Now the business needed working capital.
More bottles.
Kitchen rental.
Freezer space.
Packaging.
Peppers.
The sauce business was profitable on paper and starving for cash.
Growth did that.
Sales consumed money before returning it.
Clara had learned another lesson she hated.
Profit and cash were not the same.
She met with banker Nathan Cole.
He was younger than her father had been.
Thirty-eight.
Clean suit.
Farm lending specialist.
He reviewed statements.
“This is impressive.”
Clara distrusted praise from lenders.
“What part?”
“Growth.”
“Growth is expensive.”
“Yes.”
“You need a line.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Forty thousand.”
He looked up.
“For sauce?”
“For inventory and production.”
“Collateral?”
“The farm already secures the existing note.”
“Equipment?”
“Not enough.”
“Receivables?”
“Restaurants pay net thirty.”
Nathan nodded.
“How stable are these accounts?”
“Not stable enough for you.”
He smiled.
“At least you understand the question.”
Clara showed purchase orders.
Cross & Ash.
Copper Finch.
Six others.
Projected winter demand.
Nathan looked.
“Why are orders larger than your invoices?”
“I can’t fulfill them.”
“That’s unusual.”
“It’s annoying.”
He leaned back.
“What stops somebody else from copying you?”
Clara answered immediately.
“Nothing.”
He blinked.
Clara continued:
“They can make pepper sauce.”
“They can use ugly peppers.”
“They can smoke them.”
“They can underprice me.”
Nathan looked concerned.
“That does not help your loan application.”
“My advantage isn’t secrecy.”
“What is it?”
“Supplier relationships.”
“Process consistency.”
“Brand.”
“Chef relationships.”
“Traceability.”
“And first-mover reputation.”
Nathan stared.
Clara continued:
“If my business depends on nobody learning ingredients, I don’t have a business.”
He smiled slowly.
“Your father teach you that?”
“No.”
“My father hid his tractor keys from himself twice.”
Nathan laughed.
The bank approved $30,000.
Not forty.
Clara took it.
Then disaster happened.
It started with three bottles swelling.
A restaurant in San Antonio called.
“Your caps are bulging.”
Clara froze.
“How many?”
“Three.”
“Do not open them.”
“What?”
“Pull every bottle from that lot.”