DANDELIONS: Do You Remember Cleveland?

She watched as one of his agents walked down her sidewalk to his truck. The man stood a moment, staring at the canvas tarp. He checked a rope. Then opened the door, got in, and drove off.

Well, Schatz hadn’t lost his touch. He could talk a fool into anything.

Catherine Baker seldom thought of him. Not now, not ever. Even though she worked at his side for fourteen years, those first fourteen years, from the age of twenty to thirty-four. No years are more important, especially for a woman. Yet the memory of him, relaxing in his office or laughing with a customer, had no more significance than a photo spread in House Beautiful. You remembered selling that couch once, a pink and gold Stickley, the one with rolled pillows. Then you turned the page.

When she started, she knew nothing and would have done anything. She had dropped out of community college with no further intention of making a life for herself or making money. She intended to have fun. At the mall, Lock and Key had a Help Wanted sign. It beat cashiering at Stop and Go. After six months Schatz asked her to come to Cleveland with him for the Midland Arts and Design show. She said okay, her back tingling, as if he ran a finger from her downy neck to her wide bottom.

He was the owner, a man nearing forty, suave, powerful, with a mischievous, knowing eye.

Life had indeed taken a glamorous turn.

He exercised caution, sending her to the Edina store a week in advance. Making a casual visit to check on a display, he chatted with the manager and a few customers, then slipped her a ticket. They didn’t even fly together. By this time Schatz owned three stores. Lock and Key was still a local brand, but a household word, using a website to sell furniture and floor lamps and vases well ahead of the industry. Schatz also advertised in national magazines and, no one knew this, had turned down offers from major retailers that would have netted millions. He gave everyone the same flashing smile, from dock workers to the news anchors and sports celebrities who bought whole penthouses worth of tables and sofas. Married for fifteen years, he had two grade-school children, girls.

They met in the lobby of the Grande Cleveland Hotel. Schatz was waiting. He stood, dropping a newspaper on the leather chair. She wore jeans, carried a purse and duffel bag. He took the bag. “Is this all you have?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“That won’t do.”

They went to Nordstrom’s. Schatz, with his typical aplomb corralled a salesperson, older, soigné, who wore blush and eyeliner and immediately recognized a crisis. After examining her up and down, then walking behind, he rushed to the storeroom and returned with a half-dozen dresses, Dior, Von Furstenberg, Anne Klein. Catherine Baker was overwhelmed. In a short time they had purchased, or rather Schatz had purchased a sleeveless, knee-length violet dress, and a black skirt and matching blazer with padded shoulders. Also a pair of black high heels and a sheer bra. “No no, dear,” the salesperson said, as Catherine fingered a white scarf. “Blondes don’t wear white.”

“Never argue with an expert.” Schatz smiled, handing over a credit card. For Baker, it was the first of many valuable lessons.

That evening they dined in the bar. He ordered an eighty-dollar bottle of wine. Catherine barely ate. Her face was flushed as Schatz spoke of customers, rival stores, his favorite brands (Aspenhome, Berndardt), fashion celebrities who were friends (Ralph Lauren, Vivienne Westwood). Schatz didn’t like, he said, pouring more wine, the latest trends: patterned walls, bright colors, wicker tables, ruffled pillows.

He did not so much as touch her hand. His brown eyes were bland, reassuring. “In any case, good fashion always follows bad.”

She watched him walk to the bar and back, speaking to someone he recognized and to the bartender, who smiled. The dark paneling, the clink of glasses, the wine, the new dresses waiting in the room, the white tablecloth, the china, the easy manner of the waiters in whire aprons, the opal shades of evening just beyond lobby windows, all carried an intense power. Her eyes, hazel-brown, reflected candlelight as she tipped the wineglass to her lips.

“We have a big day tomorrow,” Schatz said. “Better turn in early.”

She hummed in assent. She could barely speak.

She took his arm as they walked through the lobby, brazen as criminals. Catherine Baker had plenty of experience with men. Even older men. She once spent a weekend with a friend of her father’s at his cabin in Cable, Wisconsin. She was unafraid, but decided to be passive. She would let this man do whatever he wanted. As they rode the elevator upward, floor by floor, a dizzying ascent when so much is expected and yet unknown, the glory of the hotel, the chrome, the mirrors, the city beneath, she leaned her head against his shoulder. He looked down and smiled. “Exciting, isn’t it?”

She exhaled, slowly.

They walked down a red and gold hallway. Above each door a small, clamshell sconce threw ribbons of light and shadow.

He stopped her at a door. She waited to be kissed.

“Here it is,” he said. “Your room.”

Her thoughts flew like startled birds. “My room?”

“Yes. Here’s the key.” He held out a card. “You know how it works, don’t you?”

“Where are you staying?”

“Just down the hall. If you need anything call room service.” He took a step, then turned. “Meet me in the restaurant, at eight. Wear the blue dress.” Then winking, “Good night.”

Schatz left her there, quite speechless. It was the first great shock of her life. There would be more, yet none so unexpected.

When she left Lock and Key, he threw a grand party, renting the whole of Alberghetti’s, in St. Paul. The governor was there, media celebrities, vendors, artists, manufacturers, magazine people and their photographers, all arriving as though summoned to a royal court. Both of Schatz’s daughters were there, the one who studied fashion at Rhode Island and the other, a little heavy, who was a high school senior. Schatz’s wife was there, talking to friends, a small woman, quite plain and a little severe, wearing a black Donna Karan cocktail dress.

It was a strange celebration. Catherine was second only to Schatz, and in truth had, for two or three years, made the more important decisions. It reminded her of their grand opening celebrations, the forced smiles, the white and gold balloons and square vases of hydrangeas dropping white, price tag petals. She approached John Schatz when they had a chance to be alone, in the annex of the bar. He waited by the fireplace, staring into the fire.

Was he a little drunk? It seemed unlikely. He didn’t drink much, a little wine perhaps, for show. He turned his brown eyes on her. “Well, Missy,” he said. “You did all right.” He used his pet name for her. She hadn’t heard it in years.

“We both did all right.” She held a stemless wine glass with a printed napkin reading, Congrats Catherine!

“We made money. Didn’t we?”

“Yes we did.”

He looked into her red-dark glass, reflecting firelight. “It won’t be easy without you. I’ll never forget…”

“I’m leaving you in good hands,” Catherine said. She had no intention of turning this into anything maudlin. There had been disputes. Laughter and clapping erupted from the bar. There wasn’t much time. “John, tell me something.”

“Anything, Missy.”

“Do you remember Cleveland?”

“Which Cleveland?”

“The first time. I had to fly alone.”

“Ah, yes.” He smiled. “That was necessary.”

“Of course. But I always wondered, why didn’t you take Carol? Or Brenda McPherson? They knew our line better.” She added, “They were even better-looking. Brenda was a model.”

Someone called to them from the other room. Above the mantle hung a painting of foxhounds on the chase. Burnished mahogany lined the room, the ceiling, speaking of wealth, solidity, the rightness of money. Catherine had been a girl, a woman of twenty, a dew-lipped flower. He could have had her for a song.

“Why me?” she asked.

“You really don’t know?”

She waited. He did not drop his gaze, those familiar brown eyes, bland, inscrutable:

“You were the one.”