Sweet Dreams on Center Street (5 page)

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.

Chapter Four

No one is perfect. It's important to remember this when working
with family.

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

M
uriel was in a swimming pool full of
melted chocolate, competing in a swim meet, doing the butterfly stroke and
trying desperately to catch up with her competition in the other lanes. Waldo
stood at one end of the pool holding up a giant silver trophy cup brimming with
fudge, and Cecily and Bailey were at the front of the throng, cheering wildly.
“Go, Mom! You can do it!” But the chocolate was so thick that no matter how hard
she pulled against it, she couldn't make any progress.

She was halfway across the pool and heavily winded when in
swept the Wicked Witch of the West on her broom. The witch wasn't wearing her
usual black garb. Instead, she was in an old-fashioned bathing suit from the
early 1900s and she looked suspiciously like Samantha with hazel eyes and long
red hair flying out from under her pointy black hat.

“Tsunami! Quick, everybody out of the pool,” cried the witch.
She flew out over the water, reached down and yanked Muriel out by her hair.
“Mom, you can't stay here. Mom. Mom!”

“Mom?”

Muriel opened her eyes to see Samantha leaning over her, a hand
on her shoulder, her expression anxious. “Are you okay?”

Of course she wasn't okay. Muriel shoved her hair out of her
eyes and sat up. “What time is it?”

“Eleven forty-five.”

Almost noon. Here she was, sleeping away another day.

“Have you eaten?” Samantha asked.

“I'm not hungry, sweetie.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

What did it matter? Muriel waved away the question. She slipped
out of bed and went into the bathroom and shut the door on her daughter.

Samantha's voice followed her. “I'll make coffee.”

Coffee, ugh. Muriel had always loved a good cup of coffee but
her taste buds, like the rest of her, seemed to have given up on life.

She stood at the bathroom counter and stared at her reflection.
Beneath those artificially brown curls the face of an old woman looked
mournfully back at her. The dark circles under her eyes showed how poorly she
was sleeping in spite of all the mattress time she was logging in.

She flipped off the light and left the bathroom. The bed called
to her, but the smell of brewing coffee reminded her that Samantha was expecting
her in the kitchen. She put on her bathrobe and sat on the edge of the bed,
willing herself to get out there. Her body refused to obey.

Finally Samantha entered the room bearing a steaming mug. At
the sight of her mother she managed a tentative smile. “How about I draw you a
bubble bath and make us an omelet?”

Muriel took the mug. “Is that a hint?” That sounded snippy.
Well, she felt snippy.

Samantha's fair skin glowed like an ember. “No, I just…”

“Go ahead and make yourself something. I'll be out in a few
minutes.” Muriel returned to the bathroom with as much dignity as she could
muster. She was too young for her daughter to be telling her what to do.

Although Samantha was right. She needed a bath.

Twenty minutes later she emerged to find her daughter huddled
on a stool at the kitchen counter, nursing her own mug of coffee. Muriel joined
her and they sat side by side, looking at the empty kitchen.

“I can't seem to get my feet under me,” Muriel murmured.

“You will,” Samantha said.

And, if her daughter had anything to say about it, the sooner,
the better, but all that busyness seemed like a waste of time. Her head suddenly
hurt.

“So, how about an omelet?” Samantha coaxed.

Waldo loved a big, hearty breakfast. “It starts the day out
right,” he used to say.

There was no right way to start this day. “No, I don't want
anything,” Muriel said.
Except to have my husband
back.

“Let me at least get you some toast.”

Fine, if it would make her happy. Muriel nodded.

It wasn't until Samantha had toasted and buttered a piece of
rye bread, put it on a plate and set it on the counter that Muriel's foggy brain
made an observation. “You're not at the office.”

Samantha nudged the plate closer. “Have some toast.”

Muriel took a bite and chewed. She might as well have been
chewing sawdust. She pushed the plate aside. “I thought you'd be at the
office.”

Once again Samantha inched the plate closer. “Have another
bite.”

Again Muriel pushed it away. She narrowed her eyes at her
daughter. “Samantha Rose. Why are you here?”

Samantha dropped her gaze to the counter and gnawed her lip.
Behind that pretty face lived a will of steel that showed itself in a strong
chin always set in determination. Today, though, her daughter looked like she'd
collapsed in on herself.

Maternal mode overpowering grief, Muriel reached across the
counter and laid a hand on Samantha's arm. “Tell me,” she commanded even though
she didn't want to hear. Between her daughter and the doctors, she'd been
hearing enough miserable news the past few months to last her a lifetime. She
shuddered inwardly and braced herself.

Samantha looked up at her, eyes filled with desperation. “I
don't even know how to say this.”

Of the three girls this daughter had never been afraid to tell
her mother exactly what she thought. “Just tell me. It can't top any of the bad
news I've had in the past month.”

“The bank is calling in its note. If I don't come up with the
money by the end of next month they'll seize our assets and we'll lose the
business.”

She'd known the company was having trouble, but hearing this,
Muriel felt like she'd been knocked over by an avalanche. First that horrible
diagnosis, followed by Waldo's sudden death, now the business. What next?

If she'd stayed in the modest paid-for house where she and
Stephen had raised the girls, she and Samantha could have gone to the bank and
gotten a home equity loan and solved this problem. But instead, she'd traded up
and bought a big, new house to go with her new husband and her new life. Real
estate values in the region had fallen and even she knew what that meant—her
house wasn't worth what it once was. And that meant the amount of equity she had
to trade on amounted to zilch.

It seemed wrong to ask your daughter, “What are we going to
do?” She should've had an answer. But she didn't. So she sat there and stared at
Samantha, feeling like the world's worst mother, willing her brain to become
math-friendly.

“I've been to the bank,” Samantha said. “They won't help us.
Right now there's only one thing I can think to do.”

She'd thought of something. Good. Whatever it was, Muriel would
support her.

Samantha hesitated, chewing her lip. She obviously wasn't happy
with the solution she'd come up with.

“I'm listening,” Muriel said encouragingly even though she felt
an overwhelming urge to run away.

“I hate to ask this, but did Waldo have life insurance?”

Life insurance. Just hearing the words made Muriel's stomach
churn. Waldo was not only dead, his life was reduced to a check. But it was a
check they needed. She could use it to help her daughter save the company and
maybe pay down this ridiculous mortgage.

Oh, how crass that sounded!
Waldo, I'm
sorry.

“Mom, I wouldn't ask if I could think of anything else but I'm
out of options,” Samantha was saying. “If you could just lend me enough to catch
us up with the bank, I'll make sure you get repaid as soon as possible.”

She patted her daughter's arm. “This is our business, honey.
I'll give you the money.”

Samantha's lower lip trembled and she took a deep breath.
“Thanks,” she said with tears in her eyes.

“We're a family. Family sticks together.” Muriel hugged
her.

Samantha wrapped her arms around Muriel like a drowning person
would grab a life preserver.

Independent as her daughter was, she still needed her mother,
and no matter how much Muriel wanted to sit life out for a good long while,
maybe forever, she wasn't about to abandon her child to fight this battle on her
own. “I won't let us lose this business,” she promised. “Grandma Rose would turn
in her grave.”

“So would Daddy.” Samantha pulled away and Muriel saw both
relief and guilt on her face. “Thanks, Mom. I'm sorry we're having to go about
things this way.”

She pushed a lock of red hair behind Samantha's ear. “I'm not.
And Waldo would be happy to know he was helping.”

That remark tugged her daughter's lips down at the corners, and
even though Samantha didn't say it, Muriel could hear her thinking,
It's the least he could do, considering the
circumstances.

But she didn't say it, and for that Muriel was grateful. She
held in a thought of her own, too.
Yes, Waldo made some
mistakes but he wasn't the one who took out that expansion loan in the first
place.
Sometimes her daughter forgot that.

“I'll find the policy and call the insurance company this
afternoon,” she promised.

Samantha nodded, still looking uncomfortable. “Thanks.” And
then she was all business, ready to recommence fighting the world. “I'd better
get back to the office. Call me after you talk to them.”

“I will,” Muriel assured her.

She sent Samantha on her way with a kiss, then stood at the
window and watched her run down the walk to her car. For a moment she saw her
daughter at eighteen, climbing into the passenger seat next to her father,
driving to her summer job in the Sweet Dreams office. “Someday I'm going to run
this company,” she'd announced when she was sixteen, “and we'll be big.”

Such dreams and ambition. “She's a natural,” Stephen had
said.

Muriel sighed. She should have remembered that and left her
daughter in charge instead of bringing in Waldo and complicating things. She
hadn't trusted her own judgment or her daughter's business smarts, and now she
realized that had been a mistake. But Samantha had been so young.

As if age had anything to do with business smarts. Muriel
herself was living proof that wasn't true.

Well, it was a new day. Samantha was in charge now and it
seemed fitting that Waldo's life insurance money would allow her to resuscitate
Sweet Dreams and take the company to the next level.

Muriel went up to the loft they'd turned into an office and
opened the filing cabinet. The files were all jumbled, with manila folders stuck
in haphazardly rather than in alphabetical order. She finally found the one
marked Life Insurance and pulled it out, only to discover it contained papers on
the house.

Panic began to simmer inside her. She set the file on the
cabinet and checked the house file, thinking maybe Waldo had mixed things up. No
life insurance policy. She moved to the desk, pawing through the scattered
papers piled on top. A past-due notice for Waldo's Beemer payment made her
swallow hard but didn't distract her from her search. It had to be here
somewhere.

Three hours and two more cups of coffee later, she found a
letter from the insurance company. She picked it up and began to read.

Words jumped out and slapped her.
Due to
nonpayment…policy…canceled.

There had to be some mistake. She'd call the insurance company
first thing in the morning and straighten this all out.

Oh, Lord, please let there be some
mistake.

But there wasn't. No matter how many superiors Muriel spoke to
the following morning, no matter how much she pleaded, the answer was always the
same: “We're sorry, but we can't help you.”

And now she had to call the office and say the same words to
her daughter. She stared at the phone and wished she could just go back to
bed.