Better Than Chocolate

by Sheila Roberts

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “Let’s go, Daddy,” Serena urged.

  He shook off his disappointment like a big dog shedding water. “Right. Come on, girls. We’re gonna go take on Herman the German and some garlic fries.”

  “Lovely to see you again,” Bernadette said as they left the shop. “Come by for coffee sometime.”

  “I’ll do that,” Cecily lied.

  “What a nice guy,” Heidi said as the door closed after Luke and his family.

  “He is,” Cecily agreed. There had to be some perfect woman out there for him.

  You’re out of the matchmaking business, she reminded herself. Luke would just have to get along without her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  No business is immune to a certain amount of unpleasantness.

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

  Nothing tops off a day of public humiliation like a little family insanity, thought Samantha as she tried to rein in an overly enthusiastic Bailey via Skype.

  Once more the Sterling women were gathered for a brainstorming session, and much of it had been productive. They’d gone with Mom’s suggestion of “Moonlight and Magic” as the theme for the masked ball and the problem of music had been settled economically. It would’ve been nice to have an orchestra or local band, but a DJ from a radio station in Wenatchee was going to spin tunes for them for half the price. To play on the theme, he’d be tucked away behind a decorative screen and the speakers would be concealed by floral arrangements from Lupine Floral so the source of the music would be hidden. The owners of the Mad Hatter had agreed to stock some exotic masks, so attendees could pretend to be mysterious until the unmasking at midnight. Bailey had reported that plans were well under way both for the high tea and the chocolate dinner. And that was all well and good and should have been enough to keep her busy, but now she had a new idea, one she’d gotten from reading a historical romance.

  “I think a kissing booth would be great,” she insisted. “People used to do stuff like that all the time.”

  “That was before people got so sexually active,” Samantha said. “Nobody’s going to be interested in a kissing booth.” At least nobody she’d want her baby sister kissing.

  “People probably said that about bikini baristas,” Bailey countered, “and now you see them all over the place.”

  “But nobody’s kissing anybody in those. Anyway, I don’t even think that would be legal. It’s like soliciting for sex.”

  “We’d only be selling kisses,” Bailey objected.

  “It does seem a little tacky,” Mom said.

  Just like the Mr. Dreamy contest. “We’re already pushing the envelope with some of the other things we’re doing,” Samantha said, making Cecily frown.

  “You could make a fortune,” Bailey began. “You—”

  “You could also get cold sores,” Samantha broke in.

  Bailey made a face. “Eew.”

  “Yeah, eew,” Samantha said. “No kissing booth.”

  At the rate they were going, maybe there wouldn’t be any booths at all, she worried later as she let herself into her condo. She’d called Ed’s wine shop to see if he’d any luck at city hall and learned that he was home with the flu. That meant the chances he’d been able to do any lobbying for moving those permits forward were slim to none.

  From down the hall she heard the soft thump of sneaky cat paws hitting the floor, which told her that Nibs had been up on the kitchen counter again where he knew he wasn’t supposed to be. Not that such unimportant details ever stopped a cat.

  Now he came trotting up to her, all innocence. “You are a naughty boy,” she said, and picked him up.

  Naughty boy. Her mind did a word-association free fall to Bill Will’s racy serenade in the coffee shop. Maybe the pictures Nia took wouldn’t turn out. Maybe there wouldn’t be room to put any of them in the paper. That was a strong possibility…in a parallel universe.

  Samantha set down the cat and went in search of aspirin.

  She found herself reaching for more aspirin the next day when she got to the office and Elena gave her a copy of the morning paper. There was the picture Nia had taken right on page one, capturing all the action from the day before. She’d caught Samantha trying not to look at Bill Will’s crotch, except that the camera angle gave the illusion that Jockstrap Land was exactly where her gaze was directed. The caption read Competition for Mr. Dreamy Heats Up.

  Just shoot me now and kill me dead. Wasn’t it enough that she had to deal with saving her company? How was she supposed to go out in public after this?

  “I know what you’re thinking but it’s not that bad,” Elena said.

  “According to whom?”

  “It will be fine, amiga. You’ll see. A veces, todo el mundo tiene un dia de pelo revuelto.”

  Samantha crumpled the paper and tossed it in the garbage. “Okay, what does that mean?”

  Elena shrugged. “It means that sometimes everyone has a bad hair day.”

  “I would welcome a bad hair day. I’d trade a lifetime of bad hair days for this.”

  Elena shrugged. “It will blow over. And meanwhile, you will get lots of free publicity.”

  “I don’t need this kind of publicity,” Samantha grumbled.

  Elena fished the paper out of the garbage and handed it to her. “Read the whole article,” she advised.

  Samantha shut herself in her office and read. Nia had done a first-rate job of promoting the festival, naming the various events and even going so far as to suggest contestants get over to Sweet Dreams and buy some of their chocolates. “For surely any man representing our favorite hometown chocolate company had better know what his favorite chocolate is.”

  Okay. She had to hand it to Nia. She’d managed to convey the excitement that Samantha and the other Chamber of Commerce members were feeling in such a way that readers couldn’t help but get excited, too, and want to participate. And that was a good thing.

  “This is great free publicity,” Cecily said when she called twenty minutes later.

  “It is,” Samantha agreed. “Except that picture, ugh. I’m going to have to put a bag over my head when I go out.”

  Cecily chuckled. Then sneezed.

  “You’re not getting sick, are you?” Samantha asked.

  “Me? You know I never get sick.”

  “Well, take it easy today,” Samantha said. None of them could afford to be sick until after the festival.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Cecily said. “And don’t take any bribes from Mr. Dreamy wannabes. We don’t want to be accused of rigging the contest.”

  “Ha, ha.” Samantha hung up.

  Cecily wasn’t the only one she heard from. Emails poured in from other members of the committee commending her on the exposure she’d gotten them, and in each reply she made sure her sister got the credit. As the morning wore on, some of her embarrassment wore off. It helped that she’d stuffed the newspaper in a drawer where she didn’t have to look at it.

  By midmorning she’d put the whole embarrassing incident behind her. At least that was what she told herself.

  Ed was still down for the count, so she called city hall and got put through to Pissy. Of course.

  “Nice picture in the paper,” Pissy said snidely.

  “You sound jealous,” Samantha retorted. Oh, way to win friends and influence people. Not that Pissy would
ever be her friend and even offering the woman a lifetime supply of chocolate probably wouldn’t influence her.

  “I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” Pissy said in her snootiest voice. “What do you want, Samantha?”

  A million dollars. “Just calling to see how things are coming with the permits.”

  “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” Pissy said.

  Great. “And when do you think you might be able to do that?” Samantha asked, keeping a tight rein on her patience.

  “As soon as I know something. Now, quit hounding me,” Pissy snapped, and hung up.

  Samantha slammed the phone down and growled, “Bee-atch.” If only she had a magic lamp. She’d use it to strand Pissy on a desert island with no chocolate.

  She sat drumming her fingers on her desktop. Something or someone was holding up those permits. Samantha didn’t believe Pissy had that kind of power, even though she liked to think she did. So why was this taking so long?

  Obviously, she wasn’t going to get to the bottom of the problem over the phone. She’d have to go over there. She’d catch Del before lunch and talk to him, see if he’d pull some strings to get things moving.

  * * *

  She almost had Center Street to herself as she walked down it. She did encounter one couple who were strolling along and window-shopping and couldn’t help overhearing their conversation as she approached.

  “It’s a cute town,” the woman commented.

  “I guess,” the man said. “But there’s no snow.”

  That wasn’t true. There was some, enough to ski on…if you were a rabbit.

  “This was a waste of vacation days,” Mr. Good Sport said.

  It took every ounce of willpower for Samantha to press her lips firmly together, but she was sure she had enough steam coming out of her ears to melt what little snow there was right off the highest peak. A waste of vacation days? Ha! She’d show him.

  She was still steaming when she got to city hall, and encountering Pissy on her way out didn’t improve matters, especially when Samantha saw that she was on her way out with Blake. “We’re going to lunch so I can’t help you.” Pissy smirked.

  Blake was taking Pissy out to lunch? Well, how perfect, two stone-cold hearts beating as one over bratwurst. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from your lunch.”

  “Good, because I know Blake is a busy man,” Pissy said, linking her arm through his.

  Gack. Even though these two deserved each other, even though Samantha couldn’t care less whom he took to lunch, she couldn’t resist stealing a glance to see if Blake had swallowed this wad of flattery. His cheeks had taken on a ruddy tinge and he didn’t look Samantha in the eye.

  He cleared his throat. “Well, we’d better get going.”

  “We have reservations at Schwangau,” Pissy said.

  La-di-da. The two of them were probably off to conspire on how to keep those permits tied up. She hoped they choked on their schnitzel.

  “Oh, and if you want Mayor Stone, you’re too late. He’s gone to lunch,” Pissy called over her shoulder.

  Samantha glared at Pissy’s departing back. Wouldn’t it be nice if looks could kill?

  * * *

  Blake was not having a good day. In fact, the day before hadn’t been so good, either. First Samantha Sterling had left him smarting from that disgusted look she’d given him on the steps of city hall, as if it was a crime to take someone to lunch. Of course, he’d like to have told her he was taking Priscilla Castro to lunch in order to sweet-talk her into making sure those permits made the rounds and got signed in a timely manner, but that wasn’t something he could explain with Priscilla standing right there. And when he’d finished buttering up Priscilla like she was corn on the cob, he’d tracked down Del Stone and given him a friendly nudge, too.

  After accomplishing his mission, he’d thought of stopping by Samantha’s office to let her know what he’d been up to. He’d envisioned her hugging him gratefully and saying, “I had no idea. That was so sweet of you.” That happy vision had put a smile on his face and he’d still been smiling when he answered his phone.

  Darren Short had quickly wiped it off. “I’m coming your way tomorrow and I’ll have Trevor Brown from Madame C with me. I want to show him the Sweet Dreams facility.”

  “You—you what?” Blake had stammered.

  “I want to show him the facility.”

  “We don’t own that business yet,” Blake reminded him.

  “We hold the note. We’re within our rights to inspect our investment.”

  “You’re not coming up to inspect it.”

  “I am in a sense. This is all totally legal,” Darren assured him.

  But not even remotely ethical. “There’s no need to rush. Let’s hold off until March.”

  “Trevor wants to scope out the place, see what kind of condition it’s in. There’s no harm in looking.”

  Yeah, tell that to the Sterlings, Blake thought. “I’m not going along with this.”

  A moment of deathly quiet hung between them. “Am I suddenly working for you?” Darren finally asked.

  “No,” Blake said, “but why have you got me up here if you don’t trust me to do the bank’s business?”

  “Come on now, Blake, there’s no need to get stiff-necked about this. I’m looking out for the bank’s interests—just like you are.”

  The implication was plain. Blake’s loyalty was suspect and if he didn’t cooperate he’d show his true turncoat colors. He didn’t want to go along with it. But he didn’t want to get fired, either. Then he’d be in no position at all to help any of his customers, especially the Sterlings.

  Like you’re being such a big help to them now?

  That question had nibbled away at his peace of mind the night before and all morning long. Now, as he saw Darren walk into the bank beside a thin gray-haired man with jowls, dressed in slacks and a sweater, it went from nibbling to gobbling.

  “Blake, meet Trevor Brown,” Darren said jovially.

  “Nice to meet you,” Brown said, and held out a greedy paw.

  Shake hands with the devil. Blake clasped the man’s hand and nodded curtly. “Trevor.”

  “I’m anxious to see this place,” Brown said, not wasting any time.

  “I think you’ll find it well worth the trip,” Darren told him. “Don’t you, Blake?”

  “You do understand, of course, that this is a family business and the family is doing everything in its power to keep it,” Blake said, making Darren scowl.

  “Of course.” Brown nodded genially. “But frankly, they don’t stand a snowball’s chance. We all know that.”

  Sadly, they did.

  “So,” said Darren, giving Blake a look that threatened not only termination but dismemberment, “shall we go?” Blake was about to claim a heavy workload and stay behind when Darren said, “Lead on, Blake.”

  Blake clenched his jaw and walked with them out of the bank, feeling like a Judas goat about to lead the sheep to slaughter.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sooner or later, trouble is bound to knock on your door. Welcome it. Then poison it.

  —Muriel Sterling, Knowing Who You Are: One Woman’s Journey

  Del wasn’t in his office. Again. “When will he be back?” Samantha asked Pissy.

  “By noon, but he has a lunch date so he’s not going to be able to talk to you.”

  “I’m sure he can spare a
minute,” Samantha said, and plunked herself down on a chair to wait. This time she was not leaving until somebody told her something about those permits.

  Pissy shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Then she went back to her desk and got busy looking busy.

  Really, if people could get a degree in immaturity, Pissy would have a doctorate. Samantha took out her phone and began checking email.

  She’d barely gotten started when Elena called. “You’d better get back here.”

  The urgency in her voice made Samantha’s heart stop. “What’s going on?”

  “Something fishy. The manager from the bank is here with two other men and they want to inspect the factory.”

  “What?” Samantha bolted from her seat and hurried out the door. “Where are they now?”

  “I sent them to the gift shop for some free samples. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “You did the right thing,” Samantha said.

  “Why are they here? Does this have anything to do with your meltdown a couple weeks ago?”

  “Yes, but it’s under control. Don’t worry.”

  “Don’t worry? ¿Estás demente? I know a shark when I see one. What’s going on, chica?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” Samantha assured them both. Oh, Lord, she hoped she was right. She ended the call and broke into a run.

  But when she reached her street she realized she needed to face these buzzards from a position of strength, not weakness. Entering her business establishment breathless, sweaty and panicked was no way to put up a strong front. She slowed down, finger-combed her hair and found a tissue in her purse to blot her damp forehead. Then she took a deep breath and marched into battle.

  She’d expected to see Blake the Snake and maybe another bank manager, but not the third man, and her heart seized at the sight of him. She knew this man, just like she knew all her competitors. She’d made it her business to check out the competition. Trevor Brown was a busy boy. Every year he lobbied for Madame C to become the official candy of Washington State, as the Liberty Orchards people who made Aplets and Cotlets did, and Brown & Haley, producers of Almond Roca—as if he was even in their league—and Sweet Dreams, the chocolate contender. He had big suppliers and a big appetite. He’d already gobbled up two small companies, and now he was looking to swallow hers. Well, he wasn’t going to get it.