Dream Come True

If you had the chance to change your life, what would you do?

Sahara Smith is leaving her Texas trailer-park upbringing in the dust to take up a job at the famous Blue Ribbon Ice Cream Company. All her dreams are finally coming true and she’s determined to let nothing stand in her way.

But on her first day she meets tall, oh-so-sexy Brandon, the kind of guy Sahara knows would never be interested in a girl like her. So why does he seem so intent on getting to know her?

Sahara’s dreams of a better life are finally within her grasp – until she discovers something that could bring the whole lot crashing down around her. But she isn’t giving up that easily, not when destiny is calling…

The first enchanting novel in Gina Calanni’s Ice Cream Dreams series. Perfect for fans of Jill Shalvis, Robyn Carr and Susan Mallery.

Also by Gina Calanni:

Home for the Holidays

How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie

How to Bake the Perfect Christmas Cake

How to Bake the Perfect Apple Pie

How to Bake the Perfect Wedding Cake

Dream Come True

Gina Calanni

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright © Gina Calanni 2016

Gina Calanni asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9781474047494

Version date: 2018-07-23

GINA CALANNI

currently resides where bluebonnets line the highways in the spring, but she prefers the rock flower anemone from under the sea. Above the ocean’s surface Gina likes to bake with her three boys and run like the ground is crumbling beneath her feet while being dragged along by her pooch, Schatzi, Music is the backbone of each one of Gina’s books and her favorite button to press is repeat. At the end of the day Gina’s glass of wine is always half full. You can follow Gina on Twitter: @Gina_Calanni and on Instagram: @gina_calanni

Check out www.ginacalanni.com to keep up to date with the latest scoop in her life.

To Ethan, Beck, and Jude – it was so much fun sampling different ice creams with you as I wrote Dream Come True. I loved having you as my ultimate research partners.

To my mom – you’re a sweet treat on a Sunday Funday smothered in whipped cream and a drizzle of strawberry glaze. Thank you for your endless support.

To Katie – you’re a dose of Mexican vanilla ice cream with dollops of peanut butter and scoops of Nutella mixed into an incredible flavor that everyone truly savors. Thank you for always being my Jamison.

To Engy – you’re a unique blend of apple cinnamon slices chopped into butter pecan ice cream with threads of caramel swirled into each bite. Thank you for your love and friendship.

To Mika – you’re a mix of red wine sorbet with little traces of dark chocolate laced through. Thank you for your love and friendship.

To Bethany – you’re an ice cream sundae served with peach champagne sauce. Thank you for your continued support and friendship.

To my Gems – thank you for the laughs, love, and support – y’all are banana split with strawberry, raspberry and blueberry ice cream topped with whipped cream and chopped pecans.

To my HQ Digital Crew – you’re an international combination of toasted hazelnuts, Swiss chocolate, English toffee, Australian Tim Tams, and peanut butter cups blended into the ultimate blizzard enjoyed by all. Thank you for the support, the advice, and the laughs.

To my editor Charlotte – you’re a mixture of Dulce de Leche cheesecake bites layered into a delicious ice cream torte topped with Chambord.

To my glass of wine – thank you for the encouragement, the ability to get past the difficult moments, and the enjoyment with every sip.

And finally last but not least to Schatzi, who if given the chance would love to share a tub of ice cream with me any day of the week. However, since she is a dog, I shall offer a tasty bone and heartfelt thank you for always being at my side and letting me know you care.

To Ethan, Beck, and Jude – every day spent with you is like an extra topping to the joy of each delicious scoop of life that you have brought me.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

I slap my hand down on the scratched-up kitchen table. I can’t believe it. It actually happened. It happened. It.

I – that’s me, Sahara Smith – just received an email from none other than Blue Ribbon Creamery in Riverton, Texas. From their corporate office. CORPORATE! I blink my eyes a few times. And scan my computer once more before telling my mama. She probably won’t believe me. Shoot, I wouldn’t have believed me if I hadn’t just read it myself. I lick my lips and peak at the screen one more time. There it is, clearer than a sunrise over the parking lot at Wal-Mart.

Dear Ms. Smith,

We would like to offer you a position at Blue Ribbon Creamery as an associate product developer.

Product developer. I’ll have to explain to my mama what this means. I jump up. It’s real. This is finally happening! To me. I run through my kitchen and out the front door. My mama is sitting in her rocking chair on the porch. Her house coat is flapping a bit at her ankles. Even though she’s wearing her house coat, she’s put on her sandals for being on the porch. My mama is one for decorum and always says showing your house shoes in public is downright shameful. She’s got her knitting needles whipping up another afghan for one of her friends, I’m sure.

“Mama, mama.” I rub my lips together.

“Yes, Sahara, what is it, sugar? What’s got you in such a fuss?” She places the needles down in her lap.

“Mama, it happened! It finally happened!” I’m almost afraid to say what it is out loud. Like somehow it won’t be true.

“What, sugar? What happened?” My mama’s green eyes are wide now, like she’s worried I might say something horrible like a pipe under the kitchen sink is sprouting out water and flooding our house. She doesn’t realize that my excitement is a good thing. A great thing. The best thing that’s ever happened to me.

“I’ve been offered a job at Blue Ribbon Creamery.” I do a mini-dance, running around the porch, and come back to where my mama is sitting and grab her hands. I want her to dance with me. My mama doesn’t move. She sits still in her chair and picks up her needles and yarn again.

“What do you mean, a job at Blue Ribbon Creamery? You’ve already got a job at Dairy Queen.” My mama cocks her head to the right and gives me a look of indignation. Like I’ve got rattlesnakes crawling out of my hair.

“Mama, I told you I had creation skills.”

“Now, hush your mouth. Don’t you go talking that blasphemy.” My mama clutches her chest like she is waiting for lightning to strike us both down.

I let out a small laugh. “Mama, I mean flavor-creating skills. Remember how many flavors I created for Dairy Queen?” I say under my breath… for no extra pay. “Well, Blue Ribbon wants my skills and is offering me a job as an associate product developer.”

“Say what? How are you going develop products? That sounds too fancy for you and especially for ice cream. That implies a plural and ice cream is only one thing. How can you create products, plural, about ice cream?” My mama shakes her head in dismay, as if I’ve said I can solve a Rubik’s cube blindfolded.

“Mama, I filled out the questionnaire and listed all the products.” I swallow fast. I’m about to drown in saliva in the back of my mouth. “I put down all of the flavors that I’ve already created for Dairy Queen and Blue Ribbon must have been impressed as they are offering me this job.” I throw my hands up in the air. Why isn’t she happy for me? I press my lips together. Does my mama not think I can do this job?

“Sugar, I don’t know about this.” My mama shakes her head and works her needles back and forth.

“Mama, I’m taking this job.” I stand firm. I’m not going to be persuaded. I’ve been scooping ice cream for too long not to jump at the first opportunity to land a real job. One with benefits and the real possibility of a career. I can do this. I’m talented. I know my flavors. Dairy Queen has accepted every single one of the nineteen flavors I’ve created. Why can’t my mama be happy and supportive of me? This is my ticket. This is my way out of this small-town life.

I don’t want to follow in my mama’s footsteps. I want something more for myself. My mama always said she named me Sahara because I was destined for great things. Well, it’s arrived: the opportunity of a lifetime. It’s going to take me out of this town. Mexia is mighty nice and all that but I can’t stay here any longer. I’ve been itching my palms every day counting down the seconds until this moment. The moment I’ve been offered a ticket out. And I want it so bad. Worse than I’ve ever wanted anything. Well, except having my daddy back. But there’s no time to think about him. Not in a happy moment like this. I’ve got to pack my things and figure out where I’m going to stay. There is so much to do. But it doesn’t matter because I’m leaving! I’ve got a real important job. One that requires skills and talent. Finally, someone – well, not someone, a whole company! – thinks that my ideas, my creations, are good and worthy of payment. I’m so excited.

I do a little skip-da-loo around my mama’s front yard, which doesn’t consist of much. We live in a trailer community so it’s all pretty much open space. But my mama has some sunflowers planted in front of our single wide. I skip over to them and grab a handful and hand them to my mama.

“Sahara, get a hold of yourself. We need to talk about this. And you know I don’t like you picking my sunflowers.” She hands them back to me.

“Yes, mama.” I take them inside with me and find a jar. No sense in letting them go to waste since I’ve already picked them. I fill up the jar with water and stick in the sunflowers. They look so pretty. Too bad my mama doesn’t think so. Well, maybe she does think they’re pretty, just not out of the ground. She probably likes them stuck right where she planted them.

My mama’s sandals squeak against the linoleum of our home. “Now, Sahara, I know you’re real excited and that’s something you’ve always had a problem with.” Her hand grazes against my shoulder like she is going to pat my back or maybe even turn me around for a hug, but that couldn’t possibly be what she means to do. She lets go of my body. “You have to be more realistic about this situation. You have no place to stay. You don’t know anyone there. Why would you want to do this?” She sighs.

Why would I want to do this? I’ve only been doing everything I can – other than steal a car – to get out of this town for years. There is nothing here. Nothing other than a few small shops. No real opportunities. We don’t own a farm. We aren’t old money. We are zero money. My mama has worked every single day of her life and, lord knows, I admire her for it, but this is not the life I want for myself. I want my Saturdays and Sundays off. I want a nine-to-five job. A job with a set schedule. With expectations and guarantees. Like health insurance and a retirement. My mama should be retired but she is still scrubbing toilets for a living. And to me that ain’t no way of living. Well, I mean I know that I will have to clean my own toilets, but I wouldn’t want to be cleaning strangers’ toilets at her age. My chest tightens. I mean my mama no disrespect. She has an honest to goodness hardworking job but that’s not me. I want more. I want a career. I almost feel like Ariel in The Little Mermaid; I want to change my tail for legs so I can run and dance and be something more than confined to the small-town world of Mexia, Texas. There’s nothing here. Not for me.

“Mama, I love you and I loved growing up here. But I’ve grown out of this town. I need more. I need –”

“Now, bite your tongue, little miss. I’ve done raised you better than that. Ain’t nobody but a president going to be too big for this town. Mexia is a nice place. Did you forget we got the Target last year?” She’s got both hands gripping her hips. Not a good sign, but I can’t let this go.

“Yes, mama. But I want more than Target. I want to explore –”

“Well, now, hold on a minute, Sahara Smith. Are you saying you want to go an’ be like Sacajawea and lead an exploration or something?” She wipes some of her strawberry-blonde hair off her face.

I laugh but quickly silence it under my mama’s watchful eye. “No, mama. I’m just saying I want to experience something outside of Mexia.”

“Hmm. Outside of me. Is that it?” Her hands are back on her hips and her chin is jutted out. This is not going to end well.

“No, Mama, I will miss you. I just want to see what’s in the world besides Mexia.”

“Then open up a book or click-clack on that computer of yours. You can see all over the world on that contraption, can’t you now?” She points at my computer. The computer that I just received a great email on, but that’s not being received by my mama in the same way. She’s not opening up her arms to the idea at all but I’ve already decided.

“Yes, but it’s not the same thing. I want to see it for myself. I want to really be there. Not just see it on the screen.”

“I see.” She lets the “e” linger in the air and leaves me alone in our small kitchen that’s only big enough for two people to stand side by side, and now I’m standing all alone.

I’ve never been so alone. And my mama is still in our single wide. But it is so empty. The silence is louder than the sound of a cereal box being opened for the first time. The crunching. The tearing. It’s like my heart is being opened up but no milk-and-sugar-coated treats are being poured out. It’s just pain. Pure pain. It hurts bad. I need my mama. I need her to want this for me, too. Not to be against it or dismissive of it. I want her full-on support. I want her to make an afghan that reads “Go, Sahara, go” and I want her to really mean it. I want to know my mama believes in me. But this is silly, like most of my thoughts. My mama has never been a big supporter of Sahara or her ideas. And I’m sure she has already filed this into a compartment labeled Sahara’s failures. She had probably already rubber-stamped it so even before I began.

I shake my head as if I can shake off this sadness and sudden sensation of failure that is brimming over inside of me. But I’m not going to go there. No. Because I have a plan. Well, I have a semi-plan. I’ve been offered the job but my mama was right. I need a place to stay. I need to figure out if they have housing or maybe a discount for students at the factory. Shoot, I don’t even know. I’d better dig through my paperwork and find some answers. I step into my room and the sounds of my mama on the phone are coming through my wall. Granted, the wall is paper-thin. I can hear when my mama sighs in the next room. To overhear a phone conversation is not unusual. But this one is different. I’m not sure who she is talking to but it doesn’t sound like my mama’s normal voice. She tickers between a sweet tone and a commanding one. It sounds like she is trying to prove a point and win a battle. But she keeps back-peddling and if there is one thing my mama isn’t, it’s a back peddler. Who in all the great state of Texas could she be talking to? I tiptoe out of my room and sure enough her door is a bit cracked. I edge closer to it and it swings open.

“Well, now, Little Miss Career is being a nosey Nan? Sahara Smith, I know by the good Lord above I have raised you better than that.” She taps her foot on the floor. Her hands are pressed hard against her hips. This is my mama’s serious business stance. Shoot. I don’t want to add to the grief she’s already feeling for me. Now she is madder than a hive of bees that just got knocked off a maple tree.

“I’m sorry, Mama, I, um, didn’t realize you were on the phone.” I press my lips together because lord knows if I open my mouth another lie might fall out, and one is enough for a lifetime, especially told to my mama.

“You did not just lie to your mama, did you, Sahara? Shameful, Sahara, downright shameful. I tell you what. Why don’t you go and gather the clothes from the line for us? And then swing on over to Ms. Jenkins and see if she needs her floor scrubbed again?”

“Yes, Mama.” I shuffle outside and take all of our clothes off the line. I’m faster with our undergarments. I can’t believe my mama is still hanging them out here. I’m too old for our neighbors to see what I’ve got on underneath my clothes. That’s just not even right. Not one bit.

After I scrub down Ms. Jenkins’ kitchen, I make my way back to our home. Mama is not on the porch as I would have expected, or in the kitchen. I search the house. Which is not much of a search as the whole trailer is smaller than a public restroom with four stalls.

Mama is in her room, sitting on her bed, flipping through some book.

“Hey, Mama, I’m sorry about before.”

She slams the book shut and glares up at me like she’s seen a real ghost, not like Casper or anything cartooney.

“Hush now, Sahara, we’ve got too much to contend with to live in the past.” In one swift motion she is grabbing some big old suitcase from under her bed. “Now, here, you use this for your clothes. I’ve got you settled up to stay with an old family friend.”

“What? You found me a place to stay?” I clutch my chest hoping my heart doesn’t burst through my skin and hit my mama in the face or something crazy, like in one of those special effects movies. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Did my mama really just say she found me a place to stay?

“Yes, Sahara. Now let’s get you packed up. When does that training class start again?”

“Um… on Monday. Yes, Monday morning at eight a.m.”

“Well, what are you standing still for? You’ve got more things to do than Aunt Biddy on the first day of spring and she’s canning up her vegetables for the winter. Get to it now.”

I take in a deep breath. The blood in my brain is rushing around. Like I just finished a race. But in reality it’s because I’m actually doing this. I’m leaving, and my mama is putting forth an effort to help me.

I skedaddle out of the room with the suitcase in my hand. I dig through my closet and begin filling up the case with all the outfits I think I’ll need – which is basically everything I own. Because I don’t have an armoire full of clothes, or a wardrobe, or anything fancy like that. I head back to my mama’s room. She’s got out her handkerchief and is dabbing under her eye.

“You all right, Mama?”

“Yes, of course. You done packing?”

“I was wondering if I could take the bluebonnet bell with me?” I didn’t get it from the living room where it’s sat my entire life because I didn’t want to jinx it by touching it or moving it.

“The bluebonnet bell?” My mama gasps as if I had asked if I could hitch our trailer to the back of my car and take it with me. It’s just a ceramic bell and, though it isn’t worth much, it’s something I’ve always treasured. It’s something I see like a good luck charm, in a way. Whenever I had a big test at school I would swish by it real fast and blink my eyes and sure enough I always passed my test with flying colors.

“No, Sahara, that stays with the house. If you want a bluebonnet bell you’re going to have to earn that on your own.” My mama shakes her head and pushes past me. We’re still in the same house but it seems like there are already miles and miles between us. What will it be like when I’m really gone?

Ms. Fish, that’s my manager at Dairy Queen – well, my former manager’s name – is not exactly excited to see me say goodbye. She pretends to ignore me for the first part of our conversation and then goes into the freezer and hits the sides of the ice-cream containers for at least two minutes. When she returns she takes in a deep breath and plasters a smile across her face. I nod in response, not knowing exactly what I should do except get on with this moment.

It always seemed odd to have the name Fish in an ice-cream place but she usually joked it off, saying she was a cold fish about everything except being successful. Ms. Fish would make sure a Blizzard was offered to every single customer or you would be on her Space List. She always said you could be on two lists at her store: the Fish List where you were doing everything right and were invited to the weekly fish fry (this happened on Saturday nights at her house), or the Space List. Her first name is Hailey. Of course, I would never call her by that out of respect, but it leads to her Space List like Hailey’s Comet. Every so often she would explain about Hailey’s Comet and how often it appeared and why it wasn’t the list you would want to be on. If you were on her Space List this meant you were not invited to the fish fry and the only type of annual bonus you would receive was an extra dollop of whatever you chose during our yearly meeting. Whenever she explained this to newbies, she would laugh and say that just because she spent all day in a freezer didn’t mean she was without a warm heart.

After I say goodbye to everyone at Dairy Queen I head back home to face another freezer. My mama. She has been frosty ever since I told her my news. I make my way through the house and eye my suitcase. Everything I own has been stuffed into the suitcase my mama offered to me. It had seemed so big at first and then very, very small as I zipped it up. My entire life being pushed into this vinyl case. Clothes, a few books, and zero trinkets. Not a one. I’m still bothered my mama wouldn’t let me take the bluebonnet bell. But it is what it is. There is no going back.