Sweet Dreams on Center Street

by Sheila Roberts

  “Yep. He was also behind that article in the Seattle paper.”

  “Oh,” Samantha said weakly.

  “Yeah, oh,” Cecily said. “I saw when you left the ball.”

  Oh, boy. Here came a well-deserved lecture from her sister the matchmaker. “I didn’t feel good,” Samantha lied. That was nothing compared to how she felt now. Shame coated her heart.

  “Maybe you felt more than you wanted,” Cecily countered. “Anyway, I thought you ought to know.”

  Samantha said goodbye and sat at her desk, staring out the window at the gray sky. The weatherman was forecasting heavy snowfall for the following afternoon. Finally. She’d be long over the pass and at the airport by the time it hit, but first she’d have to stop by the bank to deliver a peace offering.

  People weren’t all good or all bad. Blake was no cartoon villain, but he’d made a great scapegoat. So had Waldo. She’d sure made a habit of blaming other people for her problems—ironic considering the fact that she liked to manage everything and everyone.

  She pushed away from her desk with a sigh. Tomorrow was Valentine’s Day. Oh, Cupid, please be kind to me. I could use some help.

  * * *

  It wasn’t easy going into the bank the following day feeling like a fool who had to eat an entire humble pie, but Samantha did it, anyway. Blake saw her coming. He ran a hand along his shirt collar like a man preparing for something unpleasant—hardly surprising in light of their previous encounters.

  She sat down across from him and pushed a box of her newest creations across his desk. “I need to thank you.”

  He looked at her warily. “For what?”

  “I just learned about some of the things you’ve been doing behind the scenes. I’m sorry I was so awful to you.”

  He shrugged. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

  “You did a lot. You could have said something.”

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  As in, could they have gone out, become an item? If they’d slept together would it still have been like sleeping with the enemy? “I don’t know,” she said honestly. In the end his bank still wanted to swallow her company. She wasn’t sure she could get around that.

  He nodded slowly.

  “That’s our newest product,” she said, indicating the box. “It’s pretty amazing stuff.”

  “I’m sure it is,” he said.

  “I’m off to L.A. to see Mimi LeGrande.”

  He gave her a look that asked, Who is that?

  “She’s the host of All Things Chocolate, the show on the Food Network that I mentioned yesterday. I don’t have to tell you what that’ll do for our business if she features us.”

  “I hope it does great things for you,” he said.

  She smiled at him. “I believe you do,” she said, and stood.

  He stood, too. “Good luck. And happy Valentine’s Day.”

  Oh, yeah. That.

  “Let me walk you out.”

  Once they were outside the bank and at her car, he said, “Maybe, when you get back, we could—”

  She shook her head before he could even finish the sentence. “I’m sorry, I can’t. Not until I know my company’s safe.”

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  She was tempted to add, But I want to. I wish you were a plumber or a carpenter, anything but my banker. Instead, she got in her car and drove away.

  * * *

  Blake went back into the bank and sat down heavily at his desk. Samantha’s gift mocked him. Chocolate, just what he always never wanted. He’d been getting a lot of things he didn’t want ever since he came back to Icicle Falls—stress, aggravation, headaches and rebuffs from the woman whose life he was helping to ruin.

  Damn it all, he didn’t want to ruin her life. He wanted to be part of it. He could hardly concentrate as he reviewed George Tuttle’s loan application, and he had a hard time putting on his bank-PR-guy face when he took Del Stone and Ed York to lunch at Zelda’s. When their waitress suggested they try the new chocolate truffle trifle that had been a hit over the weekend and was now on the menu, he felt as if his heart would crack.

  After lunch his grandmother stopped by and he gave her the chocolates. At least someone would enjoy them. Gram was free of both allergies and guilt.

  “Lovely,” she said. “I’ll take them to my book club meeting tonight. They’re bound to be a hit. Everyone loves Sweet Dreams chocolates.”

  She sounded like a commercial. Everyone loves Sweet Dreams chocolates. Which meant no one would love him when he called in their note—and he’d be at the head of that line.

  At six he went to Bruisers to work off his frustration, running the treadmill until the sweat poured off him. The anger, however, remained. He did a round with the punching bag but even that didn’t help. He didn’t want to punch something. He wanted to punch someone, namely that prick Darren Short. He went another round, envisioning Darren’s smug face at the top of the bag. Now you know how it feels to be sucker punched. You did as much to the Sterlings.

  Blake was good and tired by the time he got done but he didn’t feel any better. Samantha Sterling was going to go down the tubes unless somebody came to her rescue. She needed a hero.

  He remembered how, as a kid, he’d envisioned himself all grown up with a superhero’s muscles (and a cape, of course), flying off to save people about to be taken down by bad guys or rushing to the rescue in the Batmobile.

  All he had was a vintage Camero and a business suit, but he needed to find a way to be the hero he’d always wanted to be. Before it was too late.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  There’s nothing a woman can’t accomplish if she sets her mind to it.

  —Muriel Sterling, Knowing Who You Are: One Woman’s Journey

  “Muriel, thanks for letting me have an exclusive. I know we can sell this place,” Nenita Einhausen from Mountain Meadows Real Estate said. “I can already think of a couple of families who might be interested.”

  “Even this time of year?” Muriel asked. “I didn’t think people would be looking before spring.” Not that she could afford to wait until spring.

  “Spring is right around the corner,” Nenita said. “And I have a family who’s anxious to get out of the city and live in a small town. This would be perfect for them.”

  It would be perfect for anyone. It had been perfect for her and Waldo.

  Letting go was hard. Her life was picking up speed like a roller coaster running through a house of horrors. Waldo’s death, the troubles with the business, now losing her house—she hoped this nasty ride would level out soon.

  “We don’t need to do to much to stage it,” Nenita continued. She set her cup on the coffee table and began walking around inspecting everything, a skinny little bundle of energy in a black suit. “I’m sure you remember what we did when we sold the other house. We’ll have to take down some of the family pictures, put away a few of those knickknacks.”

  Muriel’s family memories and beloved treasures. Who didn’t like Hummel figurines, for heaven’s sake?

  This wasn’t coming as news; she’d done it before. But when she’d put her other house up for sale she’d had Waldo. She’d been saying goodbye to a place filled with wonderful memories but she’d been moving on to make new ones. This time she was just moving.

  “And…oh.” Nenita stopped to take in the fireplace and the urn with Waldo’s ashes sitting on the hearth. �
��Is that— Are those…?”

  Muriel nodded. “Yes, that’s Waldo.” Her sweet, wonderful husband.

  “Well, I know how much you loved him but maybe you could, er, find somewhere else to keep him. Just while we’re showing the house,” Nenita added quickly.

  “Where would you have me put him, in storage?” Muriel asked with some asperity. But she knew Nenita was right. Encountering Waldo’s remains would be off-putting to potential buyers. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I’ll find someplace more private for him.”

  “I’m sure he’d understand.”

  Muriel picked up the urn and clutched it to her. Poor Waldo. Poor, poor Waldo. “I’ll bring him to the cemetery.” She hadn’t been ready to do that yet, but she hadn’t been ready to sell her house, either. Some things a woman had to do, ready or not.

  “Good idea,” Nenita said. “I’ll get some photos of the outside of the house. Meanwhile, why don’t you take down a few pictures and start a fire in the fireplace. That will give us a nice shot of the living room. The kitchen looks great as it is. I’ll get a shot of that, too. Oh, and the bedrooms.”

  It was a good thing Muriel had made the bed.

  “I’ll put this up on the site tomorrow and it will be in the multiple listings by the end of the week. I’m positive we’ll get a lot of interest,” she said as she fished her camera out of her purse.

  A lot of interest. That’s what you want, Muriel reminded herself. Soon the house would listen to a new family’s laughter, some other woman’s pies would cool on the kitchen counter, another woman’s Christmas tree would sit in the corner by the window next year. That was how life went.

  Moving can be an adventure, she told herself, and hoped she knew what she was talking about.

  * * *

  Samantha was off to save the company and Mom was recovering from her meeting with the real estate agent by going out to dinner with friends. Cecily had the night off and was at loose ends. They’d finally gotten snow during the afternoon and since she hadn’t enjoyed a stroll in the snow since she moved to L.A. she decided some outdoor exercise was in order.

  She borrowed a pair of boots from Mom’s closet and set out to enjoy the crisp, cold air that came with new-fallen snow. With mountain slopes right in her backyard, Cecily had skied since she was three. She loved the feel of the wind in her face when she whooshed downhill and she liked the beauty of cross-country skiing. But she also enjoyed a quiet walk once in a while, and after the craziness of the festival it was nice to have some downtime.

  The houses she passed reminded her of Kinkade paintings, all snugged in by snow with lights spilling out from inside, where families ate their dinners or watched TV. Downtown looked like something out of a fairy tale with its Bavarian-style buildings all iced with snow. A few lazy flakes danced to the ground, spotlighted by the old-fashioned lampposts. She ambled on aimlessly, enjoying the quiet.

  But suddenly it wasn’t so quiet. Fierce barking shocked her out of her reverie and she realized she was on the edge of town. And she had a welcoming committee. From out of nowhere a pit bull came running toward her, barking fiercely. Cecily had been bitten by a dog as a child, and she’d never gotten over her distrust. This approaching animal inspired more than distrust. Terror made her freeze in her tracks as it ran up to her, spilling over with doggy animosity. The dog stopped, too, and put on a real show, slavering and snarling.

  A mere parking lot away was sanctuary, Todd Black’s Man Cave. If she could get to it. But she couldn’t. She was glued to the snowy ground. And all the while the beast stood there, feeding on her fear. It was dinnertime. He was probably hungry. No-o-o. She could feel her heart banging around in her rib cage.

  “Elmo!” a sharp voice called. A moment later a man came into sight. He was wearing a parka over jeans and combat boots. “Elmo, damn it, heel.”

  The dog gave Cecily a goodbye growl and trotted over to its master.

  “Sorry, lady, he got out of the truck,” the man said.

  Cecily could barely hear him past the ringing in her ears. Little bells. Sleigh bells? She felt light-headed. Next thing she knew she was falling and she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Hey, who put out the lights?

  Now she was in the dark and the little bells were still ringing. She was vaguely aware of male voices and strong arms picking her up. She could hear other voices and music, Gretchen Wilson singing “Here for the Party.” Was this a party? When were the lights going to come back on?

  She could feel herself being stretched out on a couch and a familiar voice saying, “Get me some 7-Up.”

  Slowly the light began to return and a face swam into view. Todd Black?

  He grinned. “Welcome back.”

  “Where’s the dog?” she asked weakly.

  “Back in Sam’s truck. By the way, he’s really sorry.”

  “That thing almost ate me for dinner,” Cecily said, struggling to sit up.

  Todd gently pushed her down. “Why don’t you give yourself a minute?” Another man appeared with a pop can. “Come on, dude. Where’s the glass?” Todd said with a frown.

  “Oh. Sorry,” the guy said, and disappeared.

  “So what were you doing out in my neck of the woods?” asked Todd. “Coming by for a drink?”

  Now she did sit up. “No.” Oh, that made her head spin.

  “I told you not to do that,” he said, easing her down again.

  The close contact tickled her nose with a hint of aftershave and just plain old musky male. That is not a turn-on, she told herself firmly. She tried to ignore the man sitting next to her and instead took in her surroundings. The room wasn’t big, but big enough to hold an old desk with a laptop computer on it and a sturdy chair behind it, a filing cabinet and this beat-up leather couch she was on. A library lamp on the desk and faint light wandering in from a nearby streetlight were only enough to leave their corner of the room in semidarkness.

  The other man, Todd’s bartender, had returned with a glass filled with ice. Todd took it, popped the top on the can and poured in the soda. “Here,” he said, holding it out to her. “This should help.”

  “Thanks,” she murmured. It did. The bartender slipped out of the room, quiet as a shadow, and she laid her head back against the sofa pillow.

  “So, I hear your festival was a big success,” Todd said.

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Bill Will said he danced with you at the ball.”

  Cecily found herself smiling at the memory of that disastrous dance.

  Todd frowned. “He can’t have been that great a dancer.”

  “I didn’t say he was.”

  “I won a dance contest once.”

  “No way,” she scoffed.

  He nodded. “Oh, yeah. I had a girlfriend who was into it.”

  She couldn’t resist asking, “What kind of dancing?” Dirty?

  “Salsa. Ever salsa dance?” He took a slug out of what remained in the pop can. Now why was that sexy?

  She’d wanted to—had meant to—take lessons. “I’ve been busy doing other things,” she said, and realized she sounded prissy.

  “You’d like it.” He looked at her from under slightly lowered lids. It was an intimate gaze, fitting with the dimly lit room. “But tango is the best, almost like having sex on the dance floor.”

  “Well, I’ll have to try it sometime.” Her mouth suddenly felt dry and she drank a sip of her pop.

  The music out in the bar had softened, some sort of love son
g. She needed to get home.

  He leaned over, his mouth so close that his breath raced around her ear. “I could show you now.”

  She turned her head and that brought them nearly mouth to mouth. “Um.”

  Aack! What was she doing here like a fish about to chomp on a lure? Todd Black was not her type. Well, okay, he was her type, but that was the problem. She needed to change her taste in men.

  She moved her lips out of range and swung her legs over the side of the beat-up leather couch. “I don’t think so. I’ve had about all the excitement I can stand for one day.”

  He gave a snort. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”

  “I can walk.”

  “Hoping to see Elmo again?”

  “Take me home.”

  He grinned. “Thought so.”

  First that little chat in his dark office, now the intimacy of his car—she should have taken her chances with Elmo and walked. This close proximity was giving her the jitters.

  “So, the festival’s over now, everyone’s made a pot of money. What next?” he said. “Are you off to L.A. to match up lonely hearts?”

  There was a depressing prospect. She didn’t bother to reply.

  “Small towns aren’t so bad, you know. Lots of interesting people wind up in small towns. Guys who can dance, for instance.”

  “A lot of guys can dance,” she said dampeningly.

  “Not like me.”

  She turned from staring out the car window to take in that perfect square chin and that cocky expression. “How many girls have you danced with?”

  “Enough.” He grinned at her again. “You do like to…dance, don’t you?”

  “I’ve danced some.”

  “Why are you in such a hurry to leave Icicle Falls?”

  “It’s time.”

  “Yeah, I guess small towns can be a little scary. You get close to people fast in a place like this. Easier to hide in the big city.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, brother,” she said in disgust. “You know what else small towns offer? Amateur shrinks and men who are bored and need a new skirt to chase.”