“Harriet has worked here for the past twenty years. She’s seen every nook and cranny of the place,” Jason reminded him. “And Dana saw the plant from top to bottom just a couple of weeks ago.”
“Not through my eyes. You probably did one of those wham-bang tours that barely touched the tip of the iceberg.”
“I did leave out all the nostalgia,” Jason admitted, grinning at him. His grandfather was clearly in his element, relishing the prospect of an attentive audience. Jason turned to Dana and her brother, who was slouched on a corner of Harriet’s desk twisting paper clips out of shape. “I hope you know what you’re in for. His version could take hours.”
“You could come along,” Dana coaxed. “Maybe it would improve your skills as a tour guide—add a little color. Tours could become a great marketing device. Dozens of little fifth-graders parading through here every day. Just imagine.”
Jason shuddered at the thought. But he’d discovered lately that when Dana got that impish look on her face, he found it impossible to refuse her anything. His intentions to reform and become a dutiful company official flew out the window. He forgot all about the stack of work on his desk. Maybe, if he got lucky, he could sneak a kiss behind one of the giant looms.
“Yes,” he murmured. “Just imagine.”
Draping an arm around Dana’s shoulder, he gestured to Brandon. “Lead on, Granddad.”
Jason listened with tolerant amusement as his grandfather launched into a family history that started back in England before the turn of the century. Dana and even Sammy listened raptly as Brandon talked about his grandfather’s textile mill in England and his struggle to build a name for himself.
“His son, my father, had bigger dreams. He’d heard there was newer, faster equipment to be had in America and he had a spirit of adventure. He came to this country with little money in his pocket and a lot of desire. His uncles had been here for years, working for one of the mills that had been around for decades. It was founded by a competitor of Francis Cabot Lowell right around 1816, 1820. In those early years most of the country’s wholesale wool trade was handled right out of Boston.
“Anyway, James and the uncles pooled their money and bought the plant. The equipment wasn’t as up-to-date as some, but they knew where to go in England and Scotland for the best wool, and pretty soon they developed a reputation for the finest fabric. That was the start of Halloran Industries.
“Nowadays, this place is something of a dinosaur. Most of the big mills from before the turn of the century went south. We decided to stay right here. We were never interested in quantity or in producing cheap material. We’ve concentrated on making the best.”
He plucked up a handful of soft gray hairs and showed them to Sammy. “You know what this is?”
“Looks like a bunch of old hairs to me.”
“Expensive old hairs. Here, feel them. Feel how soft they are. That’s cashmere, son. It comes from Himalayan goats in Tibet. We blend this with wool to make some of the winter fabric.”
He led Sammy to another loom. “Now you watch this. It used to be done completely by hand. Just imagine that. All that spinning and weaving took days just to get enough material to make a coat or a dress.”
Jason watched in astonishment as Sammy’s expression turned from boredom to fascination. He seemed to be hanging on Brandon’s words. Brandon seemed equally delighted to find someone who’d actually listen to all his old stories with rapt attention. How had they so easily found the rapport he’d had to struggle for? Maybe it was because his grandfather was genuinely accepting of other people, flaws and all.
“I thought most textile manufacturers specialized,” Dana said. “Halloran Industries does woolen fabrics, silks and cottons. Isn’t that more expensive?”
“Sure,” Brandon agreed. “But remember what I said. We wanted to do quality, not quantity. The decision to diversify goes back to my father. The truth of the matter was he was fascinated by the techniques. Every time he’d see a piece of fabric that intrigued him, he’d set out to learn how it was made. He even traveled to the Far East to learn more about silkworms.”
“I’ve been trying to convince Granddad and Dad for ages that we ought to concentrate on one specialty,” Jason said. “Then Granddad goes off on one of his vacation trips and, just like his father, he comes home with some ancient French woodblocks for printing cotton and we add a new line. It’s not cost-effective.”
Brandon shrugged. “If I wanted to manufacture the material for cheap bed linens, I’d have gone south years ago and set up shop near a cotton field. Top designers and decorators come here when they want something rare and spectacular for their finest customers. We’ll work to order, match a dye to suit the customer. Few places can afford to do that.”
“We can’t afford to do that,” Jason countered.
Brandon chuckled. “You sound more like your father every day.”
Jason couldn’t help grinning back at him. “Now that is a depressing thought.”
Sammy had wandered over to a bale of Sea Island cotton waiting to be processed. “This stuff actually turns into material?” he asked, his expression incredulous. “Like my shirt or somethin’?”
Brandon studied Sammy’s faded plaid shirt and said, “Maybe not that shirt, but you’ve got the idea. First it’s carded, then it goes through three more steps before we spin it.” He showed him the stages, leading up to the final woven material. “Feel the difference between ours and yours. It’s all in the thread count.” He scowled at Jason. “Can’t seem to make some people understand the importance of that.”
He moved across an aisle. “Now look over here. We’re handprinting it. I found these woodblocks at a mill that was closing in France last year after four centuries. What do you think
