Twinkle Fiddles

Chapter Eighteen

A few unseasonably warm, Lowcountry days on the water, had left Dylan red faced for late February. Sunglasses caused white raccoon markings around his eyes. His lips were chapped, and the peppermint flavored gloss he applied left them shiny. He entered the office via the side staircase, away from the escalator, and Julie's work space. It was Monday, late morning.

Bill Reagan, Senior Vice President for Retail Operations, was waiting for Dylan in Walter's old office. Knowing he had this appointment, Dylan dressed more professionally: dark suit pants, suit jacket, a white, pressed, long sleeved, buttoned-down shirt, no tie, and no worn boat shoes. This morning he wore polished, black, lace-ups, with socks.

"Dylan, come on in, drive up good?" Bill stood from one of Walter's side chairs to shake his hand.

"Yes, sir."

"How 'bout the sail home? The kids got a kick out of climbing on the boat last week. My youngest kept asking if you were a pirate. Nice of you to invite us. I'll be back in Hilton Head in April for the Heritage if you want to go."

"Yes, sir. We might have to make that work. I can't promise I'll have a boat again, but I'll watch some golf for sure."

"Dylan, go ahead and grab the seat behind the desk there. I know you've been using this periodically as a work space. I can talk golf and sailing all day, but we need to get you caught up on a few things. First, the Board met last week. We're not going to replace Walter for some time. It was really a side topic. You're going to be a strong candidate once we do gain more momentum on this. I do have something for you though. I know you know the numbers." Bill pushed a financial green bar report across the desk.

Dylan opened his black backpack pulling out an identical report with yellow highlighting. He pushed Bill's back with a smile.

Bill recited a few numbers. "The last two quarters to LY: brick and mortar comp stores up 4.3%, online up 10.2%. Dylan, our stores look better, our campaigns are more focused. Holiday sales were strong, early spring quarter looks promising. You deserve tremendous credit in a tough segment."

"Thank you, sir. We've got good people here, a good team."

Bill pushed another paper across the desk. It was a single, white page, company letterhead, only a few sentences. "Walter was spearheading a new project for us, codename 'Harvest.' The plan was to bring you in this week regardless, but your role is obviously changing. I can't tell you more without your signature. It's a confidentiality agreement, pretty industry standard. We have to keep a lid on this."

Dylan took a passing glance before signing. Bill followed with his signature, then he lifted a dark, blue, three-ring binder from his briefcase. Behind a clear, plastic, front protector, there was a glossy insert. In blue writing, covering the white page, was an arched "Carolina," over a brown tobacco leaf image. Below, also in royal blue, was the word, "Harvest." The graphic took several inches.

"I'll give you the short version," Bill began. "These high school friends, baseball teammates, played travel ball together. They grew-up in Eastern North Carolina, sons of tobacco farmers. Most went to State, I think one went somewhere else. They studied agricultural engineering, another textile science, and maybe packaging, or something. They got together on a senior thesis. They had this crazy, hair-brained idea to make clothing out of tobacco. You remember that hemp, rustic, hippie craze a few years back? Sort of like that."

Dylan opened the binder but said nothing. The first few pages featured photographs of tobacco farms and abandoned garment factories. Some were historical reference black and whites, others were recent high-resolution color photographs. As he continued flipping the pages of pictures, a full case study and plan of action emerged providing more clarity.