Diamond Spur by Diana Palmer Page B

manager's office. The assistant plant manager shared space next door. The cutting room had its own office, far down the hall, where the cuts were processed and records were kept of the coming and going of cloth. There was a quality control supervisor, who shared space with the pressing room supervisor, a storeroom where sewing supplies were kept, and a huge warehouse from which finished goods were shipped. The plant engineer had his own office, too, where he did time and motion studies and helped oversee the seamstresses on the shirt line.
    Bundle boys and girls wandered around the floor, carrying stacks of cut garment pieces called bundles to the various seamstresses as each section of garment was quickly and efficiently finished and passed along to the next person and the next step to its completion.
    Keith Rogers, the plant manager, was the person Kate wanted to see this morning. "Hello, Kate," he greeted her in the doorway, adding a cheerful hello to Mary, who paused just long enough to kiss Kate's cheek before vanishing into the pants line where she worked. "Good morning, Mr. Rogers," Kate said, sounding and feeling breathless. She twisted her bag nervously in her slender hands. "Mama said you had some news for me."
    "Indeed I do. Jessie, bring that letter in, will you?" he called to the slender blonde who handled the telephones. She smiled back and went to the filing cabinet beside her desk.
    Kate stood in front of the desk. Jessie brought the letter, winked at Kate with twinkling green eyes, and went back out, closing the door behind her.
    Mr. Rogers was tall and balding and wore glasses. He had a wife and three small children, and pictures of them adorned his desk. A diploma in textile engineering held pride of place on one wall, and an award for superior production caught the attention on another.
    Mr. Rogers leaned back in his chair behind the desk with the letter in his hand. "I showed your designs to our regional vice president," he explained to Kate, looking smug. "He felt just as I do about their potential. He went to the big boss, who also agreed. We want to contract with you to do a new line of women's sportswear for our spring season."
    Kate was barely breathing. "Me?" she squeaked.
    "You. These Indian designs are new and exciting, and our forecasters and buyers seem to share your feeling for blue and cream colors in the next year's fashions. They also like this silhouette," he added, picking up one of Kate's sketches from the portfolio she'd left with him. It showed an outfit much like the one Kate had on, with a long full skirt and blouson top. "And denim looks strong for next year, too."
    He smiled at her fascination. She tried to speak, caught her breath, and tried again.
    "Mr. Rogers, I'm just speechless," she said finally.
    "I'm glad you're pleased. You've designed these with an eye to cost control, which pleases the money men, too. They'll be easy to mass produce, they'll be moderately priced, and we'll show a good profit margin if they go well. Which," he added, "we expect them to. Now. Sit down, Kate, and we'll go over the details."
    She did sit. She needed to. He outlined the designs that Clayborn wanted to purchase, mentioning a price that to Kate sounded like a small fortune. And her first thought was that she and her mother would be able to afford a better car—maybe even one that was only eight years old or so, and that would seem new after driving the twenty-year-old Ford around for so long.
    "Does that amount sound reasonable to you, Kate?" Mr. Rogers prodded.
    "Yes, sir," she agreed promptly. "Very reasonable."
    His smile broadened. "Okay. I'll have the contracts drawn up. Can you finalize this new line by September, so that we can get it to our sales staff before fall market week in New York?" "I'm sure I can," she agreed, visualizing nights of sketching and sacrificed weekends. But this was building toward something. This time would be invested in her own future.
    Kate gave him a list of