Better Than Chocolate. Sheila Roberts

falling from heaven.”

      “Sorry, no pennies from heaven. I had a feeling you might need to talk.”

      What she needed was a rewind button. “I blew it at the bank.”

      “What, did you walk in and shoot the new manager?”

      “Worse. I gave him chocolate.”

      “Bribes are good.”

      “And then took it away.” What the heck was wrong with her, anyway? Was she having a psychotic break? Maybe she had multiple personalities and didn’t know it.

      “Oh,” her sister said weakly. She could imagine Cecily falling into a chair in her little pink office at Perfect Matches.

      “I started out charming, I really did,” Samantha defended herself. “But then he just sat there looking all smug, repeating that he couldn’t help me—like a big dumb parrot in a three-piece suit—and…I blew it, pure and simple.”

      A sigh drifted over the phone line. “What would Dad say if he was here?”

      He’d say, “What were you thinking, princess?” Or maybe he’d say, “You should have punched the guy’s face in.” Okay, probably not that.

      “I don’t know,” Samantha said miserably.

      “He’d say temper…”

      Oh, yeah, that. “…and good business don’t mix,” Samantha finished with her. He’d told her that often enough, especially when she was young and impetuous.

      And now she was so mature. Ha!

      There was a long moment of silence before Cecily asked, “Maybe you should apologize to him?”

      “Apologize! As in, ‘Gee, Mr. Dragon, I’m so sorry I got mad at you for breathing fire and devouring my village’?”

      “He’s trying to save the bank like you’re trying to save Sweet Dreams.”

      Ever the mediator, Samantha thought sourly. “He’s just trying to save his butt.”

      Her sister heaved another sigh. “Well, you’re the business major. You know best.”

      “Oh, that was cute.”

      “Sorry. It’s just that, well, when it comes to business, you’re usually more in control than this.”

      Samantha scowled. She hated it when her sister was right. Samantha was the oldest. She was supposed to be the most mature, the one who always knew what to do. Except when it came to Sweet Dreams, she seemed to lose all perspective.

      “I wish I was up there to help you.”

      “I’ll be okay,” Samantha said with a sigh. “No more meltdowns, I promise.”

      “Call me if you need to.”

      “Thanks I will. Meanwhile, go make some money.”

      “Yeah, I should go. I’ve got a match-up cocktail party to plan and a client coming in ten minutes.”

      Finding rich men for beautiful women, throwing parties at swanky restaurants—no wonder Cecily had opted for L.A. over Icicle Falls, Samantha thought as she hung up. Who would want to live in a small town when she could have the big city and beautiful people?

      Samantha, that was who. She loved her mountain town with its picturesque setting and its friendly people, and she was proud that her family and their company were part of the town’s history.

      She wanted them to continue to be part of its present, too. She drummed her fingers on her desk. What options did she have other than robbing the bank? Think, Samantha.

      After an hour of thinking she had a headache and one last option—Waldo’s life insurance money. She wanted to go hit her mother up for a chunk of that about as much as she wanted to stick a knife in her eye. But it was for the good of the business and all their employees, she reminded herself, and she’d pay the money back. So get up and get over there.

      She laid her head down on the desk again. Tomorrow. Like Scarlett O’Hara, she’d think about it tomorrow.

      Except the clock was ticking and she couldn’t afford the luxury of waiting until tomorrow. She took a deep breath, stood and strode out of the office.

      Chapter Four

      No one is perfect. It’s important to remember this when working with family.

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

      Muriel was in a swimming pool full of melted chocolate, competing in a swim meet, doing the butterfly stroke and trying desperately to catch up with her competition in the other lanes. Waldo stood at one end of the pool holding up a giant silver trophy cup brimming with fudge, and Cecily and Bailey were at the front of the throng, cheering wildly. “Go, Mom! You can do it!” But the chocolate was so thick that no matter how hard she pulled against it, she couldn’t make any progress.

      She was halfway across the pool and heavily winded when in swept the Wicked Witch of the West on her broom. The witch wasn’t wearing her usual black garb. Instead, she was in an old-fashioned bathing suit from the early 1900s and she looked suspiciously like Samantha with hazel eyes and long red hair flying out from under her pointy black hat.

      “Tsunami! Quick, everybody out of the pool,” cried the witch. She flew out over the water, reached down and yanked Muriel out by her hair. “Mom, you can’t stay here. Mom. Mom!”

      “Mom?”

      Muriel opened her eyes to see Samantha leaning over her, a hand on her shoulder, her expression anxious. “Are you okay?”

      Of course she wasn’t okay. Muriel shoved her hair out of her eyes and sat up. “What time is it?”

      “Eleven forty-five.”

      Almost noon. Here she was, sleeping away another day.

      “Have you eaten?” Samantha asked.

      “I’m not hungry, sweetie.”

      “When was the last time you ate?”

      What did it matter? Muriel waved away the question. She slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom and shut the door on her daughter.

      Samantha’s voice followed her. “I’ll make coffee.”

      Coffee, ugh. Muriel had always loved a good cup of coffee but her taste buds, like the rest of her, seemed to have given up on life.

      She stood at the bathroom counter and stared at her reflection. Beneath those artificially brown curls the face of an old woman looked mournfully back at her. The dark circles under her eyes showed how poorly she was sleeping in spite of all the mattress time she was logging in.

      She flipped off the light and left the bathroom. The bed called to her, but the smell of brewing coffee reminded her that Samantha was expecting her in the kitchen. She put on her bathrobe and sat on the edge of the bed, willing herself to get out there. Her body refused to obey.

      Finally Samantha entered the room bearing a steaming mug. At the sight of her mother she managed a tentative smile. “How about I draw you a bubble bath and make us an omelet?”

      Muriel took the mug. “Is that a hint?” That sounded snippy. Well, she felt snippy.

      Samantha’s fair skin glowed like an ember. “No, I just…”

      “Go ahead and make yourself something. I’ll be out in a few minutes.” Muriel returned to the bathroom with as much dignity as she could muster. She was too young for her daughter to be telling her what to do.

      Although Samantha was right. She needed a bath.

      Twenty minutes later she emerged to find her daughter huddled on a stool at the kitchen counter, nursing her own