the building was occupied by his destination – the venerable old STL Room – the main restaurant of the store. It could seat hundreds for lunch, and host a pair of banquets for hundreds more at the same time in its special events halls – one of which looked like Henry VIII's hunting lodge, complete with stained-glass windows, stone fireplace, half-timber walls and rough-hewn beams on the ceiling.

From the foyer, Sloan craned his neck and glanced around the tables in the space just beyond. A noisy chatter was bubbling in the air, which spontaneously lightened his mood. He pulled out his employee badge and showed it, sailing past the Maitre-d', who had her hands full with a coterie of elderly blue-haired ladies, happily abuzz about their day at Famous.

Scanning the seated crowd, he slowed down once he saw his party already at a table and facing away from him. However, even from behind, the boy from Ohio could tell the other had grown impatient.

Sloan slid on his best farm-boy grin as he plopped into the chair across from Mr. Richardson Orlean.

"It would have been quicker and cheaper to meet in the employee cafeteria on the twelfth floor," Sloan said through his 'sorry I'm late' look.

"Maybe," confided Richardson. "But, I like it here. It's so square, it's back to being hip again!"

Sloan instantly knew what Richardson meant. As if in tribute to the notion, he let a confirming glance roam up and over the other man's shoulders, back to the Art Deco mirrors on the curving wall behind them. These had rounded 'shoulders,' and marched along at roomy intervals to allow broad sections of the sienna pastel-colored walls. In these voids hung chunky black lacquer frames housing huge prints of the restaurant's namesake cityscape, circa 1849, or the year William P. Barr and Company was founded.

"You know what I like?" Sloan asked, shifting in his seat.

"No, what?"

"These chairs! Any restaurant with comfortable seating is saying to its guests 'Stay a while; settle in.'"

"You know…" Richardson nodded and leaned elbows on the table, which in Sloan's estimation the other man had done just to bring himself closer to him. "I hadn't thought of it that way, but you are a hundred percent right."

As Sloan leaned back on the broad upholstered curve of his Moderne klismos chair, the beauty of Richardson's changeable eyes struck him afresh all over again.

That first night at Clementine's, Sloan had complimented Richardson's peepers and got warned in return.

"Careful," Richardson explained. "They may look hazel now, but they veer to vibrant green when I'm impassioned, or happy, or excited; turbid brown when I'm pensive, withdrawn, or sad."

Funny thing was, the entirety of the first night they met, Richardson's eyes were vibrant pieces of polished emerald. Sloan kept the 'secret' that he could read his companion's impassioned, happy, or excited moods plain as day.

Now in the restaurant, they were just as jewel-like and wide open as the night Sloan had first seen them.

The waiter arrived. "Are you gentlemen ready to order?"

Richardson flashed his eyebrows once towards Sloan, who simply gestured 'go ahead' with his right hand.

"Sloan will have the Rib-Eye steak, and I'll take the Salade Montreux."

"Excellent choices – " the waiter started, as he jotted the information on his pad.

Sloan interjected: "And two ice teas."

"Very good. Your meal will be out shortly," the server said, still scribbling, and then disappeared back through the throng of tables and chatting diners.

"Look at us," Sloan chuckled. "Like an old married couple, finishing each other's lunch order."

"Well, what is it now, six months? You remember the fireworks, don't you?"

Sloan nodded, but instantly stiffened; this was a patch of quicksand he did not want to venture into, as Richardson's laughing statement had nevertheless posited that they had been 'dating' for all of those months. In Sloan's mind, it was not that cut and dry.

The young man from Ohio watched Richard's eyes dim themselves towards brown, and supposed the older man realized he had stepped on some toes. The native-born Saint Louisan changed the topic.

"Anyway," Richardson articulated softly, "aren’t you going to thank me for ordering 'your usual,' even though it's the most expensive thing on the menu?"

"Excuse me," Sloan laughed, knowing it was one of Richardson's jokes. "Second most – the Sirloin Steak is the most expensive. And what about you, Mr. Health Food?"

"What about my salad?"

"Your Salade…" Sloan mocked the French phonetics of the item as it appeared on the menu. "It's loaded with ham, swiss, turkey – "

Richardson halted him, and then jokingly finish: "Plus egg wedges, lettuce, cucumber, and watercress!"

"Yes, very healthy. But – anyway – thank you for this treat. It's nice to get up here – " Sloan barely stopped himself before tacking '…with you' on the end.

"Well, I've been feeling guilty."

Their ice teas and straws arrived, portered by a smiling young lady with an apron. After she set the glasses down, a steak knife was drawn from her pouch and gently laid by Sloan's plate.

"Thank you," he said to her, unsheathed his straw, and returned his attention to Richardson once she'd moved away. "Guilty about what?"

"Because we haven't spent much time together recently. It's my fault; what with the holiday launch coming up and all, I barely have time to breathe."

A pang of tenderness washed over the farm boy's heart. He knew how hard Richardson worked, but he also knew the endlessly resourceful man was good at what he did – and, loved doing it too.

So, that knowledge, coupled with the excited emerald twinkle before him now, made Sloan suspect Richardson's apology was prelude to a request.

Although busy, he was not forgotten, and even though Richardson probably thought Sloan did not remember their first lunch the Monday after they met was here, in fact at this very table, Sloan remembered everything.

"Katie and I will miss you, you know."

"I have to go to Ohio for Thanksgiving – my folks won't forgive me if I don’t come home." Sloan laughed. "It's only one day a year."

"Yeah, but you'll be gone most of two weeks."

"Well, listen, it seems I may not be coming back alone. My teenage cousin may want to return to Saint Louis with me for a week or so. It seems Miles has a 'special someone' he wants me to get to know."

"A girl?"

"Nope. That's why my cousin and I are suddenly 'close.' Seems he's on his way to being out and wants some older, uncle-type advice."

Richardson chuckled. "And for you to approve of his beau."

"Yeah, that too."

"Well, you love the city. You'll make a great tour guide."

Sloan felt like admitting he'd miss Katie and Richardson in his absence too, but he didn't. The young man from Ohio was suddenly lost in memories from over the summer.

After Richardson and he had had lunch everyday for a week, that Saturday found them both at the Soulard piano bar on their first official 'date.'

They had fun that night; both could fully relax before the other, and both probably had one too many Screwdrivers and Tequila Sunrises, and sang one too many sappy old songs, for Sloan agreed to walk Richardson home since the ashen-haired charmer lived only a few blocks away. And it was charming for Sloan to turn that last corner and see the man owned one of the large row houses from the 1820s on a side street opening directly onto Soulard Market.

From the third step of his stoop, Richardson had grasped the wrought-iron handrail, turned, and extended an invitation with warm voice and sparkling-green eyes: "Come up for a cup of coffee?"

"Coffee, or…" Sloan suggested softly.

Richardson laughed. "Coffee, tea – or, me?"

The food arrived, and Sloan snapped out of it to find Richardson had been silently watching his happy reverie. A contented grin played about the older man's lips.

"Here you go, gentlemen. Enjoy!"

The waiter left, and both men cracked their napkins like little whips of linen, then rested them on their respective laps.

Digging in, Sloan noticed Richardson's fork pausing over his salad. "What's wrong?"

"What? Oh. Nothing." He speared some ham. "I was just remembering a detail I'll have to take care of this afternoon."

After he chewed and swallowed his first bite of steak, Sloan asked, "You're not overworked, are you?"

"Me?!" He made a sputtering sound with his lips. "Well, just a little. The logistics for the season's launch 'Event' are a real handful. I'm glad I have my assistants."

The referenced young people were Richardson's tireless, spectacle-wearing, fresh-out-of-college worker bees. He relied on them for many things, but not the buck-stops-here 'logistics.'

Once Sloan and Richardson were firmly ensconced on Richardson's sofa, and steaming mugs of tea were in their hands, Sloan learned about the older man's professional background. Richardson was a 'Famousite' through and through: a PR graduate from Washington University, he started out in an assistant position, and learned a lot. Lured away from Famous by Saks Fifth Avenue and their ritzy Central West End location, he worked there for eighteen months before begging for his old job back. Surprised, his former boss at Famous said the assistant position was filled, but would gladly nominate Richardson to be his replacement. The young man's petition had come just as the Special Events Manager was retiring, and the higher-ups at the store remembered Richardson and how he gave his all.

That had been five years ago, and now he was a rising star throughout the Famous-Barr and May Company work-world.

After swallowing some of his carrots and peas, Sloan told him, "I can sympathize, man. But, still, it's good to be the boss – you can't deny that."

While he chewed his salad, a fresh sparkle arose on Richardson's face. Sloan sensed 'it' – the request – was coming.

"Say…" Richardson lingered on the vowel. "With all the craziness of my work schedule coming up in the weeks after Thanksgiving, I was wondering if you'd look after Katie for me."

And there it was. "Define 'look after.'"

Richardson laughed. "Include her in your tour-guiding activities, and bring her to the store with you. She can entertain herself, as she always has her sketchbook close at hand. She'll keep herself occupied."

"I guess I can do that."

Richardson only smiled in that devilish way of his, and that look carried Sloan right back to Richardson's sofa the first night they had made love.

Sloan was attracted to this handsome and successful man. Hearing about his love and passion for his profession only heightened Sloan's libido, as he considered himself passionate about what he did too, but he had to know one thing.

"Richardson, I really like you, but I gotta know, how is it that you came to have a daughter – and a wife."

"Ok, Sloan, I'll be honest with you."

Sloan had to watch as Richardson's eyes sank into a sadness-induced brown.

"I met Katie's mother in college, and I was upfront about my orientation – which was a huge sign of love to show her that I trusted her implicitly with knowledge that could have ruined my life at the time. I also knew Claire was developing feelings for me, and I wanted to spare her heartbreak. The night I came out to her, we were at my DeBaliviere Place flat, having spaghetti and Chianti, and I wound up telling her about the boy in high school I had dated for all four years, only for him to announce that he 'didn't want to be that way anymore,' and wasn't, or so he said."

Richardson tested if Sloan would hold his hand. The younger man latched on encouragingly.

Katie's father continued, "That night, Claire's comforting turned into lovemaking, and I began to wonder if life wouldn't be easier if I could commit to her.

"After we graduated, I entered the Peace Corps, hoping physical distance would split us. I didn’t want to act the coward – couldn't stand the thought of breaking her heart – but that mental schism forced me to do either one or the other.

"Back in Saint Louis, and freshly hired at FB as a grunt in the Special Events Department, I had a heart-to-heart with Claire, which melted into more lovemaking. I don't know how to put it in words, Sloan, we just had a connection. That night she had promised to always remember I was 'unique,' and to respect and honor that, and I in turn promised to be faithful to her for as long as we could make the relationship work."

Richardson started to tear up.

"We were married, and in 1964, Katie was born into a household where both her parents would love and protect her."

Richardson let his tears fall un-wiped.

"Tragedy struck, for in May of 1969, Claire was killed by an aneurism. It was something so unexpected, had made me feel SO helpless, that I retreated into doting on my five-year-old."

Sloan brushed Richardson's tears with his hand.

"My mother wanted to take over the rearing of Katie, but I almost cut her out of our lives for trying to do that.

"My month of mourning was suddenly ended by a flash of clarity, because at the end of June, the Stonewall Riots gave birth to the modern Gay Movement, and gave me courage. I came out – first to my parents, and then to a select group of coworkers and friends. My acquaintances proved to be invaluable, for they formed my new family – introducing me to their other out friends and building my sense of community – and that blessing came just at the time my old family dismissed me from their lives. My parents disowned me, and petitioned the court to remove Katie from me as an 'unfit father.'"

Sloan felt like crying too. "That was awful."

"It's all right, Sloan. I prevailed in the courts, but we haven’t seen my folks since then."

Richardson unexpectedly chuckled, cleaning Sloan's tears with his own fingertips. "Looks like I 'blew it' with you, huh?" His eyes were back to hazel-green.

Sloan simply shook his head slowly, allowing the thrill of how Richardson felt stroking the side of his neck overcome his final trepidation.

Their lips came together.

The lovemaking that followed on Richardson's living room floor was the best sex of Sloan's entire life; he had found connection, a deep connection, and he could not deny that Richardson felt it too. In point of fact, every time they had made love since then offered the same level of –

"Sloan?"

The young man glanced up to see he had a chunk of steak on his fork halfway suspended in the air. "Yes?"

"Thank you for agreeing to look after Katie when you get back from your trip."

He laughed. "So, you knew my cousin and his boyfriend were coming?"

"Nope. I guess it's all just perfect timing, huh?"

"Yeah," Sloan said in a tone poised betwixt wonder and skepticism. "It's kismet."

"Anyway, I'm serious with my appreciation. I mean, what with the United Way, and sponsors and dignitaries, the 'Event' is gonna – "

Sloan cut him off, mercifully. "Yes, yes, of course. You knew I'd help out any way I could."

"Well, maybe it's accurate to say 'I hoped you'd help out,' and now I know you will."

Richardson took a big bite of his salad, and Sloan felt like he was seeing stars. His mind reverted to the way Richardson had begun this conversation, to thoughts of summer, and lying out on the grass of the Arch grounds with Richardson and Katie to watch the Bicentennial fireworks on the Fourth of July. The beauty of that moment would always be with him, but the question still remained in Sloan's mind, did he want to lose his independence? Did he want to settle down to home, hearth, and offspring – all in one shot – before he had a little time to 'just be me?'