* * *
—
Max marched into his father’s office late that afternoon, looking as he always did, like he was spoiling for a fight. He was always ready to attack and on the defensive. Olivier was gracious and polite, and seemed relaxed, even when he was stressed. He tried not to let it show. Max waved his emotions like a burning flag.
“Did you see the new fluorescents?” he asked Olivier, sure his father would hate them. They had been his idea.
“I did.”
“What did you think?” Max asked, frowning, his body language tense.
“I liked them. Much better than I thought I would. You were right.” Max’s face broke into an unexpected smile, like sunshine between storm clouds. He had been braced for thunder and lightning, and sometimes enjoyed it. He wasn’t afraid of a good fight. “I think they’re going to be a huge hit. Particularly in the States, California, Florida, and Texas, where they love bright colors.”
“We should have had them made in China,” Max said, scowling again. “Why waste money on production?” He had his father’s dark hair, and smoldering dark brown eyes to go with it. Olivier’s eyes were a warmer brown. Max was taller than his father and powerfully built. He went to a gym often and had broad shoulders. Olivier was tall, strong, and thin, and looked younger than his forty-nine years. They could almost have been brothers, since Olivier was so young when Max was born.
“The fabric would have been as durable in China, but the colors wouldn’t have been as vibrant.” They’d had the bags made in their factory outside Florence, which was Olivier’s decision, to upgrade their look.
“But the profit margin would have been better,” Max said.
“We can afford the margin we’ve got. You can’t always sacrifice quality for price, Max.”
“If we produced more in China, we could sell to H&M, Zara, Mango, and all the low-end outlets. We’d make millions.”
“That’s not what we do, or who we are,” Olivier reminded him, as he did often. Max wanted to turn Bayard Bags into a high-volume business and give up the price point and standard of quality Olivier had established years before and stuck to.
“We’re not Hermès,” Max said tartly.
“No.” His father smiled at him. “I wish we were.”
“This isn’t haute couture, Dad. And think of where that went. Down the tubes. If you were still in haute couture, you’d be broke by now.” Instead Olivier was a rich man with a booming business, but Max wanted more, no matter what he had to sacrifice to get there, including his reputation and his father’s, which meant nothing to him.
Olivier didn’t argue the point. It was a conversation they’d had many times before. “What are you doing this weekend?” he asked his son, always trying to bond with him, improve the relationship they had, and find common ground. Max was his son after all, which meant a lot to Olivier. Fatherhood was a commitment he had honored for all of Max’s life, and Basile’s. Max’s sentiments for his father weren’t as strong. He worked for him because he paid him well, not because he admired him or even loved him, or liked his job. He didn’t. Whatever Olivier had done for him, Max felt was his due. He felt entitled to whatever he had, and not grateful for it, unlike Basile, who was always touched by anything his father did, even the smallest gesture. But Héloïse had been a cut above Monique and had brought Basile up well, and genes played a part in it too. Olivier was a kind, generous man, and Basile resembled him more than Max did.
“Why?” Max answered him about the weekend, as though he was afraid his father wanted something from him, instead of the reverse, which was more usual. There was always something Max wanted from Olivier, money mostly, or any perks he could get.
“I have to go to Florence to see the factory tomorrow. I’ve got a meeting about next year’s spring line.” They were already working on it, and were always several seasons ahead, like ready-to-wear. “The Johnsons from Dallas are having a party to celebrate the palazzo they rented and redecorated in Venice. They begged me to come. I’m not dying to, but I think I should.” They were Bayard’s biggest buyers in the U.S. and bought a huge number of their bags every season. “Do you want to come?” Olivier was always anxious to introduce his son to better people than the sleazy crowd he hung out with and preferred.
“Hell, no,” Max said with a grimace. “Sit around with a bunch of deadly old Texans, in some crumbling palazzo half under water, on a foul-smelling canal, no thanks.”
“Knowing the Johnsons, and having seen their home in Dallas, and their estates in Lyford Cay and Palm Beach, I don’t think a waterlogged palazzo on a foul-smelling canal is a high probability. I think we’re talking more like Versailles or a Medici palace, or maybe the Sistine Chapel. She’s been working on it for months and this is the unveiling.”
“I met them with you before. They bore me to death,” Max said, annoyed. “They’re tedious and old.”
“They bore me too, to be honest. But they’re good people and among our best customers. I have to go, and I’ll be in Florence anyway. It isn’t a big deal to go to Venice after that. It only takes two hours by train. I was thinking of spending the weekend. And I might go to Saverio in Venice, just for the sheer pleasure of it.”
“You’d like to buy it, wouldn’t you?” Max asked him, although he knew the answer.
“Of course, who wouldn’t? But they’re as tight as the Dumas family who own Hermès, and the Wertheimers who own Chanel. Some businesses will never be for sale. Saverio is one of them. But I would leap at the chance if it ever came up,” Olivier said. “They don’t need me. The Saverios own it, and it will always stay that way.”
“Do they have kids?” Max asked, not very interested in knowing. It was a dead end.
“I don’t think so. It’s owned by the third generation. As I recall, the oldest one runs it. They must be fairly young. I don’t think any of them are married or have kids.”
“Maybe they’ll die out,” Max said hopefully for his sake.
“Not in my lifetime. I don’t know how old they are, but Saverio has been around for years, for over a century, and I’ve never heard any rumors that they’d sell. I just like going to see the workmanship. I learn something every time. And the original store is in Venice. It’s small but beautiful, almost like a church,” Olivier said, with a wistful expression.
“There’s a good casino in Venice,” Max said, more interested in that. “I won’t go to the party, but if I meet you in Venice, I can go to the casino while you kiss the Johnsons’ asses. You’re better at that than I am.” It was true, but Olivier wasn’t crazy about encouraging his son to gamble in Venice. That hadn’t been the point of the invitation. “I’ll see what else comes up, and if I have nothing to do, I can meet you there on Friday, and fly back with you on Saturday or Sunday.” Olivier nodded and Max left his office a few minutes later. Olivier doubted that Max would join him, and he wasn’t sure he wanted him to now. He didn’t want to be the one to facilitate his son’s gambling. But that, chasing women, and easy money were all Max cared about. Olivier wanted to go, out of respect for one of their biggest customers, and for the beauty of Venice, which he had always loved. A quick visit to Saverio would be a private treat he always enjoyed, just to see what they were doing now, their latest interpretations of their classic designs.