Better Than Chocolate. Sheila Roberts
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 stepfather’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