Then he looked at Derek. "Where is he?"
Derek blinked. "I'm sorry, sir. Where is who?"
"The man you threw out of this store 40 minutes ago. The elderly man in the worn green coat. Where is he?"
The room went cold. Not metaphorically. Allison would later say she felt the temperature drop.
Something about Nathan's voice. It wasn't loud. It was barely above conversational. But it carried a weight that pressed against the walls.
Derek's smile cracked further. "Oh, you mean... There was a man earlier. A vagrant, actually. He wandered in, made some unreasonable demands, and we had security escort him out. Standard procedure. Nothing to worry..."
"A vagrant?"
"Well, not... I mean, he wasn't exactly... He didn't meet our customer profile, sir. He was disheveled, disruptive, and frankly..."
"His name. What did you ask his name?"
Derek opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
He hadn't. Of course he hadn't. Why would he ask the name of a man he had already decided was worthless?
"No, sir. I didn't see the need."
"His name is Benjamin Wells."
The syllables hit the floor like dropped crystal.
Every person in the store heard them. Every person understood, at different speeds, in different ways. But they all arrived at the same place.
Derek didn't. Not yet. His brain was processing the last name, turning it over, trying to place it somewhere that didn't terrify him.
"Wells?" He almost whispered it. "That's... Is he a relation of..."
Nathan turned and walked back to the front door. He pushed it open and stepped outside.
The entire store watched through the glass as he extended his hand to the old man on the bench, helped him stand, and walked him slowly, arm around his shoulders, back through the entrance of Sterling and Hale.
Benjamin stepped inside. His cracked shoes on the white marble. His worn coat under the crystal chandeliers. The same floor he had been dragged across 40 minutes ago.
Nathan stood beside him. He placed his hand on Benjamin's shoulder and turned to face every person in the room.
"This is my father." His voice filled the space without effort. "Benjamin Arthur Wells. He founded this company in 1981 with $200 and a handshake. The store you're standing in, the floor under your feet, the name on the door, the brand on every box, exists because this man built it with his bare hands."
Nathan pointed to the portrait on the wall behind the register. The -and-white photograph. The young man in a simple coat, standing in front of a tiny Brooklyn storefront.