Читать книгу Better Than Chocolate - Sheila Roberts - Страница 10

Chapter Three

Always stop and think before you act. This is the first rule of good relationships and good business.

—Muriel Sterling, Mixing Business with Pleasure: How to Successfully Balance Business and Love

It was Monday, and all was quiet now that the girls were gone. In a way Muriel relished the solitude. It gave her a chance to grieve freely. But the house seemed so empty and she felt so alone. Her daughters had lives of their own to return to, though, and she couldn’t blame them for running off. It certainly wasn’t any fun being with her. She hadn’t even made them breakfast before Samantha took them to the airport.

Muriel poured herself a mug of tea and padded barefoot over to her picture window to gaze at the winter scene outside. Fir and pine trees shook off a thin blanket of snow too wet to stick. The houses on her block sat empty and unlit, waiting for their owners, who all had lives, to return. A truck sloshed down the street, making only a momentary dent in the smothering silence.

Okay, she’d seen enough. She got her tea and went back to bed, placing the mug on the nightstand for easy access. Even though she was wearing a sweater over her favorite silk pajamas the bed still felt cold. Both her husbands had been bed hogs, especially Waldo. He not only slept diagonally, every time he rolled over he pulled the covers with him like a giant ebb tide. It used to irritate her no end. No ebb tide now.

Hot tears pricked her eyes. Hard to believe she had any left after the past week. She wiped them away and took a determined sip of tea. “You can’t just stay in bed all day,” she told herself.

And then argued back. “Why not?” Who cared whether she stayed in bed or got up?

She was alone again.

Oh, stop, she scolded herself. Waldo’s sudden death was a blessing. Would you have wanted him to suffer?

The answer, of course, was no.

With that settled in her mind (for today, anyway), she drank some more tea and surveyed the room like a pioneer checking out new territory. What to do in this new territory? Where to start?

Normally by ten o’clock in the morning she’d already be hard at work on her next book for Mountain Crest Publications, a small Pacific Northwest publisher. She hadn’t made much money as a writer but she’d enjoyed the experience. It held no appeal for her now, though, not when she was back in this dark place.

Those months after Stephen died had been a nightmare, even worse than losing either of her parents—and she’d thought nothing could top that. Widowhood went beyond loneliness. It cut off half your soul.

Now, going through it again so soon was more than she could handle. All she could do was drift through the house like a wraith. With no one to cook for she had no interest in food, not even chocolate, the family’s lifeblood. Planning Waldo’s funeral had been torture. Walking past his desk and seeing all those bills had been terrifying. She had no head for money and math was a mystery, one she’d never needed to solve. After all, she’d had Stephen. When he died the only thing that kept her from throwing herself (or at least her checkbook) off Sleeping Lady Mountain had been the patient helpfulness of Arnie at Cascade Mutual.

She’d breathed a sigh of relief when Waldo rode into her life like a knight on a white horse, but he’d gone out like Don Quixote and here she was again, lost and adrift. Why Waldo, of all people? He’d been so sweet, and his laugh—everyone, including her, had loved to hear him laugh. Without him the house was a tomb and she felt numb. And the book she’d been working on was as dead as her husband.

Her editor had wanted Muriel to capitalize on her chocolate connection more than she had in her previous books and had urged her to do a cookbook featuring chocolate recipes. She’d resisted. She’d been so happy with Waldo she’d wanted to write about how to start over again. She couldn’t write about that now. She couldn’t write. Period.

She set the mug on the nightstand and slipped under the covers. Cocooned beneath her down comforter, she eventually drifted off to sleep and found Waldo.

But he wasn’t the only one keeping her company in her dreams. Stephen showed up, too, and there they were, all at a dance at Festival Hall, dressed in German attire.

She had just danced with Stephen, who looked dashing in lederhosen, and now Waldo was sweeping her away in a polka. “Come on, Muriel, old girl, let’s have fun. Life is short.”

Suddenly the doors to the hall blew open and a swirling black tornado entered the room, whisking Muriel off her feet and separating her from him. Salted caramels swirled all around her and she kept grabbing for them, but she couldn’t catch even one. And now the wind was whooshing her out the door. “No, I’m not ready to leave!”

Muriel’s eyes popped open. It took her a second to realize she was home in bed with late-afternoon shadows sprawled across the bedspread. She couldn’t have slept the day away. She looked at the clock. It was going on four. She had.

And what had that strange dream been about? What was her subconscious trying to tell her? Maybe that she was going insane.

* * *

Bailey gave Samantha one more hug and then followed Cecily into Sea-Tac Airport to catch their late-afternoon flight to L.A.

Once through the sliding glass doors both sisters turned and waved a final goodbye. She waved back and swallowed a lump in her throat. Not for the first time she wished they lived closer, but a girl had to follow her dreams. It was too bad their dreams had led them all in different directions.

She heaved a sigh, then got in her trusty Toyota and began the two-hour drive back to the other side of the mountains. She’d barely get home in time to bake cookies before going to hang out with her other sisters, sisters of the heart. Monday wasn’t normally a party night but tonight was an exception.

Back home, Samantha baked up the cookie dough Bailey had left in her freezer. Then she pulled on her down coat and her winter boots and walked the short distance from her condo to her friend Charley’s snug little house, which overlooked Icicle Creek. A moonlit sky speckled with stars lit her way, but she could have found the house just as easily by following the noise. A soundtrack of Gloria Gaynor singing “I Will Survive” was blasting an accompaniment to raucous laughter. Obviously the party was in full swing.

She walked around to the back of the house. The deck was lit with several strings of pink flamingo party lights. Patio chairs sprawled every which way and a picnic table was laden with salads and desserts. But the action was taking place around the fire pit on the lawn, and in the center of it all stood Charlene Albach. Charley, a slender woman in her mid-thirties with dark hair cut in a messy bob, looked fashionable in jeans, ankle boots and a faux-fur-trimmed jacket. She was holding what had to be the world’s largest wineglass and dumping a handful of photos onto a roaring bonfire.

“Samantha, get yourself down here,” she called. “We’re burning weenies.”

The symbolism wasn’t lost on Samantha and she smiled as she put her cookies on the table. She plucked one off the plate and then walked down to join the group of women gathered around the fire. One she recognized as Charley’s older sister, Amy, who had come up from Portland for the occasion. And there was Elena, Samantha’s loyal secretary; Lauren, her teller from the bank; her pal Cassandra Wilkes from Gingerbread Haus; Heidi Schwartz, who worked part-time in the Sweet Dreams gift shop; and Rita Reyes and Maria Gomez, who worked for Charley at her restaurant, Zelda’s—all present to help Charley celebrate her first official day of freedom. Earlier that morning Charley’s divorce had become final.

She set aside her glass and handed Samantha a hot dog skewered on a stainless-steel toasting fork. “Welcome to the celebration. Have a dick-on-a-stick.”

From their side of the fire Rita and Maria laughed uproariously. “I need more wine,” Rita said. “Can I get you some?” she asked Samantha.

Samantha didn’t have much of a palate for wine. She shook her head. “Nah, I’m good.”

“You have to drink something. We’re going to be toasting my future, you know,” Charley said. “Get her some of that ChocoVine. It tastes just like Baileys. You’ll like it,” she informed Samantha. “Trust me.”

“‘Trust me’—isn’t that what worthless old Richard said to you?” quipped her sister.

Charley scowled. “Yes, he did.” She picked up more pictures of her ex and sprinkled them over the fire. “Here, baby, make yourself useful.”

All the women sent up a cheer, including Samantha. Even as she did, she thought of her mother, probably sitting home in that yellow leather chair of hers, wishing Waldo was still alive. But there was leaving and there was leaving. Waldo hadn’t left voluntarily. Richard had opted for a dishonorable discharge from marriage, taking off with the hostess from Zelda’s.

Either way, though, both women had wound up on their own. When it came right down to it, Samantha concluded, the one person a girl could count on was herself.

“So,” Cass said, raising her glass after Rita had returned to the fire. “To a new and better future for our girl here.”

“To a new and better future,” they all echoed and drank.

“And to never having to watch another football game,” Cass added.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Maria. “My boyfriend.” She rolled her eyes. “One of these days he’s going to turn into a football.”

“Better than turning into a cheater.” Charley threw another pile of photos on the fire. “I am so glad I found out what kind of man Richard really was before I wasted another twelve years on him.”

“Twelve years is a long time,” Amy said.

For a moment Charley’s eyes glistened with tears but she lifted her chin and said, “Too long, and I’m not wasting so much as a minute missing that man. He can have his new woman and his new restaurant in the city. Seattle’s loss is my gain. And I have the bed all to myself now.”

“I’m jealous,” her sister murmured.

“I can watch as many episodes of What Not to Wear as I want,” Charlie continued, “leave the dishes in the sink and spend my money however I decide. And I bet I’ve lost more weight than anyone here.”

“You do look great,” Samantha agreed.

“You would, too, if you’d lost a hundred and fifty-five pounds of dead weight,” Charley cracked, “and good riddance.”

“You know, I never liked him,” Cass said.

“Me, neither,” Charley’s sister threw in.

“Why didn’t you guys say something?” Charley demanded. “No, never mind, don’t answer that. I probably wouldn’t have listened.”

“Love is blind,” Cass said. “And dumb.”

As the night went on the women shared memories, collecting evidence that Richard the defector was indeed nothing but a rat. The wine flowed and the party got increasingly loud, especially when Charley cranked up the CD and the women started singing at the top of their lungs to “Before He Cheats,” “Over It” and “I Can Do Better.”

Finally a neighbor a couple of houses away hollered, “Shut up over there,” and everyone giggled.

The food and drink was consumed and the fire had flickered down to embers and the women remembered they had to work the following day. Charley smiled around the circle at all of them. “Thanks for coming, you guys, and for helping me feel positive about the future.”

“You’re always positive about the future,” Heidi said. “I’m not sure I could be if I was in your shoes.”

Samantha doubted Heidi—with a husband who adored her and an adorable baby—would ever have to worry about that.

Charley managed a shrug. “There were a few times this past year when I didn’t feel very positive at all. But you know what? I’m taking back my life. I’ve got a lot of years ahead of me and I intend to enjoy every one of them.”

“You think you’ll ever get married again?” Heidi asked.

Charley made a cross with her fingers as if warding off a vampire. “Bite your tongue.”

“You might want somebody around to bite yours once in a while.” Rita laughed. “Or other parts of you.”

“Men are still good for some things,” Elena put in. “In fact, they’re good for a lot of things. You shouldn’t give up on all of them just because you got a bad one.”

“Yes,” said Lauren, who was dating Joe Coyote, the nicest man in town.

“Well, when you find a good one, let me know and I’ll take him—to the cleaner’s.” Charley’s comment made everyone laugh. “Seriously,” she added, “love’s a gamble, and I’m done gambling.”

“Heck, all of life’s a gamble,” Samantha said.

Charley gave her a one-armed hug. “You’re right. But I’m going to make sure the deck’s stacked in my favor, so from now on I’ll just keep men as friends.”

“Friends with benefits?” Rita teased as they tossed the last of the paper plates on the embers.

“Maybe.” Charley shrugged. “Who knows what the future holds. I’m open to anything but marriage.”

“But don’t you want kids?” Heidi asked.

Samantha thought of Elena’s handicapped daughter and the baby Rita had lost last year. Parenthood could be as risky as marriage.

“I don’t need a man to have children,” Charley said. “That’s why there’s adoption. Meanwhile, you’ll share James, right? I’ll be his Aunt Charley and spoil him rotten.”

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.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You know, you have a sick sense of humor.”

“I wasn’t kidding,” he said. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help you further but I’ve got my orders.”

What was this, the military? “You’re a bank manager,” she said between gritted teeth. “You could do some managing and find a way to work with me.”

He shook his head. “Don’t think I haven’t been trying. I’m aware of what your company means to the community and I appreciate your situation.”

“I’ll just bet,” she growled. Oh, very charming, Samantha.

Well, who cared? Her ship had already gone down and she was now bobbing in the icy waters of despair. And she’d given him treats to eat while he watched her turn blue. All her business training, all her sister’s advice to be charming, fled before her rage. She stood and plucked the basket from his lap.

He blinked in shock. “What—”

“There’s no use wasting fine chocolate on those who don’t value it enough to want to save it from extinction.” And with her peace offering clutched to her chest, she turned and marched out of the bank.

* * *

The gaze of every bank employee was on Blake Preston, making him feel like a cockroach under a magnifying glass. Arnie Amundsen had left him here, an invader in a hostile land.

Of course, no one was overtly hostile. They were all too glad to have jobs for that. But he could sense his unpopularity from the polite yet lukewarm reception he’d been given, from the looks, sometimes thoughtful (What the hell are you doing here?), sometimes resentful (Who asked you to come back and meddle in our business?). He was there to get them out of the disaster their beloved Arnie had created. And if he hadn’t come to meddle in their business, they wouldn’t have a business, damn it! He knew it and they knew it. They just resented it.

And he resented the quickly snuffed snicker he’d heard in one corner of the room, the way Lauren Belgado over at her teller’s counter swallowed her serves-him-right smirk and went back to serving Heinrich Blum, who was making a deposit for Lupine Floral. The way heads lowered to hide smiles.

He pressed his lips firmly together in the hope that it would, somehow, stop the sizzle on his cheeks and neck. This would be all over town by five o’clock. Of course, no one would know the details. All anyone would be able to pass on was what they saw—him being an obvious jerk and upsetting their reigning queen of chocolate. Great, just great. Welcome back, Preston. He’d barely returned to his hometown, and he was already campaigning for Public Enemy Number One.

What was he supposed to do, anyway? He wasn’t king of the world. He was a bank manager and if he didn’t manage this bank well, it would go under. And all those old high school buddies and friends of a friend who wanted special treatment were going to have to get that through their thick heads.

Maybe that old saying was true and you couldn’t go back. Icicle Falls had been a great place to grow up. Church picnics, Boy Scout camping trips, fishing the river with Gramps. But now Blake found himself thinking he should have left small-town life in the idyllic past where it belonged. Taking this position hadn’t been a step up. It had been a step into a big pile of shit.

He adjusted his shirt collar that had gone suddenly tight and then went back to work on the loan application papers in front of him. But all he could see was Samantha Sterling’s full lips frowning at him. What had he been smoking when he decided to go into banking after he graduated from college? Heck, he could have followed his folks when they moved to Seattle and helped his dad run that Honda dealership. Or gone into computer sales and made a fortune. Or become a construction worker. Truck driver. Prison warden.

Right now he felt like a prison warden with everyone around him planning to stick him with a shiv, and all because of one angry woman. Correction, angry and unbalanced.

Of course, he could see how his predecessor had gotten sucked into making poor decisions. That long red hair, those big hazel eyes, that cute little tush—Samantha Sterling was hotter than the Wenatchee Valley in August. So were her sisters and her mother. He’d seen them around. They were a tag team of damsels in distress. He could imagine Muriel flashing a bit of cleavage and batting those thick-lashed eyes of hers at old Arnie and putting him in a trance where he’d happily give her everything, including the keys to the vault. Watching her and her daughter struggle so valiantly to keep the family business going, watching those big eyes fill with tears—the poor slob hadn’t stood a chance.

But Blake was made of sterner stuff. Of course he’d do all he could to support Samantha. He’d buy chocolates even though he was allergic to chocolate. Gram had a birthday coming up soon and he’d get her the biggest box of candy they had, and when his mother and sister were in town he’d send them to the Sweet Dreams gift shop to go crazy with his debit card. He’d even be willing to help Samantha brainstorm ways to raise funds—private investors or a loan from some of her cronies at the Chamber of Commerce. He’d have told her all that if she hadn’t had a meltdown and stomped off. But he couldn’t change bank policy just for her. He’d already gone out on a limb by extending her loan to the end of February.

It’s not your business to fix other people’s mistakes, he reminded himself. You can’t save every failing business in the state. Still, it seemed a shame to let this one die. He was well aware of the company’s history and it was the stuff of movies. Except right now the Sterlings’ story wasn’t looking like it was headed for a happy ending.

He forced himself to focus on the papers in front of him. It was impossible. All he could think about was what a villain he felt like. Sweet Dreams was Samantha Sterling’s baby and she was trying desperately to save it. If he had to lock the company’s doors and sell off its assets he’d be a baby-stealer and everyone in town would hate him. Almost as much as he’d hate himself.

* * *

Elena took one look at Samantha storming into the office and muttered, “Mierda.”

Samantha set the basket on Elena’s desk. “Take it home to your family and enjoy.”

Elena’s eyebrows drew together. “That is a lot of money there.”

“Consider it a bonus,” Samantha said. “God knows it’s probably the last one I’ll be able to give you.”

“You mustn’t talk like that,” Elena scolded. Sixteen years older and forty pounds heavier than Samantha, she sometimes forgot she was an employee and morphed into an office mother. “And why are you back with this?”

“Long story,” Samantha said, “and one I don’t want to tell.” Having shut the door on a fresh lecture, she then shut her office door on the world, plopped down at her desk and stared bitterly at the array of pictures on the wall.

Generations of successful family smiled at her. Great-grandma Rose and her husband, Dusty, wearing their best clothes, stood in front of the newly purchased building that would house Sweet Dreams Chocolates. Then there was Great Aunt Fiona and Grandma Eleanor posing in their aprons behind the counter of the retail gift shop in the fifties, and Grandpa Joe, smiling over his shoulder for the camera while he worked the line in the factory with a young José Castillo and George Loomis. There was a shot of Mom before she married Dad, sitting at the receptionist’s desk. And one of her and Grandpa, displaying the logo Mom had created for the seal on the candy boxes. There was Dad in front of the store, posing with his three daughters, the whole Sweet Dreams team gathered around and beaming. A caption beneath it read Success, How Sweet It Is!

She felt sick. She laid her head on the desk and closed her eyes.

A moment later Gwen Stefani started singing on her cell phone. Cecily again. Head still on the desk, she fumbled the phone to her ear. “Tell me you’re calling because you had a vision of money falling from heaven.”

“Sorry, no pennies from heaven. I had a feeling you might need to talk.”

What she needed was a rewind button. “I blew it at the bank.”

“What, did you walk in and shoot the new manager?”

“Worse. I gave him chocolate.”

“Bribes are good.”

“And then took it away.” What the heck was wrong with her, anyway? Was she having a psychotic break? Maybe she had multiple personalities and didn’t know it.

“Oh,” her sister said weakly. She could imagine Cecily falling into a chair in her little pink office at Perfect Matches.

“I started out charming, I really did,” Samantha defended herself. “But then he just sat there looking all smug, repeating that he couldn’t help me—like a big dumb parrot in a three-piece suit—and…I blew it, pure and simple.”

A sigh drifted over the phone line. “What would Dad say if he was here?”

He’d say, “What were you thinking, princess?” Or maybe he’d say, “You should have punched the guy’s face in.” Okay, probably not that.

“I don’t know,” Samantha said miserably.

“He’d say temper…”

Oh, yeah, that. “…and good business don’t mix,” Samantha finished with her. He’d told her that often enough, especially when she was young and impetuous.

And now she was so mature. Ha!

There was a long moment of silence before Cecily asked, “Maybe you should apologize to him?”

“Apologize! As in, ‘Gee, Mr. Dragon, I’m so sorry I got mad at you for breathing fire and devouring my village’?”

“He’s trying to save the bank like you’re trying to save Sweet Dreams.”

Ever the mediator, Samantha thought sourly. “He’s just trying to save his butt.”

Her sister heaved another sigh. “Well, you’re the business major. You know best.”

“Oh, that was cute.”

“Sorry. It’s just that, well, when it comes to business, you’re usually more in control than this.”

Samantha scowled. She hated it when her sister was right. Samantha was the oldest. She was supposed to be the most mature, the one who always knew what to do. Except when it came to Sweet Dreams, she seemed to lose all perspective.

“I wish I was up there to help you.”

“I’ll be okay,” Samantha said with a sigh. “No more meltdowns, I promise.”

“Call me if you need to.”

“Thanks I will. Meanwhile, go make some money.”

“Yeah, I should go. I’ve got a match-up cocktail party to plan and a client coming in ten minutes.”

Finding rich men for beautiful women, throwing parties at swanky restaurants—no wonder Cecily had opted for L.A. over Icicle Falls, Samantha thought as she hung up. Who would want to live in a small town when she could have the big city and beautiful people?

Samantha, that was who. She loved her mountain town with its picturesque setting and its friendly people, and she was proud that her family and their company were part of the town’s history.

She wanted them to continue to be part of its present, too. She drummed her fingers on her desk. What options did she have other than robbing the bank? Think, Samantha.

After an hour of thinking she had a headache and one last option—Waldo’s life insurance money. She wanted to go hit her mother up for a chunk of that about as much as she wanted to stick a knife in her eye. But it was for the good of the business and all their employees, she reminded herself, and she’d pay the money back. So get up and get over there.

She laid her head down on the desk again. Tomorrow. Like Scarlett O’Hara, she’d think about it tomorrow.

Except the clock was ticking and she couldn’t afford the luxury of waiting until tomorrow. She took a deep breath, stood and strode out of the office.