Chapter 33

NICOLAS OF PALM BEACH

We were at brunch near the Jupiter Inlet. Sunday morning. Boats moving in and out, the lighthouse steady in the distance. Don and Marion across from me, coffee cups between us. The kind of weather that doesn't ask anything of you.

I was looking out at the water when a pod of dolphins surfaced, then disappeared again.

"How can anyone not like this?" I said. "Perfect weather. Ocean breeze. Turquoise water. And dolphins."

Don set down his coffee. Marion smiled — she had seen this look before.

"Have you noticed," Don said, "that there's no brand for Palm Beach?"

I looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"Can you think of a brand that actually captures the South Florida lifestyle?"

I thought for a moment. Then shook my head. "No." "That's something you should do."

I laughed. I thought he was joking.

A few weeks later, he asked how the new project was going. "What new project?" I said.

"The South Florida lifestyle brand." I stopped. "Oh. You're serious."

He was.

So I sat down and gave it some thought.

Affordable luxury. Casual sophistication. Not uptight. Not old Palm Beach. Smart and fun.

But what about the logo? Don suggested dolphins.

"What do people think of when they see dolphins?" he asked. "Intelligence," I said. "Playful."

"And freedom," I added. "They're uncontained." That was the frame.

I started sketching. Dolphins with palm trees. Two dolphins. A version that looked like a family crest. A single dolphin, simplified. Clean. Iconic.

None of it held.

I kept stripping things away, looking for balance. Motion without noise. Elegance without rigidity.

The logo had to do real work. A person had to recognize it from ten feet away.

I gave direction to multiple designers. Yin and yang. Balance. Dolphins. Abstract, but functional — it had to work on embroidery, perfume bottles, handbags.

Nothing worked.

So I brought in graphic designers to take my drawings and clean them up. Refine the lines. Preserve the movement. Translate what I saw into something that could actually be made.

We went through iteration after iteration. Dozens. Maybe a hundred.

Then I dreamed it.

I woke up and drew it — three dolphins in a tight circle, flowing into one another. Sculptural. Balanced. Alive.

That was it.

Most of the work happened from bed.

Purses. Shirts. Perfume. Hardware. I chose the styles, the colors, the weight of the chains, the feel of the metal in my hand. Sketching on paper when I could. Opening the laptop only when I had the energy to sit upright.

Half my bed was covered in swatches and purses. Tape measures. Hardware samples. Work spread out where rest was supposed to be.

The other half was medical.

A spirometer sat on the nightstand.

I used it every morning. Sometimes at night. A small plastic device that measured how much air I could pull into my lungs, how much I could push back out. Numbers that told me — without commentary — what my body was doing that day.

The instructional video showed a little old lady pushing all three balls to the top with ease.

I could barely get two up. Some days only one.

I tested everything anyway. Again and again.

Materials. Hardware. Stitching. Wear. Aging. Stress points. Pack-aging. Shipping. Returns. I wasn't testing to prove I was right — I was testing to make sure I couldn't be wrong.

I owned luxury handbags. I knew the reference points. The weight. The way leather softened over time. How seams aged. How linings behaved after years, not months.

The samples held.

The difference wasn't quality. It was overhead.

Not just general and administrative costs — but marketing. Budgets built to justify price rather than product. Machinery designed around visibility instead of substance.

I wasn't paying for that.

I was paying for the work.

Sourcing was global. China. Hong Kong. Italy. Hardware from China. High-end jewelry made in the U.S. Graphics and web design from Italy and Germany. Perfume formulated in Argentina.

I couldn't travel to China. I had to manage remotely, which

meant being careful about which factories I used. Quality control was relentless.

Once, I gave a factory very clear instructions: the name Nicolas of Palm Beach engraved on the back of a buckle. They sent photos— gold, brushed gold, brushed silver. Everything looked perfect.

They asked if I really needed physical samples. "Yes," I said. "Send a box."

When they arrived, I turned one over in my hand. Etched deeply into the back was: Put name here. Not Nicolas of Palm Beach. Put name here.

I laughed. Then I called and told them everything had to be redone.

They asked if they could fix it on the next production run. "You made them," I said. "But I never approved production." That was the difference.

Nothing moved unless it was right.

People worried that work was consuming me. I made a point to see friends. What they didn't see was how much of it happened from bed — or that my calls tracked the sun. Italy. Germany. Argentina. China. Whoever was awake was who I was dealing with.

From the outside, it looked relentless.

From the inside, it was the only way I could keep moving at all.

At the same time we were discussing names, Don stopped and looked at me.

"You're doing the work," he said. "You're designing everything.

It should be named after you." I shook my head.

"We can't use Pamintuan of Palm Beach," I said. "My whole life, people haven't been able to pronounce Pamintuan."

Marion nodded. She understood immediately. Don didn't hesitate.

"Use Nicolas," he said. "Your stage name. Nicolas of Palm Beach."

It made perfect sense.

It wasn't just about pronunciation.

In business and education, people knew me as Pamintuan. Law.

Intellectual property. Academia. Leadership. That name carried a specific history.

Putting Pamintuan on a fashion label would have been confus-ing. It would have asked people to reconcile worlds that didn't need to be reconciled.

Nicolas, on the other hand, already lived in a creative space. Music. Voice. Expression. Nicolas could move freely where Pamintuan was expected to stay put.

Nicolas of Palm Beach wasn't a departure. It was alignment.

In 2025, we launched. The first quarter did well. Then the tariffs hit.

I stopped production. We had to. Pricing became impossible to predict overnight. The numbers no longer made sense.

Nicolas of Palm Beach isn't dead. It's paused.

We're exploring manufacturing options outside the United States — ways to produce and ship without being crushed by policy shifts that have nothing to do with design or demand.

The brand is still active. Waiting.

Like so much of what I've built — persistent, patient, and ready when conditions shift.

Nashville

Karina's invitation arrived in the fall.

She didn't know I was sick. There was no reason she would. We hadn't spoken in a while, and nothing in our history required a health update. The invitation was simple. February. Nashville. Warm. Open. A door left ajar without expectation.

Everyone else knew.

They told me not to go. Not dramatically. Not with alarm. Just plainly. You're not well. You've already been down for weeks. Your immune system is compromised. You don't need to do this.

They were right.

By November and December, I had been in bed for weeks at a time. Not resting — managing. I learned to stay slightly propped up because lying flat made breathing harder. I learned how to ration energy. How to plan days around what my lungs would allow.

Thanksgiving was supposed to be at my house.

My mother was already there — she had evacuated Sarasota after back-to-back hurricanes and was staying in the other wing. The plan was quiet. Contained. Something that didn't require much from me.

A week before, I got worse.

Too sick to go to the store. Too sick to stand for long. I thought if I stayed in bed and conserved everything, I might be well enough by Thursday.

So I ordered the food.

I called the Italian grocery and asked if they could handle it — the turkey, the sides, everything. They did. When it became clear I still couldn't manage, I called back and asked if they could carve it.

They did that too.

They divided everything into containers and delivered it as left-overs. My mother made herself a turkey sandwich. I ate what I could, when I could.

Thanksgiving was canceled.

I couldn't have Don and Marion over. I wasn't going to risk exposing them, especially Don. The house stayed quiet.

Around that time, Klaus was in Palm Beach.

He was staying at The Breakers with his eldest daughter, her husband, and their children. I hadn't seen him since I left New York. Over the years, we had stayed loosely in touch — the occasional call, text messages on holidays and birthdays. Time had passed. Enough that seeing him again wouldn't have been strange. Espe-cially now, since Karina had invited me to her wedding. It would have made sense that I'd see the family.

But even then, I was too sick. After Christmas, Rita and I spoke.

Her children were coming in January. Her niece in February.

Maybe March would work, she said. If I had the time. "I don't know," I said. "Let's see."

I told her I was thinking about a short trip first. A test run. Nashville.

If I could do that, I could probably travel to California.

California felt far. Not in miles — in consequence. I didn't know what would happen if I pushed too hard, and I didn't know how long it would take to recover if I got it wrong.

Nashville felt closer.

Three days. A short flight. A contained experiment. And there was the promise.

I had said I would come. So I went.

I flew to Nashville in February and stayed for three days. I paced myself carefully. Left early. Sat when I needed to. Smiled when appropriate. Held myself together in public the way you do when you know you're borrowing energy you'll have to pay back later.

The wedding was beautiful. Karina was radiant. I was glad I was there.

I didn't stay longer than I should have. I didn't pretend I was fine.

I came home and was okay. For a few days.

Then I was in bed. Six weeks passed.

Not rest. Not recovery. Stillness. The kind that isn't chosen but enforced. Days blurred. Sleep came and went. I measured time by how often I needed to sit up to breathe more easily.

Nicolas of Palm Beach kept moving without me.

Orders went out. Inventory held. Nothing collapsed because I wasn't standing over it. I had built something that didn't punish me for stopping.

When I finally surfaced, it felt like waking from a dream. Or into one.

The news was everywhere. Tariffs. Trade disputes. Percentages

climbing, shifting, stacking. No one seemed able to say where they would land by the time goods cleared customs.

I lay there, listening, trying to orient myself.

I had gone to Nashville to see if my body could still move through the world.

It had answered.

And while I was still listening to that answer, the world had changed around me.

I didn't rush to respond. I stayed still.

The Pause

I was still getting my footing again when the response came in.

It was exactly the moment when most people would have accelerated.

The response was terrific. People loved the bags. The perfume. The packaging. The weight of things in their hands. The way it all arrived — considered, finished, intentional. The only criticism was almost a compliment. They wanted more colors. Some people bought a leather purse for themselves and then picked up the pleather versions for their kids. Others thought in multiples — gifts, travel, everyday use. Vendors asked if they could get a discount so they could carry the line themselves. It wasn't hesitation. It was pull.

For a moment, it felt settled.

Then I started watching the news. Not casually — not the way you skim headlines — but the way you watch when something you've built is suddenly exposed to forces you don't control.

Tariff announcements. Trade disputes. Percentages floated, revised, withdrawn, then floated again.

What looked manageable one week wasn't the next. Twenty-five percent. Then more. Then layered. At one point, reports showed certain imports facing effective tariffs north of one hundred percent

— even one hundred thirty percent, depending on how the layers were applied.

No one knew where the number would land by the time goods cleared customs.

I started calling the factories.

That was when the real concerns surfaced.

The first was survival. What if some of these factories closed? Trade pressure doesn't just change pricing — it shuts doors. Long-standing partners disappear overnight. If that happened mid-production, I could lose both product and leverage at the same time.

The second concern was worse.

Moving production to another country wouldn't just mean new paperwork. It would mean starting quality control all over again. New factories. New teams. New tolerances.

They would have to study my purses. Deconstruct them. Send samples. Then do small-batch runs to see if they could reproduce the structure, the stitching, the feel. Hardware would have to be shipped separately. Locks tested again. Engravings verified. Weight checked. Finish checked. Every piece inspected.

If I started over, it would be at least three months before I had something usable — even if I found the right factory immediately. And there was no guarantee I would.

Some factories suggested transshipping — routing goods through another country so they would arrive with a different desig-nation. Others framed it as routine. A workaround. A way to keep things moving.

As far as they were concerned, once the product left their factory, they got paid. The risk wasn't theirs. It was mine.

I wasn't going to play that game.

I wasn't going to gamble on tariffs I couldn't price, or inventory I might not be able to land without absorbing a loss that didn't make sense. I wasn't going to pretend I didn't know where my product came from or how it moved.

So I made a different decision.

I set inventory aside. Ten of each piece. Enough to preserve the line. Enough to restart cleanly when the ground stopped shifting.

Then I stopped production.

Not because demand disappeared. Not because the product failed. Not because the brand wasn't working.

I paused because the system wouldn't hold still long enough to build responsibly inside it.

This wasn't fear. It was judgment.

I had learned — more than once — that when conditions become unstable, speed isn't courage. Momentum isn't wisdom. Attention is.

I paused. Not because I was unsure. Because I was paying attention.

I was trying to be logical. The tariffs couldn't last — that's what I told myself. But I had been wrong before.

I had been wrong with the LEDs. I thought institutions would move once we had proof. They didn't.

I could be wrong about this too. But I chose to wait it out anyway. I didn't blink.

They're Paying Attention

Things weren't fitting.

Not the way they used to. Waistbands pulled. Seams strained. Clothes that were supposed to move didn't. It wasn't really about size—it was about stress. Fabric meeting a body that no longer behaved the way patterns assumed it would.

I had gotten fat.

There's no softer way to say it, and no reason to avoid the word. I wasn't inactive because I'd stopped caring. I was sick. My body had been under siege, and it showed.

Illness changes the math. Breath becomes something you manage. Movement becomes negotiated. The body prioritizes survival long before it worries about appearance. Weight distributes differently. Inflammation settles in places you didn't know existed.

I didn't recognize myself in photographs. Clothes told the story before I did.

Don watched this the way he always does—not emotionally, not judgmentally. Translationally.

"Well," he said, "where there's a problem, there's a patent."

That's how his mind works. Turn friction into structure. Turn discomfort into design.

I started asking my guy friends. "Have you ever had your pants split?" Every single one of them said yes.

No hesitation. No embarrassment. Just facts.

At the seat. At the inner thigh. When sitting. When bending.

When getting out of a car.

Everyone had a story. Everyone had learned to accept it as normal—one of those quiet failures people joke about instead of solving.

That's when it clicked.

This wasn't about me being sick. Or gaining weight. Or losing conditioning.

It was about seams.

About where stress accumulates and nobody bothers to address it because it's easier to pretend it's an exception instead of a pattern.

Don said, "You'll get back in shape."

He didn't say it as reassurance. He said it as fact. Then he paused.

"But that doesn't solve the problem." That was the difference.

This wasn't about waiting to return to some earlier version of myself. It wasn't about fixing my body so clothes would behave again. Bodies change. Age happens. Illness happens. Motion doesn't stop just because patterns haven't caught up.

Design shouldn't depend on recovery. It should meet people where they are.

If a garment only works when someone is perfectly fit, it isn't well designed. If a seam fails the moment life applies pressure, that isn't a flaw in the person wearing it—it's a flaw in the garment.

I started looking at seams the way I'd once looked at tennis injuries.

Not as accidents. As predictable failure points.

Inner thighs. Back rise. Gussets. Underarms. The same places, over and over. Repetition teaches you where things break. You don't need a lab for that. You need time and attention.

What if stretch didn't have to live everywhere? What if it only lived where it was needed? What if seams weren't intersections—but buffers?

I began sketching inserts. Narrow bands. Curved strips. Small, controlled sections of highly stretchable fabric placed exactly where tension accumulated. Not hidden panels. Not elastic waistbands. Something localized. Intentional.

The goal wasn't looseness. It was relief.

Some versions were permanent. Others needed to be replace-able. Some could be stitched. Others bonded. In a few cases, the stretch didn't need to be hidden at all—grommets anchoring visible elastic, expansion you could see, control you could trust.

This wasn't fashion thinking. It was structural.

Don worked with me on it the way he always has—refining, formalizing, protecting the idea. Taking something intuitive and giving it a framework that could survive scrutiny.

We filed it as what it was: a system for relieving seam tension at high-mobility zones.

Simple in concept. Harder to execute well. While production paused, this didn't.

There was no season attached to it. No buyer to convince. No launch to rush. Just a problem worth solving properly.

I realized something then—something I'd been circling my entire life.

Progress doesn't always look like momentum.

Sometimes it looks like precision. Like narrowing the problem until only what matters remains. Like building something that doesn't depend on timing, markets, or approval.

I was still tired.

That hadn't changed. But I wasn't stalled.

I was still making things.

‍

‍