Sweet Dreams on Center Street (4 page)

Baby-sharing. It saved a girl from those pesky little
complications, like men. And childbirth. Still, it wasn't the same as having a
child of your own.

As Samantha walked home she had plenty to think about. Did she
ever want to try and have a serious relationship? Her parents had had a great
marriage. It could be done. Every man out there wasn't a Waldo or a Richard. And
just because she'd picked one Mr. Wrong didn't mean she couldn't find Mr. Right.
Although she was beginning to wonder what the odds of that were. She hadn't
dated anyone since college who even qualified as Mr. Maybe. Sheesh.

Look at it this way,
she told
herself.
Your life has nowhere to go but up.

* * *

Or not. At the office the next morning Samantha ground
her teeth as she sat at Waldo's old desk, which was now going to be hers, and
sorted through a mountain of papers in preparation for meeting with Lizzy, who
had, thank God, consented to return. There was the mock-up for their spring
catalog that he'd insisted on looking at three weeks ago and then ignored. And
what did he need with a week's worth of old newspapers? In another pile she
found several threatening letters from suppliers who hadn't been paid. She'd
have to start calling them this afternoon, explain about Waldo's death and beg
for mercy. Oh, and here was a week-old invitation from Cascade Mutual to come to
their open house and meet the new manager, Blake Preston, who, according to the
invite, was anxious to assist her in any way he could.

Blake Preston? The former football hero of Icicle Falls High?
He'd been four years ahead of her in school and she'd been too young for his
crowd, but it was a small school and everyone knew everyone. He'd winked at her
a few times when they'd passed in the hall, like that was supposed to make her
day. It had.

Yes, good old Blake had been a player both on and off the
field. But how the heck had he wound up as a bank manager? Banking and football
didn't exactly go hand in hand.

She frowned, remembering the jocks she'd shared classes with as
a college business major, not to mention the one she almost married. Guys like
that spent more time studying their playbooks than listening to what the
professor had to say in lecture hall. Some of those doofs should never have been
given a business degree, but they'd gotten one, anyway. Her doof not only got a
degree, he'd dumped her and gotten the richest girl in their graduating class.
(And a cushy job with Daddy, too.) Thank God she'd gone out of state for her
college education. At least she'd never have to see him and Mrs. Doof again.
Wherever he'd ended up, he was probably busy ignoring his company to play golf
and lunch with his old frat buddies.

So what old frat buddy had given Blake Preston entrée into the
world of banking? Whoever it was, he hadn't done Icicle Falls any favor. She
tossed the invite in the wastebasket and kept digging.

One more layer of paper down she found a ticking time
bomb—another piece of correspondence from the bank, this one not so nice. Her
heart shifted into overdrive and she fell back against Waldo's big leather
chair, sure she was going to have a heart attack. There, under the Cascade
Mutual letterhead, was a cold but polite missive informing her stepfather that
Sweet Dreams was behind on its loan payment. “As you are aware”—were
they?—“Cascade Mutual Bank has a strict ninety-day grace period regarding
overdue installment payments. This grace period has expired on your note in the
amount of…”

Ooooh.
The numbers danced in front
of her eyes like tiny demons. No, this couldn't be happening! She read on.

“Because Sweet Dreams Chocolates and Cascade Mutual Bank have a
long-standing relationship, we are extending the grace period until February 28,
at which time the aforementioned amount is due in full. It is hoped this matter
can be resolved as soon as possible.”

Only if she started printing money in the basement. What in the
name of Godiva was she going to do?

Hyperventilate! A bag, where was a bag? She couldn't breathe.
She was going to be sick. She needed chocolate! Her cell phone rang. The ring
tone—Gwen Stefani's “Sweet Escape”—told her it was Cecily and she grabbed it
like a lifeline. “Cec, we… Oh, I'm going to pass out. Where's a bag?” She rifled
through desk drawers, but came up all she came up with was an old cigar, paper
clips, rubber bands and—what was this? A stress ball. She scooped it up and
strangled it.

“What's wrong?”

“We— The bank. Oh, my God, I can't believe this!” Samantha
wailed, and burst into tears.

Now she'd made so much noise that Elena had rushed into the
office. “What's going on?” One look at Samantha and the blood drained from her
face.
“Madre de Dios.”

“Get me chocolate,” Samantha panted, and squeezed the stress
ball again. These things were useless. She threw it across the room and grabbed
a fistful of hair as Elena rushed off to find a dose of restorative
chocolate.

“Sam, tell me what's going on,” Cecily demanded.

“The bank is calling in their note. As if everything wasn't
already enough of a mess. As if we didn't already owe the whole friggin' world!
My God, what did I ever do to deserve this? Is it because I bossed you guys
around when we were little? I'm sorry. And I shouldn't have stood up Tony
Barrone for homecoming. No, that's not it. It's because I yelled at Waldo.”

“Sam, please,” Cecily pleaded. “You're scaring me.”

Be afraid. Be very afraid.
What old
movie was that from? Probably one where everybody died.

Samantha laid her head on the desk and pulled a newspaper over
her. Now she understood why the groundhog went back underground when it saw its
shadow. She wished she could dig a hole and pull it in after herself and never
come out.

From a distance her sister called, “Sam? Sam!”

“I give up,” she moaned, pulling the phone under her paper tent
and back to her ear. “I surrender. Match me up with a millionaire. I just want
to lie around on a yacht somewhere in the Mediterranean and drink
ChocoVine.”

“No, you don't,” Cecily said firmly. “You're not wired that way
and you'd be bored out of your mind in a week.”

“I'm not wired for
this,
” Samantha
whimpered.

“It's going to be okay.”

Elena was back now, slipping an open box of truffles under the
newspaper.

“Thank you,” Samantha said. She shoved a handful in her
mouth.

Elena lifted a corner of the paper and peered under it. “What
else do you need?”

“A new life.” Samantha pulled the newspaper off her head and
forced herself to sit up and push her hair out of her eyes. “I'm fine,” she told
both Elena and herself. “Just a temporary meltdown.”

Her secretary hovered, looking doubtful.

“Really. It's okay.” What a big, fat liar she was.

Elena still looked dubious, but she got the hint and left,
shutting the door behind her.

Samantha picked up her phone. “Okay. I'm okay now.” No, she
wasn't. Who was she kidding? Where were they going to get that kind of
money?

“Maybe you could go over to the bank and charm the new guy in
charge into giving you a little more time,” Cecily suggested.

They'd given her a little more time. Very little. “This is
business. Charm doesn't enter into it.”
Damn.

“Charm enters into business more than you realize,” Cecily
said.

Samantha sighed. “You're right. I'll have to go over there and
talk to the new manager. Sweet Dreams is a vital part of the town's economy.
It's in everyone's interest for the bank to work with us and help us get through
this rough patch.” That was exactly what she'd say to him. Rules could be bent
if everyone benefited in the long run.

She took a deep cleansing breath and told herself she felt
better already.
Big, fat liar.

“There you go,” Cecily said encouragingly.

“And I'll take him some of our wares,” Samantha decided. “Who
doesn't like chocolate?”

“Charm and bribery, a businesswoman's best friends.”

Samantha sure hoped so. She thanked her sister for the shrink
session, then buzzed Elena on the office phone.

“You okay now?” Elena asked.

“Yes,” Samantha lied. “Call down to Luke and tell him to put
together the mother of all gift baskets.”

* * *

At 10:00 a.m. Samantha walked into the bank bearing a
cellophane-wrapped basket filled to the brim with goodies from Sweet Dreams
Chocolates. If this didn't melt Blake Preston's heart—well, then, he had no
heart to melt.

Speaking of, there he sat at the manager's desk in the far
corner, a sandy-haired tackling dummy in a suit. Blake Preston looked more
suited to a WWE Friday night smack down than to sitting behind a bank manager's
desk, deciding the fate of local businesses.

Lauren sent Samantha a welcoming smile from her teller's
counter, but the one she got from Blake Preston when he saw her approach his
desk wasn't quite so friendly.
Wary
would've been a
better word for it. Even wary, it qualified for a toothpaste commercial. Whoa,
that was some wattage, and she felt the electricity clear across the room. She
couldn't help checking his left hand for signs of a ring as he stood to greet
her. None.

Never mind his ring finger or any other
part of him. You're here to do business.

She could almost hear her sister whispering in her ear, “Charm
enters into business more than you realize.”

She donned her most charming smile and said, “Hi,” injecting
her voice with goodwill.
You like me. You want to give me a
longer extension on my loan.
“I'm Samantha Sterling from Sweet Dreams
Chocolates. We went to high school together,” she added, hoping that would earn
her some brownie points.

He held out his hand for her to shake. She took it and felt an
even bigger jolt than she'd gotten from his smile. Maybe that was a good sign.
Maybe they were going to hit it off. Maybe he'd be happy to grab a mop and help
her clean up the mess she was in.

“I remember,” he said.

Right. You were older and too busy
partying and cutting classes to pay attention to a nerdy
underclassman.
“I was just a lowly freshman, but you made quite an
impression.” There, that was pretty darned charming if she did say so herself.
“I thought you might enjoy some samples from the best chocolate company in
Washington,” she said, handing over the gift basket.

He took it and stood there as if uncertain what to do with it.
His computer and several piles of papers were taking up all the surface space on
his desk. “Well, thanks. That was…nice. Have a seat.”

She sat and he sat, still holding the goodies.

“You'll really like the chocolate-covered potato chips,” she
said, pointing to her basketful of bribes. “Those are our newest product.”

“Interesting.” He shifted the fortune in chocolate sitting on
his lap as awkwardly as though he were an old bachelor who'd just been handed a
baby.

Okay, that took care of the charm. Next, she decided to play
the sympathy card. “I'm not sure if you're aware of it, but we've had a few
challenges in our business. We just lost my stepfather.”

“I heard. I'm sorry,” he said, and looked properly
sympathetic.

“Things have been a little chaotic and then this morning I
discovered a letter from you.”

He cleared his throat. “I'm afraid we have something of a
problem. You're behind on your loan.”

As if she wasn't aware of that? As if she hadn't read the
friggin' letter? She could feel her blood pressure rising and it took every last
ounce of willpower she had to remain professional. “This business has been in my
family for a long time. I'm the fourth generation.”

“Ms. Sterling. Samantha. I understand what this business must
mean to you.”

No, you don't.
You have no idea.
She was probably radiating anger.
She tried her best to look charming. “Not just to me. We employ a lot of people,
all who have families and live in this town.”

“I know that. I grew up here. But—”

Oh, no. Here came the
but.

“But the kind of leniency the bank indulged in under the
previous management is what got them in so much trouble.”

“I'm not asking for any more money,” she said, keeping her
voice low so everyone in this fishbowl wouldn't hear her. “I just need a few
months to sort things out. If you could give us a little extra time, extend the
loan…”

Now he was shaking his head sadly. “I'm afraid I can't. I'd
like to, but I can't. As I said in the letter, Cascade Mutual has a strict
ninety-day policy on past-due loans. We've already extended yours until the end
of next month.”

“I recognize that,” she said, and trotted out her most charming
smile, “but surely you can make an exception for extreme circumstances. All we
need is another six months while we restructure the company.”

“I'm sorry,” he said earnestly. “I really am. I wish I could
extend the deadline but my hands are tied. You're going to have to come up with
that money before the end of February.”

“That would take a miracle,” she protested.

He heaved those big boulders that passed for shoulders in a
helpless shrug. “We've got several churches in town. I think if I were you I'd
have them start praying.”