“That’s good.” She crossed her ankles.
“As in any struggling business, you need to cut expenses and increase income.” He tipped his head toward Bernadette’s hill of papers, revealing the perfect side part in his smooth brown hair. “In addition, organization.”
Lucie shuddered. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“You just need to go through systematically. The bills and receipts checked against the ledger, then—”
Lucie plopped her hand on the pile and fixed her gaze on Paul. “You don’t understand. I don’t know how, and it’s no use teaching me. I didn’t go to university. I didn’t go to a lycée. I have what you in the States call an eighth-grade education. Maybe seventh.”
Brown eyes widened. “Your father’s an architect. Why’d he let you drop out of school?”
“I didn’t drop out.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I went to ballet school. At that time in France, school was only required until the age of twelve.”
“Twelve? But you’re so well-read.”
“The Greenblatts gave me a reading list. That was much better than school. I was never good at learning, especially numbers. It’s no use teaching me.”
Paul crossed arms encased in crisp white sleeves. “I find that hard to believe, but that isn’t the point. You don’t need to learn bookkeeping—you just need to learn how to manage.”
“Manage?”
“Manage.” He leveled an authoritative gaze, but not patronizing. “I don’t do every job in my factory, nor do I know how. My job is to manage my employees, to provide the tools and time they need, to lay out expectations, and to make sure they fulfill them. Your job is the same. Now, how long has Madame Martel been with you?”
Lucie shifted in her seat. “She’s been with the store since I came to Paris.”
Paul’s lips curved up. “When you were a little girl. Ah yes. Everything’s becoming clear. And you’ve owned the store a year now?”
“A year in June.”
“From what I see, Madame Martel has adequate bookkeeping skills.” He flipped a page in the notepad. “Everything was done properly for about four months after you took over. Then she slacked off, getting worse each month. She needs management.”
Lucie sat up taller. “I refuse to boss her around.”
“Good. That rarely works.” He patted the ledger. “She just needs schedules and deadlines, and you need to follow through.”
Everything squirmed inside her. “That wouldn’t work.”
Paul rested his elbows on the armrests and shot her an understanding smile. “Because she’s older, she’s worked here longer, she treats you like a child, and she intimidates you.”
“Intimi...” Lucie’s jaw dropped. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“I’ve seen it. But”—he pointed his pen at her—“it isn’t for ageneral lack of courage on your part. Many of my employees find me intimidating, but you had no trouble telling me what to do.” Amusement danced in his eyes.
She smiled a little. “That was easy.”
“You have a backbone. Use it with her.” He waved a hand over the mountain of paper. “First, give her a week to clear this desk. Tell her you’ll mind the store so she has time.”
Bernadette wouldn’t like that. And Lucie couldn’t even picture herself “managing” her.
Paul scooted his chair closer. “Listen. You’re the owner. You pay her to do a job. You have the right to tell her to do that job. Even you artistic sorts only get paid if you work, right?”
Lucie groaned, but he was right. A ballerina who read books during practices would be cut from the corps. “I guess I can do that.”
“I know you can.” He turned the notepad to her. “From the files and ledger, I made a list of regular tasks—paying bills, ordering books, etc. Look it over. Add to it. Decide which are her tasks and which are yours. Assign deadlines. Remind her of her tasks and make sure they’re completed.”
“Regimentation. Discipline.” Lucie screwed up her mouth. “I’m not good at that.”
Paul drew back and hiked up his eyebrows. “You tell yourself a lot of lies.”
