Sweet Dreams on Center Street (10 page)

Del nodded thoughtfully. “All right. And why don't you bring
your mother? It would do her good to get out.”

Just what her mother always wanted, dinner with Del Stone,
swinging bachelor. Del had been divorced for years. With no wife on the scene
he'd done his best to turn himself into an urbane ladies' man, and it was
looking like Mom was the new lady of choice.

“I'll see if she's feeling up to it,” Samantha said.

Mayor Stone nodded again. “I'll see you tonight. Shall we say
around seven?”

Samantha nodded, too. She hoped Ed would be free. Del rarely
got excited about any idea that hadn't come out of his own balding head. It
would take some convincing to get him in their corner—but getting him there was
bound to move the permit process along.

He checked his watch. “Well, then, see you tonight. And don't
forget to bring your mother.”

As she watched him return to his office, she wondered if that
was a condition for receiving Del's blessing. Probably.

Now the clock on the wall said one minute until closing time.
Samantha frowned at the half-finished form on the counter in front of her.
Between them, Pissy and Del had managed to prevent her from getting her form
turned in. And Pissy's smirk had grown.

Samantha folded the form, put it in her purse and smirked right
back. “I guess I'll see you tomorrow.” And for the rest of today she'd be seeing
red. Why did people have to keep complicating her life?

She marched out of city hall, her pace fueled by frustration.
This called for a large dose of…coffee.

She had just gotten a double-shot mocha latte at Bavarian Brews
and was envisioning herself back at city hall first thing in the morning,
stapling her completed form to Pissy's forehead, when at the end of the order
line she spotted—did he live here?—Blake Preston, business gobbler and festival
saboteur. The steam coming from her to-go cup was nothing compared to what she
could feel coming out of her ears.

At the sight of her, his jaw set in determination.
“Samantha.”

Oh, no. I do not want to talk to
you.
She averted her gaze and skirted the edge of the tables,
occupied by retail clerks taking an afternoon coffee break and high school
students fresh out of school for the day.

“Samantha, wait,” he called.

She pretended deafness and scooted past a table where two older
women were enjoying coffee and scones. He cut her off.

“I really don't have time to talk to you,” she snapped, and
headed the other way around the table.

“I just want five minutes,” he said.

“I'd give you five minutes,” one of the women said, patting
hair that had been dyed a color found nowhere in nature.

Samantha picked up her pace. Or tried to. Unfortunately, she
tripped over a large purse lying by the woman's chair. Instead of making a
rushed but dignified exit from the coffee shop, she did a clown-style lurch,
sloshing her latte from the cup onto her gloves, her coat and the floor. She
landed with a squeak in the lap of a burly high school boy.

“Whoa,” he said in pleased surprise, and his friends
snickered.

This was like being in a movie where everyone froze so all eyes
could be on her.

There was no “like” about it. All eyes
were
on her. Her face flamed. “Sorry,” she muttered, and scrambled
to her feet.

“Anytime,” the kid said.

Abandoning all attempts at dignity, she made a dash for the
door.

Blake followed her out and caught her by the arm. It was hard
to ignore the jolt she felt at the contact.

“Samantha, wait,” he said.

She waited. And removed his hand from her arm. Irritation with
both herself and him filled her with a strong desire to kick him. Grown-up that
she was trying to be, she resisted it. “If I didn't know better, I'd swear you
were stalking me.”

He frowned. “Very funny.”

“These days I have to find humor where I can.”

“Look, I know you think I should have said more at the meeting
today.”

“You could have,” she said coldly.

“I was honest,” he said. “You're not going to make much money
this first time around with so little time to plan.”

“Well, I'd love to have a year to pull this together, but, as
you know, the bomb is ticking and I don't have that luxury.”

“Samantha, it may not look like it, but I'm in your
corner.”

Watching her get pummeled to death. “Oh, please,” she said, and
rolled her eyes.

He let out an angry hiss. “You can't believe I want to call in
that note.”

Okay, she'd had about all the hypocrisy she could stomach for
one day. “It's a free country. I can believe whatever I want,” she informed him.
“And once I pull my company out of this mess, I will be taking our business to a
bank that puts its money where its mouth is and really helps its customers.” He
started to speak and she held up a hand. “Don't. Say. Anything. If you do, I
just might trip again and spill the rest of my latte all over you.”

“Go ahead, if it'll make you feel better.” He threw out his
arms and puffed out his chest, turning himself into a target.

But all she could see was how big his chest was.

She raised her chin. “No, I think not. There's no point wasting
a perfectly good latte.” Having delivered her parting shot, she turned her back
on him and crossed the street to return to her one true love—her business.

Chapter Nine

There is a difference between selling your ideas and selling
yourself.

—Muriel Sterling,
Knowing Who You Are: One Woman's Journey

W
ith its art deco decor and a menu that
featured Northwest-style specialties, Zelda's restaurant was a hopping place
when winter sports enthusiasts were in town, and locals couldn't get in without
a reservation. No reservations needed for tonight, though. It was a weekday and
the tourists had been few and far between, thanks to the sparse snowfall. That,
combined with a cold sleet falling outside, left the restaurant less than
half-full with a couple of families and some couples taking advantage of the
twofer coupon Charley had run in the
Mountain Sun
on
Sunday.

The aroma of spices and seared beef greeted Samantha as she and
her mother walked in the door. The sizzle of cooking meat from the open kitchen,
where Charley's new chef was hard at work creating culinary masterpieces,
provided background music for the spurts of laughter coming from a table of
three women, who had obviously gotten a head start on their drinking. Later
they'd drift into the bar to meet up with local guys, but for now they were
indulging in Zelda's huckleberry martinis and shrimp tarts. Over by the window
Samantha caught sight of Luke, their production manager, out on a date with his
four-year-old daughter, Serena, who was finishing up a hot fudge sundae. He gave
Samantha a smile and a wave.

Luke was a single dad, not by choice. His wife had been
tragically killed two years earlier, hit by a car when she was out jogging. He
was a nice man and a hard worker, one of many employees who depended on her
company for his livelihood. She waved back, trying to ignore the weight of
responsibility that was suddenly crushing her appetite.

A group whoop from the party girls made Mom frown. “I shouldn't
have let you talk me into this.”

“They'll be gone soon,” Samantha said.

“It's not them, it's me. I'm not ready for socializing,
sweetie. You entertain the men. I can walk home.”

She turned to leave, but Samantha laid a pleading hand on her
arm. “Mom, please. It's only for an hour. I really need your support.”

And she needed Mom to bat her eyes at Del so he'd want to get
behind the festival. Pimping out her own mother. She was pathetic.

Ed was waving at her from a corner table. Next to him sat Del,
looking downright eager. “Anyway, they've seen us,” she added. “It would be rude
to leave.” Playing the courtesy card always worked with her mother.

Sure enough, Mom resigned herself to her fate with a sigh. “All
right. But I don't want to be here all night.”

Charley, taking the place of the hostess who'd been overly
hospitable to Charley's now-ex-husband, greeted them with menus in hand. “Ed and
Del are already here. I've got you at a nice corner table where you can talk.”
To Mom she said, “Good to see you, Mrs. Wittman.”

Mom managed a smile and murmured her thanks, and Charley led
them to their table.

Both men stood politely as they approached. Next to Ed, who was
tall and lean and still had his hair, Del, with his paunch and bald head, didn't
exactly show well in spite of his black suit and crisp white shirt and
impress-the-ladies lavender tie he'd exchanged for his earlier fish number.

Ed took both of Mom's hands in his and said, “I'm glad you
came.”

Del did him one better, raising a hand to his lips and kissing
it. “You look lovely tonight, Muriel.”

No lie there. Mom wore a simple black dress and hadn't bothered
with any makeup other than mascara and eyeliner (which she wouldn't be without,
even on her deathbed), but her pale face made her appear vulnerable. Which was
exactly what she was.

Mom's polite smile slid south. “Thank you,” she murmured, and
extricated her hand.

They all sat and Del gave Mom a genial smile. “How about
something to ward off the cold?” he asked. Judging from the near-empty glass in
front of him, Del had already driven away the cold.

“A cup of tea would be nice,” she said.

“I was thinking something a little stronger,” Del said. “Some
white wine, perhaps?”

Mom shook her head, and Del looked disappointed.

Maria came to the table, ready to take their orders. “May as
well get a bottle, don't you think?” he said to Ed.

“Sure,” Ed agreed.

Samantha hoped he was going to pick up the tab for it.

Once the wine had arrived and they'd chosen their dinners—steak
for the men, chicken with raspberry sauce and baby potatoes for Samantha and a
small salad for Mom—Samantha introduced the subject of the festival.

Del took a sip of his wine and shook his head. “Plenty of time
to talk about that,” he said. “But first let me just say, Muriel, that if
there's anything you need, I hope you know you only have to ask.”

“Thank you, Del. I appreciate that,” Mom said.

And here would have been the perfect opportunity for her mother
to say, “I need you to support this festival we're planning.” Instead, she took
the little pot Maria had brought and poured tea into her cup.

Samantha forced herself not to drum her fingers on the table.
She glanced at Ed. He was busy enjoying his wine and seemed in no hurry to get
down to business.
And that
is
how you do business,
she had to remind herself.
Don't rush right into talking about what you want. Get the other person
relaxed and receptive first.
Actually, Del was already relaxed. So
was Ed. She was the one who was tense.

Del was pouring a third glass of wine when dinner arrived. Now
would be the time to bring up the subject of the festival. Samantha took a sip
from her water glass, then plunged in. “I'm glad you could join us tonight,” she
began.

“I'm happy to spend an evening with my old pal Ed, here, and
two of my favorite women in town,” Del said, and beamed at Mom.

“We're really excited to share what the Chamber's come up with
to bring more visitors to town,” Samantha plunged on.

Del took another swallow of wine. “Let's enjoy our dinner,
shall we? We can talk business a little later.”

After how many more glasses of
wine?
Samantha looked to Ed, who just shrugged and cut into his
steak.

Samantha sighed inwardly and told herself that buttering people
up required a lot of time. And there was a lot of Del to butter.

As the evening wore on and the wine flowed, Del's fish stories
got harder to swallow and his laugh got as big as the one that got away. “Ah,
but there's nothing like being in the great outdoors,” he concluded. “When
you're out on the river, you can let the whole world go by. And if a man's out
there with a beautiful woman, it's like being in Eden.”

Del's hand disappeared under the table and Mom suddenly shifted
in her seat. Uh-oh.

“Well, it is a little piece of paradise up here,” Samantha said
in an effort to distract him, “which makes it the perfect place to hold a
festival.”

Del was obviously more interested in holding other things, like
her mother's leg. Now he was pouting.

And Mom had become the ice queen. She turned to Samantha. “I'm
not feeling well. If you don't mind, I'll take the car and head home.”

“I'll be glad to drive you,” Del offered, probably hoping for
more grope time.

“I don't think you should drive anywhere,” Mom told him. “Ed,
would you mind giving Samantha a lift? Del, too.”

“Not at all.”

“Mom, I'll take you,” Samantha said. That was the least she
could do. Oh, man, what a dumb idea this had been.

Mom's Miss Manners mask was firmly in place, but Samantha could
feel the waves of irritation radiating off her. “No, dear, you stay and enjoy
yourself.”

Like that was going to happen. There had been nothing enjoyable
about this little dinner party, and Samantha suspected it was going to be
downhill from here on.

Sure enough. Mom left and Del lost interest in everything but
the second bottle of wine Ed had ordered. And when Samantha tried to redeem the
situation by bringing up the subject of the festival, his only response was, “I
wish you'd talked to me about this. I don't see how you can pull it off.”

Maria came to the table, to ask if they wanted dessert.

They'd blown enough money on Del. “We'll take the check now,”
Samantha said.

Fortunately, Ed insisted on picking up the tab.

“I'm afraid we wasted your money,” Samantha said after they'd
loaded a tipsy Del into Ed's car.

“Nothing is ever wasted, Samantha,” he said. “Sure I can't give
you a lift?”

She shook her head. “I'd rather walk. Anyway, I think I've
spent enough time with our good mayor.”

Ed grinned. “Del's a decent sort. Just can't hold his liquor.
Never could. Don't worry. I'll have another go at him when he's sober. He'll
come around.”

She hoped so. It was important to have Del's support. She might
not have her mother's anymore. She hunched inside her coat and made her way back
to Mom's house, bracing herself for a well-deserved lecture.

Mom was in her yellow leather chair, nursing a mug of tea and
frowning at the TV when Samantha let herself in. Her mother looked up as she
entered but didn't smile. Not a good sign.

“How are you feeling?” Samantha ventured.

Mom cocked an eyebrow.

Samantha knew that gesture. She'd learned it at her mother's
knee. It didn't bode well for their conversation. She bit her lip and perched on
the edge of the couch. “I'm sorry about tonight. I had no idea Del was going to
behave like that.”

“He always behaves like that when he's had too much to drink,
and he always drinks too much.”

“Mom, I'm really sorry. I thought—”

Her mother cut her off. “I know perfectly well what you
thought. Samantha, I understand we need to save our company.”

“Not only the company. This benefits the whole town,” Samantha
insisted.

Her mother held up a hand. “I don't care if it benefits the
whole world. I will not have my own daughter pimping me out.”

“Mom!” Samantha protested. Bad enough she'd thought it, but to
hear it voiced by her mother… Her cheeks flamed.

Mom set down her mug and gave Samantha a look that made her
feel eight years old. “Samantha Rose, I will do all I can to help you behind the
scenes, but I am not putting up with this sort of nonsense. Is that clear?”

Samantha bit her lip again and nodded.

Mom nodded, too. “Good. Now, give me a kiss and go home.”

Thoroughly chastised Samantha kissed her mother's cheek, took
her car keys and fled. She cried all the way back to her condo, then burned off
her misery by playing games on her laptop until two in the morning. But no
matter how many zombies she killed, it didn't really help.

She was still killing zombies in her sleep (they all looked
like Del) when her alarm went off at seven the next morning. She shut it off
with a groan and forced herself to get out of bed. Winners never quit and
quitters never win. She was no quitter.

She fed Nibs, who was, as usual, starving. Then she put on her
favorite dance workout DVD and got busy. Exercise always made her feel better
and she was really getting into it when an angry thump on her living room floor
from Lila Ward, her cranky neighbor downstairs, told her she needed to curb her
enthusiasm. She stomped on the floor a couple of times to show Lila she'd gotten
the message, then switched from dancing to doing crunches. After that it was a
quick shower, some scrambled eggs and out the door.

She had a full day ahead of her. In addition to dropping off
that form at city hall, she had to email the members of her newly minted
festival committee, check out the website Jonathan was designing and meet with
Lizzy, her bookkeeper.

“So how much can we spend on advertising?” she asked later that
day after Lizzy had assured her that she and her employees could survive another
month.

Lizzy looked at Samantha over her pink bifocals.
“Seriously?”

Samantha leaned back in her chair and sighed. “Yeah. Dumb
question.”

* * *

Blake Preston had had a hard time getting Samantha
Sterling out of his mind. Here was a woman who'd inherited a business that had
been left in chaos, who could have taken one look at the odds and thrown in the
towel. But she was still swinging, fighting for all she was worth. How could
anyone not admire that? In addition to being a fighter, she was a walking idea
factory. She could turn her company around, given half a chance.

He knew all the reasons he couldn't make an exception and give
her that chance, but it would go a long way toward good community relations if
he did. And what was Cascade Mutual going to do with a chocolate factory,
anyway?

He pressed his point to his regional manager, Darren Short, as
they ate schnitzel at Schwangau, Blake's favorite restaurant.

Darren cut off a gigantic chunk of meat and stuffed it in his
mouth. “Don't worry. We won't end up stuck with anything.”

Blake frowned at Darren. Fifteen years Blake's senior, Darren
had been both his mentor and his champion. Right now Blake took in Darren's
scrawny build and weak chin and thought him a wimp. “And why is that?”

Darren washed his schnitzel down with a hearty swig of beer.
“Because we have someone who's interested in taking over their assets.”

“Who? Who the heck would want those assets?”

“Madame C in Seattle.”