Chapter 123: Deep Pockets

The tour eventually moved toward the active workshop, where two artisans had wisely decided that graduate students discussing business models were considerably less interesting than the console table in front of them.

The piece had been made decades ago, with carved detailing along its apron and legs so intricate that stripping the old finish couldn’t be done by attacking everything with a sander.

One artisan worked carefully around the carved sections by hand while the other examined an area where the old dark varnish had already been removed.

The wood underneath was considerably lighter.

"Looks better," the younger man said.

His partner leaned back to take a look.

"Don’t let the boss hear you say that until the client agrees."

"There is no client. It’s his."

"Even worse. He’s paying us to argue with himself."

The younger artisan laughed.

For a while, only the quiet scraping of their tools filled the workspace.

Then he glanced toward the group touring the other side of the property.

"You think this is actually going to work?"

His partner didn’t look up.

"The table?"

"The business."

That finally earned him a glance.

The younger man lowered his voice.

"Look how long we’ve already spent on this one piece."

They both looked at the console table. "How much do you think this console would sell for on the market to recover the repair cost?"

"Frankly, I have no idea. I have ordinary furniture at home. No design, just practical ones."

He wasn’t wrong.

Restoration was very slow.

Two skilled workers could spend hours on a section most people wouldn’t notice unless someone pointed it out. Intricate carving made everything worse. The old varnish had to be removed without damaging the details beneath it, repairs had to disappear into the original craftsmanship, and rushing any stage simply created another problem someone would eventually have to fix.

Time meant wages.

Materials cost money.

Then there was the building, equipment, insurance, storage, utilities, and everything else required to keep the doors open while a single piece stubbornly refused to become finished any faster.

"You worried?" his partner asked softly.

"Yes. More than I care to admit."

"About?"

"Whether we should start looking for another job before he decides restoring old furniture is a very expensive hobby."

The older artisan smiled.

"He knows it’s expensive."

"Knowing and paying aren’t the same thing."

That was fair.

The younger man ran his fingers close to the newly exposed grain without touching it.

"Think he has the patience?"

His partner glanced toward Alexander.

Their employer listened while Julian Park apparently discovered another opinion.

Neither man could hear what was being said from where they worked, but Alexander hadn’t strangled anyone yet.

The artisan returned his attention to the table.

"He has patience."

The younger man followed his gaze.

"What about the money?"

That required considerably less thought.

"He’s Alexander Vance."

"That’s not what I asked."

"No. You asked if he has deep pockets."

The older man picked up his tool again.

"I answered as honestly as I can."

The younger artisan laughed.

"Fair enough."

"But that doesn’t mean he’ll keep throwing money at this forever."

That was the part they both understood. They both came from a shop that had the same concept: woodwork and furniture repair. The company closed shop. Of course, they weren’t privy to the reason, but based on the projects they received, most customers nowadays prefer to buy new items rather than wait for old items to be repaired or restored.

Alexander might have enough personal capital to keep Second Life Workshop alive through an unprofitable beginning, but eventually the business had to justify itself. Enough clients had to be willing to pay for skilled hands and long hours rather than simply buying something new.

The younger man looked at the console again.

"So we make sure this is worth paying for."

"That’s generally how employment works."

"Very inspiring."

"Keep scraping."

He did.

A few minutes later, another patch of dark varnish disappeared, revealing the warmer wood underneath.

For now, Second Life Workshop had money and work.

Whether it could eventually make enough of one from the other was a much harder question.

Apparently, Alexander’s professor had been wondering the same thing.

Near the end of the tour, he stopped beside one of the worktables and looked over the figures Alexander had provided with his case study.

"Mr. Vance, how long are you prepared to carry the operating losses?"

Alexander looked at him.

"Personally?"

"As the owner."

That distinction shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did.

Alexander had spent years managing considerably larger amounts of money at Vance Holdings. He’d approved investments that made everything he’d spent on Second Life Workshop look almost insignificant.

But Vance Holdings had never been his alone.

Alexander might own a substantial portion of the company, but major decisions were scrutinized by people whose job was to question them. Executives, financial officers, legal teams, and ultimately a Board of Directors had enough collective experience to tell Alexander when one of his brilliant ideas wasn’t nearly as brilliant as he’d convinced himself.

Success belonged to the company.

So did failure.

Here, no one else to blame.

Alexander had chosen the property.

He’d hired the people.

He’d approved the equipment, renovation, insurance, and operating expenses. Every paycheck would eventually have to come from revenue the business generated, and until that happened, the difference came directly from him.

His professor waited patiently.

Alexander finally answered.

"I haven’t established the final cutoff yet."

That earned considerably more attention than a confident answer probably would’ve.

Alexander continued, "The purpose isn’t to prove I can afford an expensive hobby. Second Life Workshop eventually has to cover its own wages, operating expenses, and overhead. My personal capital gives it time to establish itself. It doesn’t give the business permission to lose money indefinitely."

His professor nodded.

"Then establish your limit."

Alexander looked at him.

"Before you need it," the older man added. "Not when you’re already emotionally invested in saving the business."

That one stayed with him.