Better Than Chocolate Read online

  Such dreams and ambition. “She’s a natural,” Stephen had said.

  Muriel sighed. She should have remembered that and left her daughter in charge instead of bringing in Waldo and complicating things. She hadn’t trusted her own judgment or her daughter’s business smarts, and now she realized that had been a mistake. But Samantha had been so young.

  As if age had anything to do with business smarts. Muriel herself was living proof that wasn’t true.

  Well, it was a new day. Samantha was in charge now and it seemed fitting that Waldo’s life insurance money would allow her to resuscitate Sweet Dreams and take the company to the next level.

  Muriel went up to the loft they’d turned into an office and opened the filing cabinet. The files were all jumbled, with manila folders stuck in haphazardly rather than in alphabetical order. She finally found the one marked Life Insurance and pulled it out, only to discover it contained papers on the house.

  Panic began to simmer inside her. She set the file on the cabinet and checked the house file, thinking maybe Waldo had mixed things up. No life insurance policy. She moved to the desk, pawing through the scattered papers piled on top. A past-due notice for Waldo’s Beemer payment made her swallow hard but didn’t distract her from her search. It had to be here somewhere.

  Three hours and two more cups of coffee later, she found a letter from the insurance company. She picked it up and began to read.

  Words jumped out and slapped her. Due to nonpayment…policy…canceled.

  There had to be some mistake. She’d call the insurance company first thing in the morning and straighten this all out.

  Oh, Lord, please let there be some mistake.

  But there wasn’t. No matter how many superiors Muriel spoke to the following morning, no matter how much she pleaded, the answer was always the same: “We’re sorry, but we can’t help you.”

  And now she had to call the office and say the same words to her daughter. She stared at the phone and wished she could just go back to bed.

  Chapter Five

  If you can’t depend on your family in your time of need, who can you depend on?

  —Muriel Sterling, When Family Matters

  Samantha sat at her desk, gnawing her fingernails while staring out the office window at the Wenatchee River. The sun was out today and the river was a sparkling sapphire-blue, but she could barely see it. Her view was eclipsed by the vision of the end of life as she knew it. Sweet Dreams was going to be history. The possibility of using Waldo’s life insurance money had been her last hope. What was going to happen to her employees? What was going to happen to Mom without that extra income? How could she fix this mess?

  Maybe another bank would lend her money. Then she could use that to pay off Cascade Mutual. She made a couple of calls to test the water. The water was frigid. Another fingernail went bye-bye.

  Her cell phone started playing “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” Bailey.

  She forced herself to answer even though she didn’t want to. She’d already talked to Cecily, who’d at least had the decency to let her be depressed. Bailey, the family cheerleader, would be calling to pump her up. And she didn’t want to be pumped up, damn it all, she wanted to be pissed. Pissed, pissed, pissed!

  “I’m here,” she snarled.

  “Well, of course. Where else would you be?” Bailey replied reasonably. “You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t in the office busy saving the company.”

  “I’m not busy saving the company. I’m busy…” What was she busy doing? Oh, yeah, feeling sorry for herself and doing a darned good job of it, too.

  “Cecily told me about the bank. Are you okay?”

  “No.”

  There was silence on the other end and she could just see her baby sister biting her lip, considering what to say next. “I’m sorry, Sammy,” she finally said. “I feel like we’re leaving you holding a big, stinky mess up there.”

  Samantha rubbed her aching forehead. “At the rate we’re going I won’t be holding it much longer.” And then what would she do? Worse, what would Mom do? She wasn’t exactly making a fortune as a writer. Cecily would have to find millionaires for both of them.

  “But you can’t let Sweet Dreams go out of the family,” Bailey said. “That would just be wrong, Sammy.”

  Sometimes Samantha felt it was wrong that she was the only one of the sisters who’d stayed in Icicle Falls to keep Willy Wonka Land going. Here she was, like Davy Crockett at the Alamo. Or the Last of the Mohicans. Or…something.

  “Do you have any ideas for how to save the company?”

  Offer to sleep with Blake Preston in exchange for making an exception to bank policy. Oh, cute. Where had that come from? No place good. “No,” Samantha said. But there had to be something they could do. Why couldn’t she think of anything? She’d never lacked for ideas in the past, so where was all that brilliant inspiration now? Obviously, her idea factory had been shut down.

  “We need a family brainstorming session,” Bailey said firmly.

  If she couldn’t think of anything, what did Bailey suppose the rest of them were going to come up with? “Listen,” she began.

  Bailey cut her off. “I know you think nobody can run the company like you, but we’re all pretty creative.”

  There was no denying that. Samantha looked at the shredded nails on her left hand and decided manicures were overrated.

  “I’m calling Cec,” Bailey said decisively. “I’ll go over to her place tonight and we’ll Skype you at Mom’s at seven.”

  By seven all Samantha wanted was to be in her condo, escaping into a computer game or a movie on TV with Nibs curled up in her lap. “I don’t think—” she began.

  “Come on now, don’t balk. Let’s at least give it a try.”

  Her baby sister would stay on the phone and harass her until she caved. Might as well cave now and be done with it, she told herself. “All right. Seven tonight.”

  “Good,” Bailey said in a tone of voice that sounded as though they’d already accomplished something.

  * * *

  Cecily stared in surprise at the buxom blonde in the low-cut top and overdone jewelry sitting on the other side of her desk, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. Liza and Brad should have been a perfect match. He wanted a woman with boobs the size of life rafts and she wanted a man with a deep well of money to support her Rodeo Drive spending habit. Brad not only had money, he was good-looking to boot, another requirement of Liza’s, and now Liza was saying she didn’t want to see him again? Seriously?

  “So you didn’t hit it off?” Cecily asked.

  “We should have. He took me to Melisse, and the food was to die for. We both love great food.”

  “Common interests are important,” Cecily said. They could have happily eaten their way through life while Liza ate her way through Brad’s bank account.

  “Then he said he liked my hair.”

  “Compliments, that’s good.”

  Liza made a face. “Oh, yeah? Not when he says it’s the same color as his mother’s hair and then he starts talking about her.”

  “Maybe he thought you’d like his mother?”

  “Not by the time he was done. I swear it was like there were three of us on that date. And she lives with him. He’s forty and he lives with his mother? Sheesh. I can’t believe you don’t screen your guys better.”

  “Well…” Cecily stumbled to a halt. She wasn’t even sure wha
t to say to that. She didn’t have a place on her forms to check off mama’s boy. “I’m sorry, Liza. I thought he’d be perfect.”

  “Well, he wasn’t. You’ve got to do better.”

  That might not be so easy, considering the fact that Liza had tried to sucker the last two guys she’d gone out with into taking her shopping on the second date. “I’ll try,” Cecily said. “But you have to remember not to ask these guys to buy clothes for you when you’ve barely started dating them. It makes them think that’s all you want out of the relationship.”

  Liza scowled at her. “Of course that’s not all I want. What do I look like, a hooker?”

  Actually, yes, and not a very high-class one. “No, no,” Cecily said quickly. “Don’t worry. We’ll find your perfect match.”

  “I hope so. I mean, I could go to someone else, you know.”

  The Millionaire Matchmaker on TV? Cecily smiled the diplomatic smile that had always stood her in good stead. “Of course, I want you to be happy.” The rest of that sentence should have gone something like, “And I’m going to do everything in my power to find the perfect guy for you.” But the rest of the sentence never got out of her mouth. Instead, she discovered she had an evil twin, and the evil twin said, “So if that’s how you feel, then you should trot those Jimmy Choos somewhere else and see if they can find you a man who’s into gold diggers.” Oh, dear God, had she just said that?

  Liza obviously couldn’t believe she had. Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

  Oh, boy. “I don’t think I can help you,” Cecily said simply. And then the evil twin added, “And I don’t think I want to.”

  Liza’s eyes flashed. “I want my money back!”

  Good luck with that, thought Cecily. That money was long gone, just like her patience. “You got your money’s worth. I’ve matched you up with six eligible men. It’s not my fault you blew it.”

  Liza glared at her. “Fine. I’m telling all my friends never to come to you. Ever!” And with that, she grabbed her Kate Spade bag and teetered out of the office on her three-inch heels.

  Cecily ran a hand through her hair. This was abysmal. Not losing Liza as a client—she’d had a feeling all along that she wouldn’t be able to help the woman. No, it was the way she’d reacted to Liza’s threat—so tacky, so unprofessional. What was wrong with her? She was burned out, plain and simple.

  She told Willow, her secretary, to hold her calls and locked herself in her office with a cup of chamomile tea, but the tea didn’t make her feel any better. She tossed out the remains and went back to her emails. And with each new one she opened, she kept asking herself, What are you doing here?

  Good question.

  * * *

  Samantha was about to leave the office when her mother called to ask how she was doing.

  “I haven’t slit my wrists yet,” Samantha reassured her.

  “Don’t even joke about things like that,” Mom scolded. “I just talked to Cecily. It sounds like we’re set for a brainstorming session tonight and I was wondering if I should make dinner.”

  While Samantha always preferred other people’s cooking, especially her mother’s, the idea of sitting across the table from Mom after everything that had happened, and now this latest development—she couldn’t face it. “I’ve got a million things to do before we Skype.” Please don’t ask what. “Can I take a rain check?”

  “Of course,” Mom said. “But let me send some food home with you after. I’m up to my nose in casseroles.”

  Free food. That would work. And stuffing herself with Mrs. Nilsen’s triple-threat mac and cheese was a step above medicating her pain with goodies from their gift shop or chewing off what few fingernails she had left.

  She pulled up in the driveway at 6:55, turned off the ignition and sighed. It was wrong not to want to spend one-on-one time with her mother. She loved her mother. But right now she felt a big, lumpy wall between them, a misshapen, awkward pile of resentment, guilt and who knew what else, that she wasn’t sure how to scale. Mom was trying, though, God bless her. Which, of course, made Samantha feel all the more guilty.

  Learning that Waldo had no life insurance hadn’t helped. Mom had felt awful when she called with the bad news and Samantha had felt numb. But not so numb that she couldn’t exclaim, “How could he have been so irresponsible? My God! First the business and now this.”

  “Let’s not panic,” Mom had advised.

  “Mom,” Samantha had said sternly, “we’re in a burning building and the fire department is on strike. What do you expect me to do?”

  “We’ll think of something,” Mom had assured her.

  Easy for her mother, the queen of clueless, to say. She knew nothing about business or finance. “You’re right,” Samantha had lied, trying to make up for her gaffe. “I’d better go.” Before I explode.

  After she hung up she’d felt awful. If there was an award for the most insensitive daughter, she’d win it hands down.

  Now she made her way up the walk, slo-o-owly, and then let herself in, hoping to hear Mom’s voice drifting down from the loft as she talked to Cecily and Bailey on the computer. Instead, she found her mother rooted in her favorite yellow leather chair, nursing a cup of chocolate-mint tea. The aroma drifted across the room to greet her.

  “I have a pot of tea on the counter,” Mom said as Samantha bent to kiss her cheek, “and Pat brought over white-chocolate raspberry brownies. Vitamin C,” she added, referring to the family joke that chocolate was the equivalent of vitamins.

  At the rate Samantha was going, she’d wind up overdosing on chocolate. She moved to the counter, poured herself some tea and took a brownie. Just one. She’d make this the last fattening thing she ate for the rest of her life. Okay, for the rest of the month. The week. The night, anyway.

  “How are you feeling?” Mom asked.

  Like French royalty about to face the guillotine. Samantha shrugged. “I’ve been better.”

  Her mother’s face was a picture of sympathy and regret. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

  That made two of them. “Mom, about this morning. I’m sorry I snapped at you.” Daughters were supposed to be a comfort to their mother. She was about as comforting as a kick in the shins.

  Mom waved away the apology. “Don’t give it another thought. I know you’re under a lot of stress.”

  Stress, the all-American excuse for bad behavior. Could she go back to the bank and try that one out on Blake Preston?

  Mom gave her a motherly pat on the shoulder. “Somehow this will all work out, sweetie.”

  Samantha had to find a way to make that prediction come true. The weight of responsibility on her shoulders felt like twin elephants. How was she going to get them out of this mess? Panic!

  No, no. No panicking. Stay calm and think.

  “So they haven’t called yet?” she asked, stating the obvious. Suddenly she was eager to talk to her sisters. Even though there was nothing they could do to help, a big dose of moral support would be good.

  “Not yet,” Mom said. “I was just about to go up to the loft. We can start talking to Cecily. You know how to do this Skype thing, right? Waldo always…” Mom’s sentence trailed off.

  Samantha simply nodded and led the way upstairs. At first it looked like Mom had done some serious cleaning in the office, but on closer examination Samantha realized her mother had only stacked all of Waldo’s paperwork in neat piles.

  “I’m working through your stepfathe
r’s papers,” Mom said as she sat down and booted up the computer.

  “I can help you with that,” Samantha offered, pulling up a chair next to her and clicking on the Skype icon.

  “It can wait,” Mom said. “You’ve got enough on your plate.”

  Not as much as Mom had. Yes, Samantha was feeling responsible for keeping the company going, but Mom was coping with the loss of a husband and probably her house, on top of all this trouble with Sweet Dreams. All the sparkle had drained out of her and she looked like a zombie with her eyes bloodshot from crying. Samantha, with her ill-considered outbursts, wasn’t helping.

  Their call went through and Cecily appeared on the screen. She was perched on a brown microfiber love seat in her living room, looking comfy in sweatpants and an old sweater, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. On the wall behind her Samantha could see Mom’s 1979 Moskowitz print that Cecily had taken with her when she’d moved to L.A. It depicted three pastel-colored ostriches, one with its head in the sand, two staring out at the world with perplexed expressions. Rather symbolic of most of the women in her family if you asked Samantha. Not that anyone had.

  “Bailey isn’t here yet,” Cecily told them. “She called to say she’s running late.”

  “What a surprise,” Samantha murmured.

  “Baby of the family. What can we say?” Cecily said. She widened her eyes. “Is that a brownie you’re eating?”

  Samantha stuffed the last of her brownie in her mouth. “Mmm.”

  Cecily made a face. “Unfair.”

  Kind of like her being up here all by herself, worrying about Mom and the business. Then she reminded herself that she’d been the stupid martyr who insisted her sisters return to their lives in L.A.

  “But better your waist than mine,” Cecily taunted.

  “By the time everyone in Icicle Falls is done bringing food we’ll have no waists. We’ll be tree trunks,” Mom predicted. “Still, it’s very thoughtful.”