"No, they don't. We all use the same credit bureau for reports. It's obvious their credit requirements are more lenient than mine."

"They aren't yours, dammit, this store is not yours—"

Meredith interceded, knowing that while the controller would adamantly defend his own actions, and his staff's, he rarely had the spine to point out Philip's own mistakes to him, including this particular error in judgment, which happened to be Philip's own. Motivated by an unselfish desire to defend Allen Stanley and a very selfish desire to avoid another lengthy wrangle that the rest of the executives, including herself, would all have to sit through, Meredith interrupted her father's tirade. "The last time this topic came up," she told him, managing to sound both courteous and objective, "you felt that history had shown us that college students are often bad credit risks. You instructed Allen to deny credit cards to all college students except in rare instances."

Silence descended on the conference room—the eerie, watchful silence that often ensued whenever Meredith opposed her father, but today it was heavier than ever, because everyone was watching for any sign of leniency in Philip's rigid attitude toward his daughter—a sign that would indicate that she was his choice to succeed him. In truth, her father was no more exacting than his counterparts at Saks or Macy's or any other large retailer, and Meredith knew it. It was his brusque, autocratic style that she objected to, not the demands he made. The executives gathered around the conference table had chosen retailing as a career, knowing beforehand that it was a frenetic, demanding business where sixty-hour weeks were the norm, not the exception, for anyone who wanted to make it to the top—and stay there. Meredith, like the others, had known that, just as she had known that in her case she would have to work harder, longer, and more effectively than all the others if she was to claim the presidency that would have automatically been hers had she had the foresight to be born a male.

Now she entered into the topic under debate, knowing full well that while she might earn her father's respect, she would incur a disproportionate amount of his resentment. He sent a disdainful glance her way. "What would you suggest, Meredith?" he asked, neither admitting nor denying that the rule had been his.

"The same thing I suggested last time—that college students with no bad credit information be granted credit cards, but with a low limit—say five hundred dollars—for the first year. At the end of the year if Allen's people are satisfied with the payment records, then the cardholder's maximum can be increased."

For a moment he simply looked at her, then he turned away and without appearing to have heard her, he continued the meeting. An hour later he closed the deerskin folder with his meeting notes in it and glanced at the executives at the conference table. "I have an inordinately heavy schedule of meetings today, gentlemen—and ladies—" he added in a condescending tone that always made Meredith long to take a poke at him. "We'll have to omit going over the best sellers for the week. Thank you for coming. The meeting is adjourned. Allen," he said in an offhand voice, "go ahead and offer charge accounts with a five-hundred-dollar limit to college students so long as they don't have bad credit."

That was it. He didn't give Meredith recognition for the idea, or acknowledge her in any way. He behaved as he most often did when his talented daughter showed excellent judgment: He reluctantly took her suggestions without ever admitting their value, or hers, to the store. But they were valuable, and everyone knew it. Including Philip Bancroft.

Meredith gathered up her notes and left the conference room beside Gordon Mitchell. Of all the candidates for the role of interim president, Mitchell and Meredith were the two most likely to be given the job; Mitchell knew it, and so did Meredith. At thirty-seven, he had more years in retailing than Meredith, and that gave him a slight edge over her, but he'd joined Bancroft's only three years before. Meredith had been with Bancroft's seven years, and, more important, she had successfully spearheaded Bancroft's expansion into other states; she had argued and cajoled and ultimately persuaded her father and then the store's bankers to finance that expansion. She herself had chosen the locations for the new stores, and she herself remained deeply involved in all the endless details of building and stocking those stores. Because of all that, as well as her prior experience in Bancroft's other divisions, she had one thing to offer the board of directors that no other candidate for president had, including Gordon Mitchell, and that was versatility. Versatility, and a broader range of understanding of store operations. She stole a sideways glance at Gordon, and saw the calculating expression in his eyes as he looked at her. "Philip told me he's taking a cruise at the doctor's orders, when he goes on leave," Gordon began as they walked down the carpeted hallway past the secretaries posted in cubicles outside the vice presidents' offices. "Where is he planning—" He broke off as his secretary stood up at her desk and, raising her voice slightly, said, "Mr. Mitchell, you have a call on your private line from Mr. Bender. His secretary says it's rather urgent."

"I told you not to answer my private line, Debbie," he snapped. Excusing himself to Meredith, Mitchell stalked past his secretary into his office, and closed the door.

Outside his office, Debbie Novotny bit her lip, watching Meredith Bancroft walk away. Whenever "Mr. Bender's secretary" called, Gordon got tense and excited, and he always closed the door when they talked. For nearly a year, he'd been promising to divorce his wife so that he could marry Debbie, and now she was suddenly terrified that the reason he'd been stalling was because "Mr. Bender's secretary" was actually a phony name for a new lover. He'd made other promises he hadn't kept, too, like saying he would promote Debbie to a buyer and give her a raise. Her heart hammering in her throat, Debbie gingerly picked up her phone. Gordon's voice was low, alarmed: "I told you to stop calling me at the office!"

"Calm down, this won't take long," Bender said. "I've still got a shitload of those silk blouses you bought left over, and a mountain of that costume jewelry. I'll give you twice your usual cut if you'll take the stuff off my hands." It was a man's voice, and Debbie was so relieved that she started to hang up when it struck her that what Bender was talking about sounded like bribery.

"I can't," Gordon snapped. "I've seen that last batch of blouses and the jewelry you shipped in here, and it's mediocre crap! We've gotten away with our arrangement this long only because your stuff had some quality. If someone around here gets a close look at that last batch of stuff, they're going to demand to know who bought it and why. When they do, my merchandise managers are going to point the finger straight at me and say I told them to buy from you."