"Is this a loan for the bakery?" He rounded the large wooden desk, which was equipped with a black blotter, a computer, a cup with three pens, and nothing else.
"It's for a new business I'm starting, actually. I'm thinking I'll call it 'The Chocolate Crush.'" She flashed her fingers for effect.
If she'd been hoping he'd imagine the possibilities with her, Jessie was disappointed. "So you'd sell chocolate bars?"
The lack of enthusiasm was crushing. Would they even be able to conduct a conversation at this rate, above the sound of her heart breaking? "It's so much more than a place to sell chocolate bars, Mr. White. I make my own chocolate. Well, I buy the chocolate wholesale. Belgian chocolate. It comes in these forty-pound bars. I should've brought samples. Would you like me to run back and bring some —?"
He held up his palm. "That's all right. It's not part of the loan application."
He smiled, so it must have been a joke. Ha.
Jessie clasped the hem of her skirt and wound it tightly around her finger while he pulled some forms from a desk drawer. She reached for a pen. "Do you want me to fill those out here, or can I bring them back?"
His mouth quirked upward. "You'll need to bring these back with the accompanying documentation. Our loan officers will need to see a business and marketing plan, projected growth...it's all in the paperwork."
"Uh huh." Jessie chewed on her bottom lip as he slid the paperwork toward her. It was a lot more involved than she'd appreciated. "So for marketing, I've been doing mostly word-of-mouth because I find that's really the best kind. I've worked with Anna Tumblesby, who owns the inn? And she uses my chocolates as part of her turndown service. She puts them on the pillows and everything."
It was like she couldn't stop talking, and she was almost certain she wasn't helping anything. Mr. White looked downward, and she followed his gaze to her skirt, which she'd twisted and pulled into a mess. "Sorry," she muttered as she smoothed it out again, not sure to whom she was apologizing.
"So your chocolates are featured," he said, "as part of the turndown service at the local inn?"
Well, when he put it that way, it didn't sound very impressive at all. "Yes, and a lot of times guests will come by Hedda's and buy a box of chocolates as they're leaving town, you know?"
But judging by the blank look on his face, Mr. White didn't know. At all. She inched closer, setting her knees against the back of the desk and bringing her hands up to rest on top, as if she were pleading with him to understand. "You see, Anna likes my chocolates —"
"Yes, yes. I hear you." He pressed the paperwork into a pile. "This loan application will require a full plan, including market penetration, growth strategies, and the background of the officers of your corporation."
"Officers of my corp —" She stopped. "It's just me. I'm it."
"Uh huh. And you're using this loan to purchase equipment, I assume?"
She scratched one finger against the side of her head. "I was thinking that I'd mostly need it to cover rent for the first year and just get, you know, started." She swallowed. "You — you do that sort of thing, right? Give businesses money to get started? It's a woman-owned business, if it helps —"
Mr. White sighed with excessive patience, and Jessie tucked her hands under her thighs, feeling like a kid in the principal's office. "Ms. Mallory," he started. (So now she was Ms. Mallory? Just great.) "I have to be honest. The kind of loan you're looking for isn't easy to obtain these days. Banks have been much more conservative about lending. Do you have a business plan? A growth plan? Do you have a record of industry success?"
"Yes. Okay. That makes sense." She had none of those things. "My chocolates are really good —"
"Well. Think about it. In the meantime, here's the paperwork you'll need to fill out. I'll put it into a folder for you."
"Great. Thanks."
She left his office clutching a manila file filled with loan papers she was confident she couldn't complete without forming some deal with the devil. I am the conqueror of setbacks. I hurdle over disappointments.
On the way out of the bank, she grabbed a lollipop from a bowl and tore off the wrapper. Lime. Just her luck.
With a sigh, she tossed the candy into the trash and headed back to the bakery.
Chapter 7
Rule number one: there was no crying in business. It was undignified, and Jessie still had some of her dignity hanging by a thread. She, Emily, and Uncle Hank were huddled around the stainless-steel counter, reviewing the loan application in the kitchen at Hedda's. Even though she was increasingly certain she would never, ever be able to manage to cull together an application that wouldn't get her laughed at, she would not cry. See rule number one.
Emily was leaning forward against the counter, picking at a sticky bun as she considered the documents Jessie had spread out. She lifted a piece of paper and squinted at it. "Do you have articles of incorporation? Or a management team?"
"No. I don't even..." Jessie carefully pried the paper from Emily's fingers. Greasy fingerprints would make her look unprofessional, too. "Uncle Hank, where do I get articles of incorporation?"
"You have to create a business," he said simply, as if that explained everything.
"So, like...can I get that online?"
Uncle Hank was a former Wall Street attorney who, from what she'd pieced together, had experienced a relatively early midlife crisis or minor breakdown and left it all behind to purchase the bakery. Aunt Lilliana had not taken the news well, and they had divorced soon after moving to Archer Cove. Of course, that was all water under the bridge these days, as Auntie Lil and Uncle Hank were very much in love again. No wonder, what with Auntie Lil's impeccable style and grace and Uncle Hank's classic good looks. When they dressed up and went out, they looked like a couple that had walked off some kind of society pages. It was like they'd been made for each other all along, but it had taken them years to realize it.
Auntie Lil had just stopped by the kitchen with a stack of ice-blue handmade linen-blend napkins that she had designed specially for the bakery. She was folding them into neat stacks at the other end of the counter. "Hank," she said in that cool voice of hers, "I think you should explain to Jessie how to create a business entity. It's simple, honey. I created one for The Space Lift," she added, referring to her interior design business. "Wren and Jax run the vineyard under a few different corporate identities."
Uncle Hank leaned his back against the countertop. He was still wearing his favorite apron: white with blue stripes and the word "Dad" stitched on the front in red thread. Wren had given it to him for Father's Day one year. "You have to go on the secretary of the state's website. You make sure your business name isn't taken already, and then there are some forms to fill out and some fees to pay. That's about it."
"And then I'll have everything I need to apply for a business loan?"
Uncle Hank's lips thinned, which could only mean that he was about to deliver some bad or serious news. "Based on these forms, it's an involved process. I can help you with it, but you need to think about how you're going to grow your business. Are you going to offer online sales, or brick and mortar only? How are you going to manage growth?"
Jessie slumped onto a stool and rested her chin on her hand. Here she'd started her day so hopeful, and everything about this conversation was killing her buzz. "I just kind of wanted to sell my chocolates. How do people open businesses, anyway? Are these loans that impossible to get?"
His eyes softened. "You know you're welcome to use the space here. You have full use of the display out front. Customers like your chocolates. All it takes is the right person finding you."
She knew he was right, but it still felt so random. "I don't like the idea of waiting for someone to find me," she said. "I want to control my own life."
"Spoken like a true entrepreneur," he said, and gave her a kiss on the top of her head. "You'll figure it out."
It felt nice for someone to believe in her, and Jessie basked in that warmth for a few
minutes before scooping up the loan application and setting it back into the folder. The application was like any recipe: one step, one ingredient at a time, a little technique, and a lot of patience. She'd do well to remember that, and not overcomplicate things.
Jessie hadn't looked at her phone all afternoon. When she finally did, she saw that her mother had called. Five times. Was she on fire?
Jessie dialed the number as she walked home that evening. When her mother picked up, she sounded like she'd been sprinting. "Hello?"
"Hey, Mom," Jessie said. "I saw you called a few times. Is everything okay?"
"Oh, thank heavens you're all right. I was worried sick."
There she went, thanking heaven again. Blessed be! Jessie couldn't decide whether she was touched by her mother's concern or disturbed, but she was leaning toward the latter. "I was at work, that's all." She paused. "What did you think happened to me?"
"Ah. Well." There were a few beats of silence and some shuffling.
"Mom? Are you dancing? Did you hear me?"
"I heard you, honey. This is delicate. I heard about Quinn, and I wanted to check in to see how you were holding up. I was fearing the worst."
The worst? What would that be, exactly? Jessie frowned at the sidewalk as she considered the possibilities. "Please don't tell me you thought I'd actually kill myself over Quinn."
Another long pause. "Well, you can be dramatic."
Jessie dropped the phone to her side and counted to ten. When she lifted it again, Sadie was still trying to explain herself."— made me watch this news report. I never should have watched it. I've been sick with worry all afternoon. You don't know anyone on designer drugs, do you? Of course you don't," she added quickly. "What am I thinking? I get these thoughts and I get anxious about things."
"Hmm. Maybe you could do more gardening now that the weather is warm?"
"I think that's a nice idea, Jessie. I could be in touch with nature. It's a form of meditation, very soothing." She hesitated for a moment before she said, "If you want to talk about anything, I'm here for you. I wanted you to know that. I'm trying to be more available now that we live closer."
It wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation, so it didn't come as any surprise to Jessie that her mother had some guilt over abandoning her in high school. Which was really the worst thing that had ever happened to Jessie. It had all turned out all right, she supposed, and Wren and Uncle Hank and even Auntie Lil had been her family during those years. But being dropped off at the bakery had left a raw spot that had never fully healed. How does one get over being the kid whose parents moved to Europe and left her behind? She had an issue or two to work out in that arena.
She took a deep breath just as she passed a lilac bush in full bloom. The heady scent returned her to the present. Maybe her heart still hurt here, but she was working toward healing. There was no need for her to relive past slights. "I don't want you to worry about me, Mom," she said, softly. "I promise I'm not going to do anything drastic — okay? Actually, I'm going to be better than ever."
Her mother's sigh crackled through the phone. "I'm relieved to hear that. But Jessie? I can't help but worry about you. That's how it is when you love someone. You want the best for them." In the background, Jessie heard a male voice. "Your father says hi."
"Tell my father I said hi back."
Sadie's voice was muffled as she said, "Jessie says hi." She returned to the phone. "You call me if you need anything. Are you all set with groceries? Do you need any milk or eggs? I saw an ad for a buy one, get one on pints of strawberries if you need those."
Her heart softened at the offers. "Thanks, Mom. I'm fine. I'll see you soon, okay?"
Nate couldn't sleep for a long time. His stomach was on fire as he waited for the next morning's run. He must have drifted off to sleep at some point, but his mind never quieted. When the alarm went off at three thirty in the morning, he rolled over with a grumble. Then he remembered he was helping Jessie to train for a 5K. Right.
A quick shower to wake up, then he pulled on a T-shirt, shorts, and a college sweatshirt that had seen plenty of better days. He wondered if he was going to have to pull Jessie out of bed. Could he actually be that lucky?
We're running together. He clutched that thought like a paper-thin seashell, hesitant to hold on too eagerly. She could change her mind or twist her ankle. This could be the first and only run. But Nate didn't want to think like that when he was about to introduce Jessie to his favorite sport. Life was good.
He imagined her blonde hair in a ponytail, her blue eyes bright, working up a healthy sweat beside him. He hoped he could hold it together, be a professional. This was going to require more effort than usual. He'd have to treat her like any client, not get overly excited or — God forbid — aroused. Even though Jessie wasn't like any client he'd trained, then or ever. Because he'd never been in love with a client.
Dawn was just breaking, and the sky was a light shade of dove gray. She opened her door when he pulled up in the SUV, then shut it behind her and gave him a little wave. So much for his fantasy of pulling her out of bed. "Ready?"
Damn, she was perky even at four in the morning. He'd have to get whatever coffee she drank. "The question is, are you ready?" he said as he climbed out of the vehicle and shut the door behind him. "Because I'm about to kick your ass into shape."
Jessie wrinkled her nose. "You men always make everything so violent. How about, you're about to gently lead me down the path of fitness?"
She smiled that brilliant smile that lit up her face and took his breath away. His collar tightened. Not a stellar start to a professional session. "How about this: I'll kick your ass gently? You'll be sore tomorrow, but you'll love it."
She tilted her head at him. "A gentle ass-kicking, huh? I guess I'll take it."
She was wearing tight gray leggings that ended mid-calf and — man! — did a lot of favors for her glutes. As he approached, she reached her arms overhead, exposing a small stretch of bare skin around her abdomen. A very nice abdomen it was. He unzipped his sweatshirt a few inches, feeling hot around the collar, and reminded himself to be a professional, God damn it.
"Should we stretch first, or what?" She set her hands on her hips and tilted her neck from side to side.
"We'll stretch at the end," he said. That was assuming he could exhaust himself so he wouldn't pop an erection at the sight of her working out tight muscles. "Let's start by walking."
She shrugged. "Okay."
"You're going to have to get running shoes, first of all. Those things on your feet don't have enough support."
He saw by the look on her face that he'd just broken her heart. "But I love these shoes!"
Of course she loved them, because they were bright purple with pink laces. "Yeah, they're great-looking. But they don't have any cushioning. Head to Fast Tracks. They'll measure your feet and check your gait and everything."
"Check my gait?" She groaned. "It's way too early for this."
"I don't want you sidelined by shin splints. Remember, this is for charity."
He'd trained plenty of clients for their first 5K. The distance was friendly — just a little over three miles — but challenging enough to be a real achievement. His greatest professional rewards came at the finish lines of local races when he saw the sheer exuberance on his clients' faces.
He glanced over at Jessie to check how she was holding up. She was quieter than usual and rubbing her palms together as they headed down the street. Nervous. He leaned over and bumped her shoulder with his and said, "You've got this. We're going to start slowly, do a little walking, pick it up to a jog for about ninety seconds, and then walk again."
When he'd first started out, Nate had made the mistake of coaching his clients the way he'd want to be coached. Physical activity had always come naturally to him, and he welcomed challenges. He needed to be pushed. But although he trained the occasional triathlete or marathoner trying to qualify for Boston, most of his clients just ne
eded help getting back into shape. They needed encouragement, and would fold if pushed too hard. This was the art of it, he supposed.
Besides, he knew a lot about Jessie. When she wanted something, she approached it from every angle until she got it. But this was a new challenge, and he didn't want to reinforce her belief that she wasn't an athlete. He released a breath as they walked in silence, realizing that he'd miscalculated by talking tough. Blame it on the missed hours of sleep. "You're going to push for those ninety seconds, and I want you to feel it tomorrow, but I promise you it will be a good kind of sore, all right? No ass-kicking involved."
The tension in her brow melted and she nodded. "Okay. Thanks."
As they came to the corner stop sign, Nate thought about all the summer mornings he'd run down this very street, across the course he was about to share with Jessie. It was still one of his favorite routes. And he could grow to love this time of the morning, when the air was damp and smelled like last night's cut grass. "We're going to pick up to a jog now. I want you to be able to talk, but not sing. Make sense?"
She pressed her lips together and brushed some stray hairs from her face. "Don't set off without me, please. You're so much faster than I am."
He saw in the wrinkle of her brow how much that fact embarrassed her. He'd been prodding her for years to join him for a run, and he'd always taken her dismissal as a lack of interest. All this time, she'd been afraid she wasn't good enough. "It takes a lot of guts to get out for your first run. You set the pace. I don't judge my clients — or my friends. Start whenever you're ready."
She took a deep breath and set off. He followed, making sure to allow her to lead, if only by inches. They wound through the neighborhood, down the little side streets with gardens and picket fences. He felt nostalgic. When he was a kid, middle-class families could still afford to buy a vacation cottage by the shore, and they had. He'd lived on the other side of Archer Cove with his parents and brother and sister, but he'd spent summers here in his grandmother's cottage, playing with his summer friends who lived in New York for the rest of the year. Now the properties had changed hands a few times with every boom in the market. The neighborhood had become a revolving door for tourists and investors. He missed the old days, when he could pair homes to families.
A Sweet Possibility (Archer Cove Series Book 2) Page 9