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
