Summer on Blossom Street

Clark had courted her for weeks, sending her f lowers, bringing her gifts, charming her. Despite his efforts, she resisted every attempt he made and refused to see him outside the clinic—until he’d finished his therapy. She should’ve learned her lesson then. Clark didn’t take rejection well. She’d broken off the engagement, and that had injured his pride. He wasn’t about to let her walk away. In his view of the world, he was in control; he did the leaving.



The minute her mother had heard Clark’s name, she’d been ecstatic. Early on, Leanne hinted that it would be fine to bend the rules just a bit for someone of his stature. As soon as they’d started dating, Leanne had told all her friends that her daughter was seeing Max and Marlene Snowden’s only son. Clark was part of his father’s prestigious legal f irm and destined to become a full partner within the next five years. As far as Leanne Rylander was concerned, Phoebe had struck gold.



And Clark had swept her off her feet. Just like a romantic hero. He’d escorted her to parties and concerts. He’d lavished gifts on her, flattered her—and asked her to marry him. The f irst sign of trouble came when a woman from his office stopped by the clinic and asked to speak to Phoebe privately. Kellie Kramer warned her that Clark had a nasty habit of paying for sex. Phoebe hadn’t believed it. Why should she?



This woman obviously had a vendetta against Clark. Then Kellie had provided proof, showing her a copy of the warrant issued when Clark was arrested—the f irst time. She’d risked her job removing it from the f ile because she felt Phoebe had a right to know. Kellie claimed, as well, that there’d been plenty of other occasions. Clark just hadn’t been caught. Stunned, Phoebe had confronted Clark, who seemed genuinely surprised that she was upset. According to her fiancé this was something practically all men did. Sex with a prostitute didn’t mean anything, he said.



Phoebe had found it difficult to listen to these inadequate excuses. She’d wanted to break off the engagement immediately. Clark had begged for a second chance. He’d called her at all hours of the day and night. He’d sent f lowers and left pleading messages, until she’d weakened enough to agree. But the person who’d really convinced her to give him a second chance had been her own mother.



Leanne felt Phoebe needed to let Clark prove himself. Now that he understood such behavior was unacceptable, she’d argued, it would stop.



Clark had said all the right things. He’d vowed with tears in his eyes that nothing like this would ever happen again. He loved her. If Phoebe walked out on him, his life would be ruined. He’d also told her that Kellie Kramer had been f ired. She’d overstepped her bounds, and her insubordination wouldn’t be tolerated. Her motive had been to hurt Clark and his father. If Phoebe ended their engagement, Kellie would succeed. He’d begged for another chance and, with her mother’s encouragement ringing in her ears, Phoebe had let him convince her.



“Phoebe? Phoebe, are you still there?” her mother asked plaintively.



“I’m here, Mom.”



“Promise me you’ll sleep on this,” she said again. “Your entire future is at stake.”



“I already told you, Mother. There’s nothing to sleep on. Clark was with this other woman. He admitted it!”



“Yes, but she entrapped him.”



“That doesn’t matter. What does is that he broke his word.”



“I’m so afraid you’re going to do something you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”



You mean something you’re going to regret, Phoebe thought but didn’t say. She closed her eyes. “I…I can’t talk about this anymore. Good night, Mom.”



She had to persevere, not only against Clark but against her own mother, who’d rather see Phoebe sacrif ice her happiness and integrity than end a socially advantageous—but emotionally corrupt—relationship.



She couldn’t get to that knitting class fast enough, she told herself wryly. She had to banish Clark Snowden from her life and that meant she needed all the fortif ication she could get.



3



Bryan “Hutch” Hutchinson



Hutch sat in Dr. Dave Wellington’s off ice, waiting. His physician and former classmate wanted to speak to him and that couldn’t be good. He’d gone in for his annual physical, except that it wasn’t so annual, and following a series of tests, Dave’s nurse had ushered him into his off ice. Hutch and Dave had been friends for years; they’d gone to high school and college together, both star football players. Before Hutch took over the family business, they’d golfed together every Wednesday afternoon. Golf. Like so much else, he’d given it up after his father’s sudden death. Hutch had assumed the position of CEO at Mount Rainier Chocolates, and his life hadn’t been the same since.



There was no longer time for golf in the middle of the day. And now, with the pending lawsuit…



Hutch didn’t want to think about that because whenever he did he grew irritated. He f igured that was bad for his blood pressure, which the nurse had told him was elevated. Little wonder. So okay, he probably wasn’t as f it as he’d been in college. He didn’t have time to work out. The company’s demands made it impossible.



“Am I going to live?” Hutch joked as his friend walked in. Dave strode to the other side of his desk and pulled out the chair.



“That depends.”



The smiled died on Hutch’s lips. “You’re joking, right?”



Dave leaned toward him. “Your blood pressure is far too high.”



“Yeah, but…” He frowned. These days his stress level was through the roof, thanks largely to a frivolous lawsuit recently f iled against the company. Some woman claimed that eating Mount Rainier Chocolates had made her fat. Oh, the lawsuit dressed it up with fancy words about “psychological dependence” and “exploitive advertising” but the plaintiff ’s weight gain was the basis of her legal action. Talk about stupid! And yet it was just the kind of case he’d often read about, in which a jury awarded huge sums as punitive damages. The plaintiff shouldn’t have stood a chance of winning, but she had a crackerjack attorney who’d charged Mount Rainier Chocolates with malicious and willful misconduct and obviously hoped to create a precedent that would make his name. Every time Hutch thought about it, he became more agitated. Whatever happened to personal responsibility? To common sense? To accountability?



Hutch didn’t care what it cost; he wasn’t caving in, not to blackmail, and that was what he considered this. Okay, so his blood pressure was high; he’d deal with it. “Fine, I’ll take a pill.”



Dave shook his head. “It’s more than that. You’re working too hard, not exercising enough and I’m well aware that your diet is atrocious. You have all the classic symptoms of a man headed for a heart attack.”



“Hey, I’m only thirty-f ive.”



“Unmarried. And you know what the statistics say about the benefits of marriage—especially for men.”



The fact that he didn’t have a wife was also an issue with his mother. “I don’t have time to meet women,” he grumbled. Dave talked right over that. “You also have a family history of heart disease.”



“Yes, but—”



“How old was your father when he died?”



Hutch exhaled. “Fifty-eight.” He’d never forget the day he lost his father. He’d been twenty-f ive, carefree, self ish and a little arrogant. Back in those days, he had time for golf and dating and friends. That had all changed, literally overnight. He’d always accepted that eventually he’d step into his father’s shoes as head of the family enterprise. But he’d f igured it would be years before Bryan Sr. retired and he hadn’t concerned himself with details about the business. Although Hutch had showed up for work every day, he hadn’t paid much attention. Certainly not enough to assume the company’s leadership on such short notice. It had taken him two years to learn everything he needed to know about the business and the CEO’s role. He’d made mistakes and the company had f loundered. Not only did he have responsibilities to their employees, his mother depended on the income. Mount Rainier Chocolates had lost market share, and those lessons had been hard, but Hutch had slowly found his way. Over the next few years, the company did marginally better and then, gradually, there’d been a turnaround. His conf idence increased. Hutch had encouraged the development of new products, which he wanted to test. He’d switched distributors. He was involved in every aspect of the business, from research to hiring to advertising and everything in between. And because of all that, he worked twelve-and fourteen-hour days. This wasn’t a good time to be sued, in other words. Then again, was there ever?



“I’ll write you a prescription,” Dave said sternly, “but what you really need is a change in lifestyle.”



Hutch resisted the urge to groan aloud. He couldn’t add one more thing to his already crowded schedule. “Like what?”



“Diet.”



Now, that rankled—although he agreed that he skipped too many meals and ate too much junk food on the run. “I’m not overweight,” he argued.



“True, but you’re close to being anemic, your potassium is low and you’re putting your immune system at risk. That’s one of the reasons it’s taking your thumb so long to heal.”



More than a month ago Hutch had sliced open the f lesh between his thumb and index f inger while he was trying to cut a rubbery, two-day-old piece of pizza. The injury had required several stitches. To this day it continued to bother him. His improperly healed thumb was what had prompted him to make the appointment for his physical. It’d been a year and a half since he’d last seen Dave in a professional capacity. Or any capacity, really, except for a drink at Christmas.



“What about vitamins?” Hutch asked hopefully.



“I’m going to recommend one and put you on iron tablets, as well as blood pressure medication, but that isn’t enough. You need to start taking better care of yourself.” The unspoken words hung in the air between them. Otherwise Hutch would end up like his father—prematurely dead of a heart attack. And this time, there wouldn’t be anyone to take over the business.



“Okay, I’ll sign up for a gym.”



Dave shrugged as if this wasn’t a big enough concession.



“You’ve got to do more than sign up. You’ve got to work out at least three times a week.”



“Okay, f ine. I’ll do it.”



“You might also join a class or two.”



There was more? “What kind of class?”



Dave leaned back, grinning as he studied Hutch. “Don’t laugh,” he said.



“Why should I laugh?”



“Because I’m going to suggest you take up knitting.”



Hutch shook his head. “This is a joke, isn’t it?”



“No, it’s not. I had a male patient come in to my off ice with sky-high blood pressure. He decided to start knitting—I think his wife talked him into it. I have to tell you I was shocked at the difference in him. I’m not kidding. I saw the evidence myself.”