“A person can learn precision in Geneva, Harlem, Tokyo, London, or anywhere else.”
She nodded slowly.
Then asked, “So your watches could be expensive?”
He laughed.
“Maybe someday.”
She looked serious.
“Then I'll make sure everybody knows.”
Her father smiled.
“Don't worry about that.”
He reached toward her shoulder.
“Just make sure they know why something is good.”
At twelve, she began keeping track of the shop's expenses.
Her father gave her an old notebook.
She wrote down repair charges, replacement parts, and the cost of supplies.
She noticed something immediately.
“Daddy, you don't charge enough.”
He laughed.
“Your mother says that.”
She pointed toward the numbers.
“Look. You spent two hours fixing this watch, and you charged less than the parts cost.”
He examined the page.
Then sighed.
“The owner is retired.”
The girl frowned.
“So?”
“He's on a fixed income.”
She looked toward the ledger.
“Then you should write down that you gave him a discount.”
Her father blinked.
“Why?”
“Because otherwise you'll never know how much you're giving away.”
For a long moment, he stared at her.
Then smiled.
“You're going to be dangerous when you're grown.”
She grinned.
“Rich too.”
He laughed.
“Is that right?”
She nodded.
“I'm buying you a bigger shop.”
He leaned forward.
“How big?”
She stretched both arms.
“Really big.”
He smiled.
Then kissed her forehead.
“I'll hold you to that.”
She didn't know it then.
But she'd spend the next twenty-six years trying to keep that promise.
By the time she turned fifteen, her father's floating seconds mechanism had become the center of his life.
He still repaired ordinary watches to pay the bills.
He still greeted customers with a smile.
He still stayed late when an elderly client needed something fixed.
But after closing the shop each evening, he returned to the prototype.