Chapter 3

Whipped Cream & a Cherry on Top

Keeping my head bowed, I pedal my ten-speed bicycle against the light breeze as I make my regular six-mile trek to the creamery. It allows me plenty of time to wonder how Rebecca could choose the squeal of taxicab horns and congested streets over the lull of ocean waves. I could never understand what she wanted from me. I’ll be darned if I know why she stated that she’d never live here again. It was something about this place not giving her what she needed. Well, thanks for nothing. Talk about making a man feel inadequate. I don’t need that kind of heartache, yet now I’ve got to work with her. At least it won’t be forever. Since she left, she’s never visited for more than three weeks, so I’ll just have to pretend that I don’t want to kiss her every time I’m around her.

When I arrive at the shop, my dad is already loading the few remaining ice cream bins. We nod at each other and, by the time I’ve got the frozen yogurt machines up and running, Rebecca comes breezing through the door, looking pretty in a yellow sundress.

I brace myself for the restraint I’ll need to not wrap an arm around her slender waist or kiss those perfectly-shaped lips.

“Good morning,” Dad says. “I’m glad you’re on board with us.”

“Good morning.” Rebecca’s eyes dart from Dad to me. “Raymond asked me to meet him here today. He hasn’t filled me in on the details yet.”

“Oh?” He scratches his thinning hairline. “Is that right?”

“He said he needed me.” She sets a large straw handbag on a table.

“That’s certainly true.” Dad chuckles and nudges my arm.

At this point, it’s time for me to take charge of the conversation. “I asked Rebecca to come to the shop before it opened so we could talk without interruption.” I push open the door leading to the back. “Let’s go to the office.”

“I’ve got stuff to do out here.” My father loads a tray with plastic spoons and napkins.

I’ve been alone with Rebecca more times than I can count, so why do my palms feel sweaty when we’re sitting across from each other at the small desk in the back room?

“What’s this about?” She focuses those inquisitive, light brown eyes on me. “You said you needed me.”

“Give me a minute, will you?” She never was one to waste time on small talk, so I might as well get to the point. “You may have noticed that business is down.”

“Are you saying that sales are down even though it’s the height of the tourist season?” she asks skeptically. “How’s that even possible when you make the most delicious ice cream on the west coast, if not the whole country? I don’t understand. Customers should be lined up around the block.”

“Things have changed since the last time you were here.” Rebecca was always our most loyal fan—especially when it came to our mocha chocolate swirl flavor. “We’ve reduced some products and added others.”

“Such as? You have year-round summer weather and, last I checked, tourists and children are always in the mood for ice cream. I have a feeling there’s something you aren’t telling me.” She crosses her legs and leans forward expectantly.

“We strategically reduced our ice cream inventory.”

Her eyes bulge as she gasps. “You did what? Please don’t tell me you don’t have my favorite flavor.” She folds her arms across her waist.

“Are you going to let me finish or not?” Between her being within touching distance and having to ask her for help, I’m questioning the wisdom of thinking we’d be able to work together.

“I’m sorry.” She settles back in the chair, lowers her arms, and softens her voice. “Please continue. I won’t interrupt anymore. It’s just that—well, I’m in shock. Everyone loves options.”

I wait a few seconds, hoping she’s finished with her commentary. “Let me finish. All the research touted frozen yogurt as being more in-demand. It’s lighter, and the perception is that it is healthier, so I figured we should sell it and reduce our ice cream inventory.” When she doesn’t comment, I add, “It’s based on industry data.”

“I see.” She purses her lips, clearly displeased. “What flavors of ice cream do you still carry?”

“Strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate.” I hold up three fingers.

“Go on.” She taps the desk.

“What do you mean, go on? That’s it, with one exception. Little kids like the bubble gum flavor, so we still sell that.” I ignore her exasperated expression. “Those are the basics. We also stopped using glass bowls and real silverware. Too old-fashioned. Everything is served in paper cups now.”

Standing, I walk over to a set of cabinets and pull out an article on accelerating frozen yogurt franchises and their booming profit margins during the most recent fiscal year. “Perhaps you’d like to read the data for yourself?” I hand her the article, but she puts up her hand.

“That’s not necessary.” She leans forward and pierces me with an intense gaze. “Ice cream is rich and creamy. It’s not supposed to be healthy. It’s yummy and decadent. It should look pretty when it’s served. We want to see each scoop, whipped cream, and the cherry on top. Please tell me you still sell sundaes, banana splits, and root beer floats.”

“We don’t.” From the way she’s scowling at me, you’d think that I told her Easter and Christmas had been canceled.

We sit in silence for several seconds before she brushes a strand of hair from her cheek. “Why did you ask me here?”

“Originally, it was my dad’s idea to talk to you, and now that I’ve had time to think it over, I know he’s right. We do need you,” I say, swallowing my pride. “I’m the one who changed things around here, and my gamble didn’t pay off. Maybe you’re right; people want the flavors of their youth. Tourists are on vacation and they always used to order the most ice cream—triple scoops, root beer floats, you name it. Not anymore. We don’t offer any of that. We need to increase our revenue, and I’m not sure how to turn the situation around. That’s where you come in.”

“I’m not following you.” She folds her hands in her lap while peering intently at me. “What can I do?”

“You are one of the top marketing executives out there and you work at one of the most prestigious advertising companies in the country.”

“How do you know that?” Shocked, she blinks rapidly.

“Really, Rebecca? Do you think we’re so out of it here that we don’t know what’s going on in other parts of the country?” My chair scrapes across the floor as I pull it away from the table, then silently pace the floor. “I hate to admit it, but what you just told me makes me look at things differently. That spontaneous feedback has already helped. Sometimes, when you’re so immersed in a situation, you can’t figure out a solution.”

Sitting down, I scoot my chair closer to hers… which is a big mistake. One whiff of her perfume stirs something in my gut, but it would be awkward to move away from her now that I’m this close. I can see the light smattering of freckles that even her make-up doesn’t conceal. Oh man, am I in trouble. Recalling that she left me should keep me focused on the task in front of us, not on how good it felt to do something as simple as hold her hand.

“No, I didn’t mean that, but it’s not common knowledge.” Looking down, she folds her hands in her lap. “For the record, I don’t work there anymore.”

“Oh? I’m not surprised. You probably got a promotion at an even bigger agency.” A burst of adrenaline shoots through me and has me wondering if that means she’s not leaving any time soon, but my elation may be premature. “Should I be congratulating you on your new job?”

Is it a coincidence that she returned the same week as Miguel? Unlikely, not the way he caressed her arm and how they were laughing and dancing together last night. After all, she hasn’t said she came back for me. But now that she’s seeing Miguel, any hopes of anything more than a working relationship with her are nonexistent.

“There is no new job.” She turns in my direction, and something inside my chest warms. “I left to come back to Sunnyville. I missed my mother and… the town. As a matter of fact, I’ll start my employment search on Monday.”

“The creamery needs you. Sales have got to go up or we’ll have to close the doors.” I rub my jaw. “Truth is, I don’t know how to turn things around. That’s where your expertise will come in. We can’t pay you as much as you’re used to earning, but I’m hoping we can work something out.”

“I love this place.” The dimple that only shows when she’s smiling winks back at me. “I’d do it for free.”

“No, that wouldn’t be right.” I don’t want her thinking that she’s doing charity work. “We’ll work out the details later.”

She nods in agreement. “I have a lot of ideas, not just about what you’re selling and your presentation, but also about your social media marketing strategies.” She pulls a notebook and a pen out of her handbag.

“You lost me.” I point to a faded banner that spans the length of the adjacent wall. The name of the business and the date we opened are printed out in cracked and faded letters. “We’ve never advertised. We never needed to.”

“Times have changed, and I think we could both agree that the banner needs to be updated. The one outside, too. When I was here the other day, I couldn’t help noticing that it’s tattered, and letters are missing.” Picking up her pen, she writes the word ‘colt’ on her notepad. “See this? The ice creamery’s name is spelled incorrectly, and that’s what the sign outside spells. Not great for marketing purposes. I know it has sentimental value, and that banner may have been enough twenty years ago, but we need a lot more to get this place packed with buying customers. First, we need to understand consumer expectations. What kind of experience are they seeking when they walk into an ice cream shop, and can Colton’s provide it? If people just want a plain scoop of ice cream, they can buy it cheaper at the grocery store.”

“Ouch.” She’s right, of course. “No use sugar-coating the facts, right?”

“It’s the truth.” She jots down some notes. “They want an experience, something that feels decadent or, at least, fun. When people purchase ice cream from an eating establishment, they want to relish the experience. Additionally, all businesses must have a marketing strategy—a platform and incentives to bring in the customers. There’s a reason even well-established businesses have sales, contests, and coupons.”

My mind wanders off at the mention of relishing an experience. I recall a time when Rebecca was wrapped in my arms with her head on my shoulder as she professed her love. Running a hand across the back of my neck, I clear away the cherished memories of that particular time and concentrate on what she’s saying.

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” She shows me her notes as if that will clarify everything. The words ice cream, pictures, and contest stand out.

“Whoa, wait a minute.” I hold out my hands. “I don’t know about any of that social media stuff.”

“I know you don’t.” She looks me straight in the eye and adds, “That’s exactly why you need me.”

Little does she know that that’s not the only reason I need her. My life hasn’t been the same since she left. Sure, I’ve dated other women, but they just made me miss Rebecca, and now it’s going to be pure torture watching her parade around town in the arms of another man. There’s no way I can compete with a veteran. Heck, that’s like trying to compete with a superhero. I’m just an ordinary guy trying to do right by my mother’s dream. She loved this place. She was happiest here before cancer ravaged her health. Who’d think that Rebecca would hold the key to getting the business up and running again? I believe in Rebecca. Always have. She’s the smartest person I know. The creamery will be saved, but what about my wounded heart?