Wayward Dreams

by Gail McFarland

  Starting with her staff and suppliers, she made calls filled with promises and deals. Explaining Vive la Reine’s present circumstances and its future, she kept her tone upbeat and optimistic. Some people seemed sympathetic; others were simply willing to trust her, and forgiveness crept along the edge of her thoughts. Thanks to KPayne’s money, she had a good reputation, and it looked like that reputation was going to keep Vive la Reine afloat.

  Sudden gratitude pushed through her thoughts. He wasn’t all bad. Their time together hadn’t all been bad; in fact, they’d shared some good times, and he had helped her out with the loan she couldn’t get anywhere else. Maybe they could at least remain friends.

  Whoa! What the hell am I thinking?

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard Erica Lane’s voice, scolding and intense: You just like getting kicked in the head, don’t you? How do you expect to be friends with someone who doesn’t care about you? That boy doesn’t want to be your friend. And he threw you out. Do you need to be reminded that he doesn’t care where or how you landed?

  Linking her fingers behind her head, Bianca stretched and paid attention to her thoughts. He’s out there living his life, and I’m sitting here. My best bet is to take care of myself. Build a life and a future for Bianca Coltrane and let Kelvin Michael Payne keep his life and his money to himself.

  Determined to do just that, she moved on to the next names on her list, a pair of talented women who did the handwork on her designs. The call to the Winston sisters, Amaya and Gaia, turned out better than she’d hoped when they agreed to deliver the blouses they were working on without immediate payment.

  “You’ve been fair with us, Miss Bianca,” Gaia, the younger one, told her. “It’s only right that we return the favor.”

  Grateful for the sister’s willingness to bill her, Bianca disconnected the call and had a single regret as she stood to stretch. Why did Gaia feel the need to constantly call her ‘Miss Bianca,’ like she was a sixty-year-old dowager?

  “I’m barely mid-thirties and she addresses me like I’m ready for a rocking chair.” Moving close to the wall mirror, she twisted to see herself. The view wasn’t bad, but how long did ‘mid-thirties’ last, anyway? And with no man, no children, no prospects…

  The cellphone rang in her hand. “Hello?”

  “B? Claire here, hon.”

  The Neiman’s buyer’s sunny drawl was a bit of bright sweetness in her ear. Bianca hoped that it didn’t presage disappointment. She pressed her back against the wall, took a deep breath, and crossed her fingers.

  “Hey, Claire. Please tell me you have good news.” Please.

  “I heard about the robbery on the news.” Claire’s tongue clicked softly. “When they mentioned the address, I thought, ‘I know that address.’ I didn’t put it with you until the next day. So sad,” she sighed. “What can I do to help?”

  “You can tell me that you’ve gotten approval for the blouses I showed you…and how many you want to order.” Bianca didn’t care that her voice was ribboned with prayer. A big enough order from this woman meant light would return to her little corner of the world. “That is why you called, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  Bianca wasn’t sure, but she thought Claire’s voice amped up a notch. And…

  “And, hon, we’re going to do a trial order.”

  And that means…Bianca was half an inch from outright begging.

  “That means we’ll take six dozen.”

  Only six dozen? That’s all? Seventy-two lousy shirts? Bianca flopped back against the wall and slid down to the floor.

  “You’re so quiet,” Claire said stiffly. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  Pennies add up…Seventy-two shirts would generate some money, and beggars couldn’t be choosers. And I’m pretty much a beggar right now. “I’m sorry, Claire. Six dozen is great. And in the Neiman market, well…thank you, is all I can say.”

  “Six dozen garments going into twenty key stores may not sound like a lot, initially, but…”

  Twenty stores? Bianca sat up straight. “Six dozen shirts per store?”

  “Is that going to be a problem, hon?” Claire’s voice went stiff again.

  “No problem at all.” Struggling to keep from dancing, Bianca gripped the phone in both hands.

  “You can look for the contract within the week. Review it yourself, have it looked at by somebody you trust, get it back to me, and we’ll be in business.”

  “You can count on it,” Bianca promised.

  “Bianca?” Claire let her voice cool. “I am sorry about your shop, but once you sign the contract, Neiman’s is going to hold you to it, and so am I.” The deliberate words hung between the two women.

  “Of course,” Bianca finally said.

  “Have a good day, hon.”

  Dread whispered across Bianca’s skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake. What if I sign the contract and can’t deliver?

  Not gonna happen. Clutching the thought, she pushed away from the wall and walked over to the window. Morning sun slanted through the glass, brightening the room and promising perfect weather. I’m going to sign that contract, she promised herself, and the Winston sisters are going to help me complete the order. They have my designs, and the fabric is already in their studio. KPayne already paid for…

  His money again.

  Wanting to talk to the Winston sisters again, she pushed thoughts of KPayne out of her head and punched in their number. The phone rang twice before the sisters picked up on two different extensions, giggling when they answered at the same time. Enthused, Bianca told them about the call from the Neiman’s buyer, enjoying their excitement when they began listing what they would need to complete production.

  “I just want to make sure you have enough supplies on hand. I don’t want to run out of anything.” Because I certainly don’t have the money for extras.

  “No ma’am, Miss Bianca,” Gaia said. “We have so much fabric on hand that you’ll even have enough to carry your shirt in your own store when you get it back up and running.”

  “And maybe make it a premium offering over the Internet,” Amaya suggested.

  Bless your little entrepreneurial hearts, Bianca thought. The Internet hadn’t even crossed my mind—yet.

  The conversation over, and feeling better than she had in days, Bianca didn’t even mind the thin white towels stacked in her bathroom. Finding something to wear in the snarl of things stuffed into her Vuitton bag was no problem. Dressed in jeans and tennis shoes, she had a little skip in her step as she left the motel room and headed for Vive la Reine.

  She decided against taking the highway and made a few turns, taking Peachtree Street through the middle of town. Humming along with the music from the car’s stereo, she told herself, Everything’s going to work out. I’m going to be okay.

  She was feeling so okay under the bright Georgia sun that she was a little sorry that the Jag was not a convertible. But at least it was a car, and a nice one, to boot. Making a final turn into the lot behind Vive la Reine, she was still humming as she reached the boarded-up wreckage of her shop.

  The song she was humming died in her throat the second she saw Martin Butcher. The building’s owner stood with one hand on the door of Vive la Reine, and the other on his hip, watching her. Tanned, urbane, and defiantly annoyed, he stood as a witness to the destruction beyond the door.

  “Miss Bianca. Have you been in there?” he demanded. “This place is about ready to be condemned.”

  “I know that it was bad the other day, but I thought I should check to see what could be salvaged.” Bianca squinted behind her sunglasses. Her stomach was already telegraphing dread. “Has it gotten any worse?”

  “Would it help if it had?” Butcher rolled his eyes and huffed as he slid a hand into the pocket of his carefully tailored jeans. “This is for you,” he said, slapping folded papers against his leg, then shoving them forward. “This is your lease. You’re going to have to leave.”


  When her mouth opened to protest, Butcher aimed the folded copies like a weapon. “Uh-uh. Read it, read it. The terminated utilities void your lease. You have to leave.”

  “Martin…” Bianca wanted to fall to the asphalt and bawl like a baby, but she didn’t. She pulled her large purse higher on her shoulder and tried not to tremble, because right then, humility almost hurt. “Please, can we talk this over? Try to work something out?”

  “There is nothing to work out, honey. You have to go,” Butcher snapped, pushing his dark sunglasses over his eyes.

  “Martin, please. We’ve been friends for how long? You know that when I decided to open Vive la Reine, I never considered doing business with anyone but you. Can’t we work something out? How about this? If I get the utilities on in seven days, can I stay?”

  “That mess? In seven days?” Butcher flapped the lease against his leg and looked back at the door. “I don’t know…Seven days would take a miracle…an absolute miracle…I suppose I can put you out in seven days just as easily as I can today.” He flapped the lease again when she lunged forward, throwing her arms around his neck.

  “Killing me with kindness is not going to save you, Miss Missy,” he sputtered, freeing himself and looking Bianca up and down. “You don’t look like yourself.” His eyes went from her tennis shoes to her face. “Those shoes really don’t look like you.” He flapped the lease at her. “Do you really think you can get this together in seven days?” Bianca nodded. “You can have the rest of the month, Miss Scarlett, but if you open your mouth and give me one of those, ‘…as God is my witness…’ speeches, you’ll be gone with the wind. Capiche?”

  “Got it.” Relief weakened her knees as Bianca watched Martin Butcher climb into his jeep and drive away. He had barely cleared the parking lot when the enormity of her promise hit her. Seven days might just as well be seven years. Lord, where is the money going to come from? Turning the door knob, she pushed hard and stepped into Vive la Reine.

  Behind the boarded windows, a heady musk of dust and fast-growing mildew assaulted her, and she could have sworn she heard something skitter across the floor. Spiders had taken up residence, as evidenced by the cobwebs festooning the doorway leading into what had been her showroom, and she knew there was little left to salvage.

  “Ms. Coltrane?”

  The man’s voice made her gasp and look for a weapon. Unfortunately, all she had was her oversized purse when she stumbled backward, nearly falling over a pile of still-soggy clothing. The man’s hand caught her elbow.

  “Who are you?” she screeched.

  “Aldrich Christian.”

  Putting the name with the face, she immediately remembered him. He was the tall, slender attorney with the peanut butter-colored skin and graying goatee, the one who wrote the contracts for Vive la Reine. Righting herself, Bianca snatched her arm back and glared at the man. Realizing that he couldn’t see her glaring, she pulled off her shades and moved toward the open door. He deserved the full effect. Standing in the slash of sunlight, she propped her hands on her hips and glared again.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Christian?”

  Following her to the door, he pulled an envelope from his breast pocket. “I’m here to deliver this.”

  Now what? Bianca shot him another glare, just in case, as she took the envelope and tore it open. The letter she unfolded referenced the loan documents she’d signed and said that KPayne was exercising his right to take everything, including any surviving stock and all fixtures, if she didn’t pay off the loan immediately and in full.

  Surviving stock? “Is he serious?”

  “I believe so,” Christian said, failing to realize that the question was rhetorical. When Bianca’s hazel eyes speared him like a small fish, he said nothing more, not even when she twisted the letter into a knot and dropped it to the moldering floor. Unmoving, the attorney stood in front of her like a place holder, trying to do his job—enforce Kelvin Michael Payne’s will.

  The space around her felt preternaturally still, and the only sound Bianca heard was her own breathing. “You tell him,” she finally said, “tell him I don’t have the money he’s asking for. I don’t have it any more now than I did when he called me. You tell him he will have to abide by the original agreement and wait like all of my other creditors, or he can take nothing at all. I don’t care about the immediate-demand clause. You tell him I have nothing; he already saw to that.” Stepping back, she jerked the door wider. “And you tell him he can’t just ride through my life like this, trying to scare me. That won’t work, because this is just business.”

  “There are limits, Ms. Coltrane.”

  “Eviction is one of my limits. Throwing me out without notice and his threatening call already crossed most of the others.”

  Christian started to say something, then thought better of it. He’d never been punched by a woman, and this woman looked ready to throw one. His retainer didn’t cover that. “I’ll tell him,” he said, stepping through the door and heading for his car.

  “Yeah, you just do that little thing,” Bianca muttered, watching him drive away.

  She wanted to slam the door, but it was the room’s only light source, and, for the moment, she was a little bit afraid of the dark. What else might be lurking, just waiting to jump out at her? Hitching her purse higher, she stepped back into the shadowy confines of Vive la Reine.

  Not thinking, she brought her now-grimy hands to her face. “Who am I trying to fool? I don’t have the money and don’t have a clue as to where I can get any.” She dropped her hands and looked around. “Martin at least gave me the rest of the month.”

  Needing to do something, she wandered the rooms that comprised the whole of Vive la Reine. Dumping her large purse on what was left of a display case, she smoothed a hand across the dusty top and gasped when her finger caught on a sliver of glass. She pressed the small wound with her fingers and watched the blood droplet swell on her dirty finger. Never thought I would actually have to spill blood for this place.

  “Oh, my goodness, what did you do?”

  Julia’s voice brought Bianca’s head up. “Nothing,” she blurted, wiping her finger against her jeans. “It’s just a little scratch, is all.”

  “Really? Let me see.” Julia located a small penlight on her key ring. Flicking it on, she reached, gripping Bianca’s wrist when she tried to pull her hand back.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Sure. Now. But with all this dirt and stuff in here, it can get infected. Where will you be then?” Julia asked, juggling the light. Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out a small first-aid kit and went to work cleaning and bandaging her sister’s finger. “There.”

  Bianca looked at her finger and sniffed, then a small smile dawned. “Is this part of that sister thing?”

  “Yeah, I suppose it is.” Julia grinned.

  “Well, thanks, I guess.” Bianca looked down, pressed her fingers over the band-aid. “So, what are you doing here, anyway?”

  “You are, like, so uncomfortable with me, aren’t you? Never mind, you just are, and I guess I have to live with that.” A deep sigh punctuated Julia’s words, when she took her purse and turned toward the door. “Come on, I brought coffee. It’s in my car.”

  “You brought coffee, but you didn’t bring it in?”

  Julia aimed her penlight at the ruined walls and floor. “Dark, scary, and dirty—we might get Legionnaires’ disease or something in here. Come on, I have wipes in the car.”

  Bianca shouldered her bag and walked behind her sister. “Clean freak.”

  “I heard that.”

  Determined not to apologize, Bianca followed her sister to her car and gratefully accepted the hand wipes, coffee, and a glazed donut. “Thanks,” she finally said.

  “That didn’t hurt, now did it?”

  “Gloating does not become you,” Bianca muttered into her coffee. “What brought you out here? How did you know I would be here?”

  “I tried to call you, but c
ouldn’t get through—I think your phone is dead.”

  When Bianca flipped her phone open, it flashed and died. “I had so much on my mind, I forgot to charge it.”

  “That’s what I thought. I had some time, so I thought I would try you here.”

  “Are you going to eat that?” Bianca eyed the last donut. “I didn’t get breakfast.”

  “Eat it and be grateful it won’t go to your hips.” Julia took in her sister’s figure—more slender than her own, yet lushly curved, and she had to warn herself not to hate. She waved the donut off. “I am so sorry I inherited all of the fat genes.”

  Chewing, Bianca looked over at her sister. A hair or two shorter than her own five-nine, Julia’s curves were softer. Though her figure was abundant, she was a long way from fat. At thirty-four, her face was rounder, the gentle features framed with short, sassy wisps of hair tipped with gold. Julia looks exactly like what she is: smart and successful. “I’ll trade you a few of my skinny genes for some of your money-smart genes.”

  “I would if I could.” Intelligent hazel eyes watched Bianca finish the donut. “How much money do you need, Bianca?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I have a truckload of repairs to make, and I don’t have enough cash on hand to pay attention.” Bianca drew a long, deep breath and exhaled before meeting her sister’s eyes. “I’m looking at you for a place to stay, but I just got offered a major retail contract, so things are looking up. If I can hold on.”

  “Is the contract with KPayne?” Bianca shook her head.

  “I could have my lawyer look at it—if you want.”

  “Thanks, but I need to find my own way out of this mess with him. If I hadn’t been so greedy, I wouldn’t be in this position. This is my fault, and I need to find a way out without your bailing me out.”

  “Wow, I’m impressed. I can remember a time when you would have leapt at the offer of help. But how are you going to fix this?”

  “Get a job.”