Sweet Dreams on Center Street

by Sheila Roberts

  “I agree with you,” Kiki said. “And your candy is incredible. So, Samantha, you’re the head of the company, right?”

  “Yes, she is,” Mom said.

  Deep inside Samantha, something tight and hard that she’d been carrying around for a long time broke and shattered.

  “Have you dreamed up any new recipes for Sweet Dreams?” Kiki asked Samantha.

  What? Of all the questions in all the world, the woman had to go and ask that one? Panic seized Samantha by the vocal chords and she sat frozen in her seat.

  Mom stepped in. “Every company needs both dreamers and doers. Samantha is a doer. Thanks to her, our company is going to be around for many years.”

  Samantha couldn’t have been more overwhelmed if the president of the United States had pinned a medal on her. Tears sprang to her eyes and she found herself squeezing her mother’s hand.

  “Let’s hope so,” Kiki said. “And all you chocolate-lovers and sweethearts looking for a great getaway this weekend before Valentine’s Day, Icicle Falls is the place to be.”

  And that was it, the end of the segment.

  “Perfect,” Janice said.

  It was time to shake hands, thank everyone and make sure they got complimentary chocolate. The crew packed up their gear and Cecily escorted Kiki and Janice over to Schwangau for lunch, which would be on Sweet Dreams, of course.

  Samantha caught her mother’s arm. “Mom, thanks. For what you said.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” her mother said, “I should be thanking you.”

  “For what? Being so angry?”

  Mom sighed. “Sweetheart, I don’t blame you. I know I mishandled things with Waldo.” She hesitated and bit her lip.

  “Mom, what is it?” Samantha pressed, now anxious to fully clear the air between them.

  Her mother sighed. “About Waldo.”

  Samantha could feel herself stiffen, bracing for a lecture. You should have been nicer to him. He loved you.

  Go ahead and say it, she thought. I deserve it.

  “He wasn’t well.”

  Of course he wasn’t well. He died. “What does that mean exactly?”

  “He had something called Lewy body disease.”

  Ice-cold shock smacked Samantha in the face. “Lewy… What is that?”

  “It’s a brain deterioration similar to Alzheimer’s,” Mom said wearily.

  “So some of the strange things he was doing…” Of course, that explained why his decisions went from incompetent to disastrous. “How long?” How long had they known? Samantha felt sick.

  Her mother shrugged. “Several months at least. It started with what we thought was restless legs. He was having trouble sleeping. I got him vitamins. They didn’t help. Then he fell on the deck. But it was slippery that day, so we didn’t think anything of it.”

  Samantha remembered that fall. She also remembered hoping it would keep him out of the office and her hair for a few days. Rotten daughter of the year.

  “He started forgetting things—”

  Like the quarterly taxes.

  “—and getting confused. But other times he was fine. We kidded ourselves, saying he was having senior moments, but by October I knew we were dealing with something more. We didn’t get the final diagnosis until December. The doctor had ordered a brain scan.” Mom stopped, pressing her lips together while she got control of her emotions and then continued, “The only way to be completely positive it was Lewy body would’ve been with an autopsy but I couldn’t do that to him. Anyway, the brain scan told us enough.”

  Their so-called getaway to Seattle right after Thanksgiving hadn’t been a getaway at all. They’d been off seeing doctors, enduring a battery of tests, all alone with no emotional support.

  Samantha was going to throw up. Or cry. Or both. “Why didn’t you tell us?” she croaked.

  “We didn’t want to spoil everyone’s Christmas. And you had your hands full at work with holiday orders.”

  And fighting with Waldo. Fuming over the penalty Uncle Sam had slapped on them because they’d been late with their quarterly taxes. Creating a scene in his office when she learned he hadn’t been able to make the payment on their loan in December. Tattling to Mom.

  “Mom, I…” Her throat closed up and she just stood there in the middle of the shop like a big, dumb boulder. All those bizarre purchases he’d made, the paranoia, the increasingly inept decision-making, the financial tangle. Why hadn’t she figured out that Waldo’s problem was medical?

  Because she’d been too busy with the business and with being angry. Now Waldo was up with the angels, practicing his golf putt. When it was her time they’d probably lock the pearly gates and tell her to go look for a hotter climate farther south. Heck, they wouldn’t have to tell her. She’d go voluntarily. Why didn’t life have a rewind button?

  Now she saw something new in her mother’s expression that made her feel even worse. Regret. “I should have told you as soon as I suspected,” she said to Samantha. “Obviously it was affecting his ability to run the company.”

  Obviously. Samantha should have felt exonerated to hear her mother say this—she’d known all along he wasn’t fit to run the company—but all she felt was sad. Here her mother and stepfather had been grappling with life-and-death issues and she’d been having hissy fits because he bought cases of bottled water. “Mom, I’m so sorry. I wish I’d known.”

  “And I wish I’d encouraged Waldo to do something else.”

  That made two of them. Poor Waldo had fancied himself a savvy businessman but he’d been out of his depth from the beginning. Still, she could have worked with him, helped him more. If she’d tried harder could she have averted disaster? She’d never know.

  “I want you to know that after we found out what was wrong, he was going to step aside,” Mom said. “We talked about it right before he died. You should have been in charge of the company all along. It was your heritage.”

  There it was, out in the open at last, the source of Samantha’s anger. Waldo, who’d been the perfect happy ending for her mother, the perfect stepdad, had slipped in and stolen her birthright and Mom had gone along with it. Samantha had been saddled with anger over that ever since, and no matter how she’d tried to hide it or ignore it, the nasty emotion had ridden her hard. But it was time to buck off the saddle. This was baggage she didn’t need to carry anymore.

  “Can you forgive me for my poor choices?” Mom asked, tears in her eyes.

  So many emotions crowded Samantha’s throat, all she could manage was, “Oh, Mom.” And as they hugged she could feel the anger sliding off her.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” Mom whispered.

  “Mom, there’s nothing to make up.” Not now. She was the one who had the making up to do, for her bad attitude, her lack of understanding, her resentment of a man she had genuinely cared for once.

  Her mother gave her a watery smile and anchored a lock of stray hair behind Samantha’s ear. “If anyone can pull us out of this, you can. Remember your favorite story when you were little?”

  “The Little Engine That Could.” Mom still had the book tucked away somewhere, saving it for future grandchildren.

  “You’ve always had such confidence,” Mom said, “and I’m confident it will stand us in good stead now. We have sweet things to deliver and you’re the engine that will take us where we need to go. You have the drive and determination to do it.”

  Samantha hoped so. With the highway open ag
ain and all the great free publicity maybe, just maybe, she had a chance.

  Chapter Twenty

  You can, indeed, mix love and business, and wind up with something wonderful.

  —Muriel Sterling, Mixing Business with Pleasure: How to Successfully Balance Business and Love

  “Pat, I can’t thank you enough for helping me,” Muriel said as they worked their way through the piles of paperwork, bills and bank statements on Waldo’s desk.

  It had all felt so overwhelming, like the money book she’d gotten from Pat. Tax deductions, refinancing, mortgage rates, compound interest (she was supposed to understand that chart? Really?)—it made her eyes glaze over. She didn’t speak this language. This was…math! The book had served a purpose, though. Only a couple of pages of reading was all it took to put her to sleep at night. Better than a sleeping pill.

  But that wasn’t exactly helping get her financial house in order. An SOS call had brought Pat over, armed with her calculator, and now the two women were about to do battle with the bills.

  “I have no idea how I’m going to make what I have stretch,” Muriel confessed. “All these bills.” She shook her head. “This is humiliating. I’m an idiot savant. The only thing I can do is write.”

  Why, oh, why hadn’t she persisted in taking a more active role in the money-managing process when Stephen was alive? Or even Waldo. After Stephen’s death she should have dug in and handled everything.

  But there’d been so much to handle—mountains of paperwork to fill out, bills to sort through. She’d bounced checks right and left. Arnie had come over many a night to go over her bank account and straighten out the latest mess, trying to explain where she’d gone wrong. Here, Muriel. Just make out this check to P.U.D. 1 for ninety-two dollars.

  She was still bouncing checks when she met Waldo and had been happy to let him take over. Don’t you worry, honey. I’ll take care of the bills. You just write. Looking back now, she realized she’d been like a person who couldn’t read, never mastering the skill she needed but instead always finding ways to work around her deficiency.

  “You’ll get the hang of this,” Pat assured her. “For now let’s work with what you’ve got and see how we’re going to divvy it up.”

  Two hours later they had Muriel’s expenses listed on a spreadsheet. What was going out was definitely more than what was coming in. Even Muriel could see that. She’d have to sell Waldo’s Beemer before it got repossessed, and the house would have to go on the market immediately. No surprise there. Still, she’d hoped for a little more time to get her feet under her.

  “You probably won’t come out with much,” Pat said, “but you should wind up with enough to tide you over until you can finish your next book.”

  Would there ever be another book?

  Putting the house on the market was a big enough emotional hurdle for the moment. One step at a time, she told herself as she called Mountain Meadows Real Estate to set up an appointment with a Realtor.

  The conversation was encouraging and after she hung up she felt she was moving in the right direction. Now she had a plan and a spreadsheet, and that was encouraging. She felt as if she could master anything. Ah, Stephen, you never thought I could do this, but it looks like I can.

  And if she could cope with the unpleasant chore of money management she could certainly cope with helping to put on a chocolate festival. Bring it on.

  * * *

  Bailey arrived at Sea-Tac Airport the Wednesday morning before festival weekend, lugging two suitcases and her carry-on. “I’m here, let the games begin!” she declared, falling into Samantha’s arms. Literally. Not watching where she was going, she tripped over a fellow passenger’s carry-on.

  “And so is half your house,” Samantha observed, righting her.

  “It’s all stuff for the dinner and the tea, Sammy,” she said, pushing her chestnut curls out of her face. “I found all kinds of decorations at the dollar store. I know we haven’t been able to draw from the business, but can you maybe reimburse me? I’m a little short on cash till my next catering job.”

  Bailey had been “a little short on cash” since she was twelve. Like Mom, she was math-challenged. Samantha was already dreading the bill. Even at the dollar store she suspected her sister could rack up the dollars.

  “Give me the receipt and we’ll reimburse you,” Samantha said as she took a bag. Somehow. With everything they’d had to buy for the various events, expenses were mounting and at this rate she’d be paying Bailey in foil-wrapped chocolate coins.

  “I can hardly wait to see,” Cecily said, taking the other bag.

  That left Bailey with just her carry-on and free to link an arm through her big sister’s. “This is going to be so much fun.”

  Fun, that was the code by which Bailey lived. Even starting her catering business had been more play than work, with Dad generously bankrolling her. Samantha wasn’t jealous, though. She wouldn’t trade her experiences at Sweet Dreams for anything. She’d worked her way up from selling goodies in the shop to building the company, and that was something to take pride in.

  “It will be fun,” Cecily agreed, “now that the crisis is averted,” she added, referring to the rockslide.

  Well, one crisis, anyway. They still needed money. But thanks to a new ad in the Seattle paper encouraging travelers to brave the pass and the Northwest Now TV segment, it looked like they were going to override the earlier panic. Reservations were starting to come in at the B and Bs once more and shop owners were feeling hopeful. The whole town had worked hard to pull this together in record time and visitors were bound to fall in love with Icicle Falls and, of course, Sweet Dreams Chocolates.

  Still, Samantha wouldn’t rest easy until the weekend was over. She felt like a juggler, trying to keep a dozen flaming torches in the air, all while doing an Irish jig on a high wire. In heels. She’d chewed her fingernails down to the nubs and gained six pounds due to her chocolate consumption, but if the festival was a success, it would be worth every moment of stress and every extra pound.

  “I’ve got the best dessert recipe for the chocolate dinner,” Bailey bragged. “Chocolate truffle trifle, using our chocolates, of course.”

  “That sounds decadent,” Cecily said. “It’ll be a miracle if we don’t all die from a chocolate overdose this weekend.”

  Samantha could identify with that. She was already halfway there. Was there such a thing as Chocoholics Anonymous? If so, she was going to have to join it.

  “Oh, and I have more good news, the best news of all,” Bailey continued.

  “You found a millionaire who wants to give us money,” Samantha cracked. If only.

  “Almost as good. I catered this baby shower on Sunday and you’ll never guess who I met.”

  “Mimi LeGrande,” Samantha said, piling on the sarcasm. Cecily had managed to get the name of Mimi’s producer, but her emails had gone unanswered.

  “I met the cousin of her producer,” Bailey crowed. “I told her I’d bring her some samples after the festival.”

  Samantha stared at her baby sister, hardly able to believe her ears.

  “Oh, my gosh,” Cecily gushed. “Way to go, sis!”

  “You can say that again,” Samantha said.

  Going the friend-of-a-friend route was always a long shot, but this was one well worth taking. The festival was a go and now they had a possible in with Mimi LeGrande. Mom always said, “Every good thing comes to she who wai
ts.” It looked like Mom was right.

  They drove away from the airport, Bailey still chattering happily, Samantha watching the road and seeing a future filled with success.

  * * *

  It was nice to see their mother taking an interest in life again, Cecily thought as she went to the office to check the goody boxes for the Mr. Dreamy contest. She had left Mom and Bailey talking recipes; they’d been so engrossed they barely noticed her departure. Yes, there was still sadness in her mother’s eyes and she often slipped away to bed early, but that was understandable considering how fresh her grief was. In fact, considering everything she’d gone through, it was amazing to Cecily that she could cope at all.

  What would it be like to have two men who were devoted to you and lose both? Cecily couldn’t imagine. She couldn’t imagine having a good man, period.

  They were out there; she’d matched up a few in her brief career as a matchmaker. But they sure seemed to be few and far between.

  She got to Sweet Dreams just as Luke Goodman was approaching from the other end of the street. Here was one of the good ones, a man fortress.

  “Hey, there, we’ve got your gift boxes ready,” he greeted her. “Want to see?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” she replied, and followed him into the warehouse. Walking behind Luke Goodman was like walking behind a wall. A woman could feel safe with a man like him.

  Did she know any woman who’d be a match?

  You’re not in the business anymore, she reminded herself.

  Still, old habits died hard. Maybe Bailey? Except, good as he’d be for her, Cecily couldn’t see her little sister with this man. Bailey was still a kid herself and Luke already had one child to raise.

  “I wish you’d come by about an hour earlier. I could have used your help shopping,” he said.

  “Oh? For what?”

  “A dress,” he replied, deadpan.

  “Probably hard to find one in your size.”