A department store is the most theatrical of commercial enterprises, and the most prestigious ones play on our senses and emotions in powerful ways. They are places where style, sex, and money collide to produce an atmosphere that is a heaven of earthly desires —of luxury to the eye and to the touch, of iconic names like Chanel and Armani and Jimmy Choo, and where even the air is perfumed, courtesy of what are known in the trade as “spritzers”—those people who stand in the aisles and offer you, well, a spritz.

            A good department store is even run like a theater. There’s the “stage” and the “backstage.” One is all elegance and beauty, while the other is all utility and efficiency. Making them mesh and work together is what Sally Schule does all day.

Sarasota’s Saks Fifth Avenue, one of 55 Saks branches worldwide. It is unusual to have a Saks in a community this small, and in many ways it validates the town’s claim to being a sophisticated place. Since it opened in 1996, you have the feeling that anything could happen here. We have a Saks, we have a Whole Foods . . . what’s next? A tiny Tiffany?

Sally’s first stop every morning is Receiving. It’s everybody’s first stop, as it is the heart and soul of the store. If Saks were a house, this would be the kitchen; if it were a real theater, this would be backstage.

A crew of seven has been working since 7 a.m. Dressed in khaki and black polo shirts, they move quickly and efficiently as they unpack the merchandise that has arrived overnight, most of it from the Saks distribution center in Aberdeen, Md., but some by FedEx directly from some of the vendors.

The packages are opened, the clothes unfolded and steamed if necessary. Tags are attached, as are the sensors, those little round things that make noise if you’re trying to sneak them out the door. Everything moves smoothly, because there is no guesswork; systems have been figured out to the nth degree. Take hangers, for example. Men’s clothes always go on wooden hangers, designer clothes get their own hangers, evening gowns get flocked hangers (so the straps won’t slide off), and there’s even something known as a Henry hanger, used to display separates. “Who was Henry?” I ask, but neither Sally nor anyone in receiving can remember. The origins of the name seem lost in the mists of retailing.

An outsider rarely thinks about how all that merchandise is shipped around and taken care of, but if it isn’t managed efficiently, you’re sunk. Things move with lightning speed in retailing, where the lifeblood is novelty. “It’s never ending,” Sally tells me. “Let’s see—there are pre-fall, fall, holiday, resort/cruise, spring, spring II, and summer.”

“Resort and cruise are different,” someone insists, but before we can get into the fine points someone else walks in. This time it’s Marilyn Goldfarb, wanting to see if a special dress a customer is waiting for has arrived. Karin Lewellen, the assistant manager, drops in to say hello. Eric Cross, the store’s visual director, pops in, looking for something. Eric’s job is deciding where and how everything is displayed, and he rarely stops moving. And Valerie Soroker, who used to work here but now does special events and promotions, peeks in; she’s in the store “pulling” clothes for a fashion show at the Founders Club, one of many similar events that Saks does over the course of the year.

            What’s going on in Receiving is crucial. But when Sally is satisfied she has a handle on it, she goes to her office—“my storeroom,” she jokes. It’s actually rather neat, with just a few boxes and shopping bags set in the corner, looking rather like presents she might be giving out. There are Saks snow-globes on her desk, along with an orchid and live flowers. On the shelf behind her stand some family photographs: her daughter, Kaylea, 16, on her quarter horse; her son Tyler, 12,  racing his Panther motorcross. “My children have expensive hobbies,” she notes, with a pleased but rueful laugh.

            After she checks her schedule, it’s time for the morning staff meeting, at 9:45, just before the store opens. It takes place in Ladies’ Shoes, and everybody comes. Sometimes a sales rep from a vendor will be there, describing a new item. But today, it’s just Sally.

            It’s strange to be in an empty department store, or more correctly, a department store that hasn’t opened yet. It’s just the employees, looking like a bunch of performers ready to go on stage. Sally talks a little about sales goals and such, gets some applause for John Shableski, who runs Receiving, and shows off the new Judith Ripka jewelry. There is no official end to the meeting, but as I stand there talking to Sally after she’s finished, I notice the vibe has changed. I glance toward the door and understand why.

The store is open.

            “When I was a little girl, my dream was to be a buyer in a department store,” Sally tells me. “I never thought I’d end up running one.”

            One senses that her work ethic comes from a classic Midwestern upbringing rather than the obsessive fashion mania that afflicts most of the characters in The Devil Wears Prada. She was born and raised in Clinton, Iowa, “corn country, right on the Mississippi,” she says. Sally was one of four sisters known around town as “the Cavanaugh girls.” (Clinton, by the way, has produced some other success stories. One hundred years ago the most famous woman in the world, actress and singer Lillian Russell, hailed from Clinton).

            Sally’s father was an insurance executive who also owned a small commercial hotel, and Sally and her sisters ran the concession counter down in the lobby. That was her first experience in retail. Then it was on Northern Illinois University for a degree in fashion retailing and marriage to Brad Schule, whom she met while working at a country club. They’ve been married 20 years, and if Sally is one of the most recognizable faces on the local social circuit, Brad is not. “He likes to stay home with the kids,” Sally explains.

            Her very first job was with the Saks Fifth Avenue in Oak Park, Ill., where she stuck price tags on cosmetics. In 1994, she and Brad moved to Sarasota, where Sally got a job at Jacobson’s, the fondly remembered fashion and specialty store that had branches on St. Armands and in South Sarasota. When Saks opened here in 1996, she jumped at the chance to return to the company.         

Sally looks the part of a department store manager. She is tall, model-thin, with short hair that seems gelled in some exotic way, always in stiletto heels (she claims they’re quite comfortable) and a great big white topaz ring that she rarely takes off. It’s by Lagos and she bought it at the jewelry counter (and no, she doesn’t get to wear the jewelry to parties; I asked).

Sally takes me on a tour. Even though the store is basically one enormous room, there’s a lot to see. I was especially drawn to Ladies’ Shoes. There they are, all laid out like little works of art. Saks displays one of everything it has in stock, and the resulting assemblage is a wonder of design, craftsmanship and luxury brands. Thanks largely to Sex and the City, which so perfectly hit the nail on the head when it comes to women’s relationships with their shoes, now everybody knows about Jimmy Choo shoes; and there they are, along with Gucci, Dior and Miu Miu. Trissi Willis, who runs the shoe department, takes me “backstage” to see the place the salesperson dashes off to in order to get it in your size. The space is quite small, crammed with shelves that tower to the ceiling. Sliding ladders allow access to the higher shelves.

Next stop is the Fifth Avenue Club, Saks’ personal shopping service. In theory anybody can take advantage of it—I’ve done it myself—but in practice it makes the most sense for extremely stylish women who want help selecting clothes from an expert, or extremely busy women who want to look great with a minimum of effort. Marilyn Goldfarb and Gloria Good are the women who make this happen, and they already have clothes waiting for the day’s appointments. Discreetly tucked away in back, with French Art Deco furniture, the Fifth Avenue Club will even serve you champagne and cookies as you sit back and look at the merchandise, like in an old Rosalind Russell movie. (By the way, Marilyn and Gloria refused to gossip about their clients, no matter how much I badgered them. They could carry secrets for the CIA.)

Then it’s on to Cosmetics. “They’re a huge part of our business,” Sally tells me, and indeed, they are what greets you as you walk in the front door. If a department store is mostly about business, cosmetics is where the art comes in. It’s more than just selling; you need talent and training. You also get to wear a smock.

I cannot pretend to understand exactly what is going on when a woman goes to a fancy department store and sits at the cosmetic counter and gets a make-up make-over. But women love to do it, and before an important party, such as the UnGala Gala, the place is packed. The make-up people are very sensitive about how to handle each individual customer. “You’ve got to dance with the customer and let them lead,” Troy Cunningham, a young man wearing black nail polish, tells me.

I notice that as Sally shows me around, I don’t seem to have her full attention. Oh, I have most of it, and she is charming, but . . . then I realize what it is. She is literally “minding the store.” Every nuance, every ebb and flow of costumers, what counter is busy, what counter is not, a spot on the carpet, a missing shoe from the display—nothing misses her eye.

Back in her office there’s a late-morning meeting for a benefit Saks is sponsoring. Called Give Dance a Chance, it’s a fashion show and luncheon to raise funds for the Dance—The Next Generation program at the Sarasota Ballet. Three committee members are present, along with the ballet’s Ann Logan.

Since this is their first meeting, the women go over the basics. The event will take place Feb. 22 at Dolphin Aviation in an airplane hangar, a venue that, while spectacular, causes a lot of logistical problems. They review last year’s event, brainstorming ways to keep the hangar cooler, to have the valet parking move quicker. The caterer? “I’d do Phil again,” one committee member says, and the others chime in. “Oh, God, how you could do anyone else?”  I reflect on how hard it must be to be a caterer in Sarasota and not be Phil Mancini of Michael’s on East.

Sally runs the meeting. Even though the other committee members are seasoned veterans of the Sarasota benefit scene, Sally’s—and Saks’—input is unique. Saks and Sally can open the way to a professional fashion show, to extra publicity, to those wonderful goodie bags full of perfume and cosmetic samples. 300 lucky guests at one event even got Jay Strongwater picture frames.

I also reflect on the rings the committee members are wearing. They’re like Sally’s topaz, only these are real diamonds.

After settling all sorts of practical matters—the size of the invitation, the placement of the runway, etc.—it’s agreed that the next committee meeting will take place on such and such a date in Sally’s office. She rarely has a problem with this, as the women will inevitably do a little shopping before or after the meeting. Indeed, I notice several shopping bags already tucked discreetly underneath their chairs.