Call Me Mrs Miracle. Debbie Macomber
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Although in his early sixties, J.R. was in excellent shape. Tall and lean, like Jake himself, he had dark hair streaked with gray and his features were well-defined. No one could doubt that they were father and son. J.R. whirled around, hands linked behind him. “Did you clear the order with...anyone?”
Jake was as straightforward as his father. “No.”
“Any particular reason you went over Scott’s head?”
Jake had a very good reason. “We discussed it. He didn’t agree, but I felt this was the right thing to do.” Mike Scott had wanted to bring a maximum of fifty robots into the Manhattan location. Jake had tried to persuade him, but Mike wasn’t interested in listening to speculation or taking what he saw as a risk—one that had the potential of leaving them with a huge overstock. He relied on cold, hard figures and years of purchasing experience. When their discussion was over, Mike still refused to go against what he considered his own better judgment. Jake continued to argue, presenting internet research and what his gut was telling him about this toy. When he’d finished, Mike Scott had countered with a list of reasons why fifty units per store would be adequate. More than adequate, in his opinion. While Jake couldn’t disagree with the other man’s logic, he had a strong hunch that the much larger order was worth the risk.
“You felt it was right?” his father repeated in a scathing voice. “Mike Scott told me we’d be fortunate to sell fifty in each store, yet you, with your vast experience of two months in the toy department, decided the Manhattan store needed ten times that number.”
Jake didn’t have anything to add.
“I don’t suppose you happened to notice that there’s been a downturn in the economy? Parents don’t have two hundred and fifty bucks for a toy. Not when a lot of families are pinching pennies.”
“You made me manager of the toy department.” Jake wasn’t stupid or reckless. “I’m convinced we’ll sell those robots before Christmas.” As manager, it was his responsibility—and his right—to order as he deemed fit. And if that meant overriding a buyer’s decision—well, he could live with that.
“You think you can sell all five hundred of those robots?” Skepticism weighted each word. “In two weeks?”
“Yes.” Jake had to work hard to maintain his air of confidence. Still he held firm.
His father took a moment to consider Jake’s answer, walking a full circle around his desk as he did. “As of this morning, how many units have you sold?”
That was an uncomfortable question and Jake glanced down at the floor. “Three.”
“Three.” J.R. shook his head and stalked to the far side of the room, then back again as if debating how to address the situation. “So what you’re saying is that our storeroom has four hundred and ninety-seven expensive SuperRobots clogging it up?”
“They’re going to sell, Dad.”
“It hasn’t happened yet, though, has it?”
“No, but I believe the robot’s going to be the hottest toy of the season. I’ve done the research—this is the toy kids are talking about.”
“Maybe, but let me remind you, kids aren’t our customers. Their parents are. Which is why no one else in the industry shares your opinion.”
“I know it’s a risk, Dad, but it’s a calculated one. Have faith.”
His father snorted harshly at the word faith. “My faith died along with your mother and sister,” he snapped.
Involuntarily Jake’s eyes sought out the photograph of his mother and sister. Both had been killed in a freak car accident on Christmas Eve twenty-one years ago. Neither Jake nor his father had celebrated Christmas since that tragic night. Ironically, the holiday season was what kept Finley’s in the black financially. Without the three-month Christmas shopping craze, the department-store chain would be out of business.
Because of the accident, Jake and his father ignored anything to do with Christmas in their personal lives. Every December twenty-fourth, soon after the store closed, the two of them got on a plane and flew to Saint John in the Virgin Islands. From the time Jake was twelve, there hadn’t been a Christmas tree or presents or anything else that would remind him of the holiday. Except, of course, at the store...
“Trust me in this, Dad,” Jake pleaded. “Telly the SuperRobot will be the biggest seller of the season, and pretty soon Finley’s will be the only store in Manhattan where people can find them.”
His father reached for a pen and rolled it between his fingers as he mulled over Jake’s words. “I put you in charge of the toy department because I thought it would be a valuable experience for you. One day you’ll sit in this chair. The fate of the company will rest in your hands.”
His father wasn’t telling him anything Jake didn’t already know.
“If the toy department doesn’t show a profit because you went over Mike Scott’s head, then you’ll have a lot to answer for.” He locked eyes with Jake. “Do I make myself clear?”
Jake nodded. If the toy department reported a loss as a result of his judgment, his father would question Jake’s readiness to take over the company.
“Got it,” Jake assured his father.
“Good. I want a report on the sale of that robot every week until Christmas.”
“You’ll have it,” Jake promised. He turned to leave.
“I hope you’re right about this toy, son,” J.R. said as Jake opened the office door. “You’ve taken a big risk. I hope it pays off.”
He wasn’t the only one. Still, Jake believed. He’d counted on having proof that the robots were selling by the time his father learned what he’d done. Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, which was generally the biggest shopping day of the year, had been a major disappointment. He’d fantasized watching the robots fly off the shelves.
It hadn’t happened.
Although they’d been prominently displayed, just one of the expensive toys had sold. He supposed his father had a point; in a faltering economy, people were evaluating their Christmas budgets, so toys, especially expensive ones, had taken a hit. Children might want the robots but it was their parents who did the buying.
Jake’s head throbbed as he made his way to the toy department. In his rush to get to the store that morning, he’d skipped his usual stop at a nearby Starbucks. He needed his caffeine fix.
“Welcome to Finley’s. May I be of assistance?” an older woman asked him. The store badge pinned prominently on her neat gray cardigan told him her name was Mrs. Emily Miracle. Her smile was cheerful and engaging. She must be the new sales assistant Human Resources had been promising him—but she simply wouldn’t do. Good grief, what were they thinking up in HR? Sales in the toy department could be brisk, demanding hours of standing, not to mention dealing with cranky kids and short-tempered parents. He needed someone young. Energetic.
“What can I show you?” the woman asked.
Jake blinked, taken aback by her question. “I beg your pardon?”
“Are you shopping for one of your children?”
“Well, no. I—”
She didn’t allow him to finish and steered him toward the center aisle. “We have an excellent selection of toys for any age group. If you’re looking for suggestions, I’d be more than happy to help.”
She seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he was the department manager—and therefore her boss. “Excuse me, Mrs....” He glanced at her name tag a second time. “Mrs. Miracle.”
“Actually, it’s Merkle.”
“The badge says Miracle.”
“Right,” she said, looking a bit chagrined. “HR