To Dream Again Read online

  "This sectional track you've designed fits together extremely well, Nathaniel." The stranger's enthusiastic voice carried across the room to her. "Percy, we'll need to determine the amount of tin and wood for each set."

  "Of course." Percy jotted down a few words in the notebook on his lap. Mara hugged the pile of papers to her breast. Rather than wait for her, as she'd expected, they'd just started the meeting without her. She watched them for a moment, feeling very much like an outsider in the company she used to control.

  Taking a deep breath, she entered the room, and all three men rose to their feet as she approached.

  "Sorry I'm late," she said, careful to keep her voice expressionless.

  "I don't believe we've met." The dark-haired man stepped forward, tipping his cap, but not removing it. "You must be Mrs. Elliot. I'm Michael Lowenstein. Your new engineer."

  Mara gave him a blank look before glancing over at Mr. Chase. "I see," she murmured. "Gentlemen, will you excuse us, please? I'd like to speak privately with Mr. Chase."

  "Oh, er, yes," Percy stammered and started for the door. Michael Lowenstein followed.

  She faced Mr. Chase, expecting to see laughter in his eyes, but she was surprised to find no hint of mockery there. He was watching her impassively, and she wondered what he was thinking.

  He glanced past her to the doorway. "Michael, when do you think you can have a materials and parts list ready?"

  "I'll have it to you by Sunday," the engineer answered. "I'll be downstairs looking over your equipment if you need me."

  Percy added, "I'll have that list of toy retailers to you by this afternoon. I'll also have a key to the building cut for you."

  Nathaniel nodded. "Do we have a safe?"

  "There's one in my office," Mara said. "Why?"

  He gestured to the train. "I want to start locking up the train at night, along with the track, the accessories, and the design specifications. The toy business is very competitive, and I don't want my train to suddenly disappear. Michael, I want you to be responsible for locking up the train."

  He glanced at Percy. "Let's not discuss this with anyone else. Once the train is in stores, it won't matter, but until then I want to keep this as quiet as possible."

  The two men left the room, and Nathaniel turned back to Mara. "You missed the meeting," he said, but there was no censure in his voice.

  "Unlike some, I had work to do."

  "Mmm, I see." He flashed her that mercurial smile. "Planning various ways to murder me without being caught, I imagine."

  His outrageous comment was so close to the truth, Mara couldn't help the answering smile that tugged at her mouth. "You might say that."

  "Well, the lady has a sense of humor. I was beginning to wonder."

  Her smile disappeared instantly. "Not all people find life as amusing as you do, Mr. Chase."

  He held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I was only teasing you, Mara. Don't stiffen up and go all prickly again."

  She didn't relax. "Mrs. Elliot, if you please, sir."

  He knew she was angry at what he'd done, and that she thought he was bizarre, even crazy. But Mara was his partner, and he didn't want to begin their partnership with hostility. "I'm sorry about what happened earlier. We've gotten off to rather a bad start, it seems. Can we begin again?"

  She studied him for a long moment, and he expected her to reject his offer of peace. But finally, she nodded. "Very well."

  Only two little words, but Nathaniel sensed it had cost her a great deal to say them. He decided to change the subject. "What are those?" he asked, gesturing to the stack of papers in her arms.

  She walked across the room, careful to step around the pieces of metal and wood on the floor, and came to a halt before him. She removed the top sheet, then held the stack out to him. "These are Elliot's financial statements for the past six months. You'll want to go over them, of course."

  He shook his head and waved them aside. "I don't need to see them."

  "You don't want to look over our financial statements?"

  "I trust your judgment and your ability to keep accurate records. Mr. Finch spoke very highly of your financial expertise. I don't have that ability myself, and balance sheets and income statements are Greek to me."

  "Don't you have questions about our financial situation?"

  "Mr. Finch answered all my questions. Besides, aren't there a few things you want to discuss with me?"

  "Definitely. For a start, don't you think you might have consulted with me before hiring an engineer?"

  "I'd already discussed the decision with James, and I had already hired Michael when I learned James was dead."

  "We don't need an engineer."

  "Yes, we do. I'm not a bad engineer myself, but I can't do it alone."

  "What are we paying this engineer we don't need and can't afford?"

  "Ten pounds a week."

  "What? That's outrageous!"

  "Michael's the best toy engineer there is. He's worth every penny."

  "Toys again." She looked down at the papers in her hands. "You still plan to go through with this crazy idea of making us a toy company?"

  "It isn't crazy, and yes, I do."

  "I can't believe you're serious. The costs would be tremendously high. If you're familiar with our finances, you know we can't afford it. The new equipment alone would break us."

  "No, it won't. We'll start making toy trains first.

  We can make the motors here and the bodies of the trains without purchasing any new equipment. Any parts we can't make here with equipment we have, we'll subcontract out."

  "Subcontracting costs the earth!"

  "But we'll have no overhead."

  "The cost per piece will still be outrageously high," she argued. "How can we make any profit?"

  "You are in charge of financial matters, Mrs. Elliot. I suggest you do a cost analysis or whatever you call it." He pointed to the train set on the floor. "Figure out the cost to make each piece and a list of the contractors who will provide quality parts at the lowest prices. Make sure they give us thirty days' credit, because we'll need the time delay. Any questions?"

  "Why are you so set on doing this?" she asked. "What is wrong with making engines and dynamos, as we have always done?"

  "I didn't buy fifty-one percent of this company to build dynamos. I bought it to build toys." He jabbed one finger toward the train. "My toys."

  "If ordinary motors and dynamos are too dull for you, sir, perhaps you should have bought into a different company. Elliot's can't afford what you're proposing!"

  Nathaniel raked a hand through his hair, frustrated by her refusal to consider possibilities. Skepticism and doubt—God, he was so tired of that. He was tired of words like can't and mustn't and won't. He hated those words.

  "We'll make the changes gradually," he explained, but he had the feeling he was talking to a marble statue. "At the same time, we'll phase out most of what we make now, until we are making only the motors for our own products. I plan to make us England's finest toy maker."

  "Big dreams, big ideas," she scoffed. "But equipment isn't the only cost involved in something like this. Where shall we obtain the money to develop and manufacture these new products? Shall you provide it?"

  "No."

  "No? Why not? You're from a wealthy family, aren't you?"

  He lifted his head sharply. "Who told you that?"

  "Percy. He said your family owns Chase Toy Company."

  His lips tightened into a thin line. "I don't have access to that money. My elder brother owns Chase Toys, and I hardly think it likely that he would give me the money to go into competition against him."

  Mara stared at him in astonishment. "That's what this is about? You intend to compete against your own brother? In heaven's name, why?"

  He glanced again at the train, thinking of all the reasons. His grandfather's legacy, the need to prove himself. But only one reason mattered. His dream. "Making toys, toys I invented, has always
been the only thing I've ever wanted to do. My brother had nothing to do with it."

  "So if you want to build the toys you've invented, why not do that at Chase Toys? Why start your own company?"

  "My brother never did like to share, even when we were children."

  "I see." She was silent for a moment, then she returned to her original question. "How do you plan to finance all these inventions you want to make?"

  "Simple. We'll take out a loan from the bank."

  "What?" Mara stepped back, shaking her head. "Oh, no. We will not."

  "Why not? Businesses often raise capital that way."

  "It's too risky."

  "If you want to accomplish anything in life, you have to take risks."

  "No!" she countered. "You accomplish things in life by hard work, persistence, and concentrated effort. Not by going off half-cocked, borrowing money for crazy schemes that won't work."

  "How do you know they won't work until you try them?"

  She yanked her pencil from behind her ear and stepped forward, tilting her chin to look up at him. "I have no intention of trying anything that puts my company in jeopardy!"

  "Your company?"

  "Yes, Mr. Chase, my company. While my husband went waltzing off to America looking for adventures, I'm the one who stayed here and kept everything from falling apart," she said, and began to pace angrily in front of Nathaniel. "I did the work. James may have started this company, but I'm the one who kept him from bankrupting it." She came to a halt and glared at him. "I've earned the right to call it mine."

  "I didn't know that." He studied her face, beginning to see what had given her the bitter eyes and hard edges.

  "Well, now you know. It's easy for you to talk about taking risks," she said as she resumed her agitated steps. "There are a thousand ways your idea can go wrong. If your scheme doesn't work and the company goes bankrupt, I'll be in the street and so will all of the people who work here."

  She paused again. "But I don't suppose that matters to you," she added with scorn, pointing at him with her pencil. "You can always go back to the Chase family mansion in Mayfair or the country estate or wherever it is the rich aristocrats live. Most of us aren't so fortunate."

  "I told you, I don't have access to the Chase fortune. Even if I wanted to go back to the family mansion, I can't. I burned that bridge long ago. If this venture proves unsuccessful, I'll be in the street right along with you. Paying off your loan took nearly every cent I had."

  "Why are you doing this?" she cried. "Why invest all you have and jeopardize all I have on a venture that's risky at best? Elliot's is solvent. Why can't you just leave it be?"

  "Solvent is a far cry from successful," he pointed out. "Besides, your husband and I planned this together. It was his dream as well as mine to make Elliot's a toy company."

  As he watched her expression harden he realized that was the wrong thing to say. "You think that will persuade me to go along with this harebrained scheme?" Her hand clenched into a fist around her pencil. "My husband's dreams were as inconstant as the weather and just as unpredictable. Every dream James ever had was the miracle that would make us wealthy and happy."

  She took a deep breath. "But every time he realized there would be work involved in any of his schemes, the shine wore off. He'd pack his bags and head for the next rainbow in search of the pot of gold, leaving me to clean up the mess he left behind. Once I'd done that, of course, I was expected to join him. Mr. Chase, my husband dragged me all over the world. I've lived in so many places, I couldn't list them all. Africa, India, Hong Kong, Egypt, anywhere James thought that rainbow might be."

  Silence fell between them. In her cloudy gray eyes, he saw the shadows of pain and disillusionment—the dark side of her husband's rainbow. He suddenly found himself wishing he could take those shadows away.

  Her pencil snapped in her hand, and the sound echoed in the quiet, empty room, breaking the silence. "Don't tell me about my husband's dreams, sir," she said bitterly. "I know all about them."

  "You don't know about my dreams," he answered. "I'm not looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and a little hard work won’t make me run away. I liked your husband, but I'm not like him."

  "Yes, you are! You come here with your big ideas, with no thought to the havoc you'll create and the mess you'll leave behind when you grow tired of it. You're just like him." She threw down the broken pieces of her pencil. "Another rainbow-chasing dreamer," she said and turned away, heading for the door.

  "And what's wrong with being a dreamer?" he called to her. "Don't you have any dreams, Mara?"

  She came to a halt in the doorway. Slowly, she turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. "No," she said quietly. "Not anymore."

  She was gone before he could ask what her dreams might have been. He looked down at the locomotive on the floor and decided that perhaps he could give Mara Elliot a new dream to believe in. His dream.

  Chapter Six

  The books didn't balance. Mara added up the column of numbers again and came up with yet another total. Frustrated, she set down her pencil and leaned back in her chair. It was no use. She just wasn't concentrating.

  She glanced at the clock. Half past seven, and she'd only ploughed through one tenth of her day's paperwork. She picked up her pencil.

  Don't you have any dreams, Mara?

  She'd had her dreams once. She'd dreamed that James would stop dragging her and their daughter all over the world and settle down. When she'd realized that dream was just a fantasy, she'd formed another.

  She had dreamed of her own home, a home with blue shutters and window boxes of red geraniums, a paid-for home that nobody could take away, with a huge kitchen and a full larder so her daughter would never go hungry. But that dream, too, had turned to ashes, leaving her with scars much deeper than the ones on her hands.

  Husbands left, homes burned down, and children died, and it was just too painful to begin again.

  So she had dreamed of running her own business, controlling her own life and her own destiny. That dream, too, had failed to come true. She stared down at the gloved hand that held the pencil. What had dreams ever gotten her? Nothing at all.

  She began to add the long column of numbers, counting aloud, hoping that might help. "Sixty-four. Carry the six. Six and ten...nineteen...one-hundred ninety-four pounds. That isn't right," she muttered. "How did I arrive at that?"

  Don't you have any dreams, Mara?

  She groaned and lowered her forehead to the desk.

  "Having a problem?"

  She lifted her head. Nathaniel Chase was standing in the doorway, holding a cardboard box in his hands and smiling at her. She refused to smile back. He was the reason she couldn't concentrate. "I don't balance. I've added these numbers a dozen times and I end up with a different total each time." She sighed, too tired to wonder why he'd come to her office, too tired to care what havoc he would create next.

  "Maybe you need to take a break." Nathaniel moved into the room and placed the box in front of her.

  "What is that?"

  "Dinner." He lifted the lid and tossed it aside. "I thought you might be hungry."

  She leaned forward and stared at the sandwiches, glasses, and bottles nestled inside the box and realized she hadn't eaten since early that morning. The sight of the food made her suddenly ravenous, but she couldn't eat in front of him. She never ate in front of anyone. "Where did you obtain this?"

  "Mrs. O'Brien made the sandwiches. I often order meals from her. I had Percy pick up the beverages at the shop next door."

  "Mrs. O'Brien!" Mara made a sound of vexation. "She probably gouged you shamelessly on the price. How much?"

  "Two shillings." He grinned at her frown of disapproval.

  "Highway robbery. You shouldn't have paid more than one."

  "I'll remember that next time," he said, smothering what sounded suspiciously like a laugh. He pulled out two bottles. "Ginger beer or lemonade?"

  A be
verage she could accept. "Lemonade, please," she answered and watched as he pulled a corkscrew out of his pocket. He uncorked the two bottles, then poured the lemonade into a glass and handed the glass to her. She took a swallow, savoring the sweet-tart taste for a moment before she set the glass on her desk.

  He began to rummage inside the box. "I didn't know what you'd like, so I had her make several different kinds of sandwiches. There’s roast beef, tomato and cucumber, and chicken. She put some sour pickles in here, too."

  Mara stared up at him, unable to think of a polite way to refuse his offer to share supper with her, even as the mention of chicken and roast beef made her insides twist with hunger.

  He noted her expression. "I thought," he said as he pulled sandwiches out of the box, "this might be a peace offering. What kind would you like?"

  "Thank you, but I'm not hungry," she said stiffly, clasping her gloved hands tightly together in her lap.

  He set the empty box aside. Keeping one foot on the floor, he sat on the edge of her desk and studied her for a moment. Not wanting his perceptive eyes to see through her lie, she lowered her gaze and wished he would go away.

  "You must be hungry," he contradicted her softly. "I know you've been busy working. I'll bet you haven't eaten a thing all day." Reaching forward, he pushed one of the sandwiches closer to her.

  The scent of freshly baked bread made her mouth water. She pushed the food away almost desperately. "No, really, I'm not hungry. I...I'm too busy to eat anyway."

  He reached out, and the tips of his fingers brushed beneath her chin as he lifted her face to look into her eyes. "I'm fairly certain that ladies always remove their gloves when they eat," he said in a gentle voice, "but if you choose to commit a serious breach of etiquette, I won't tell anyone."

  He'd guessed her predicament. Of course. He'd seen her hands once before. Mortified, Mara pulled her chin from his grasp and looked away from the compassion in his eyes. She didn't want any man's pity.