Better Than Chocolate. Sheila Roberts

a rat. The wine flowed and the party got increasingly loud, especially when Charley cranked up the CD and the women started singing at the top of their lungs to “Before He Cheats,” “Over It” and “I Can Do Better.”

      Finally a neighbor a couple of houses away hollered, “Shut up over there,” and everyone giggled.

      The food and drink was consumed and the fire had flickered down to embers and the women remembered they had to work the following day. Charley smiled around the circle at all of them. “Thanks for coming, you guys, and for helping me feel positive about the future.”

      “You’re always positive about the future,” Heidi said. “I’m not sure I could be if I was in your shoes.”

      Samantha doubted Heidi—with a husband who adored her and an adorable baby—would ever have to worry about that.

      Charley managed a shrug. “There were a few times this past year when I didn’t feel very positive at all. But you know what? I’m taking back my life. I’ve got a lot of years ahead of me and I intend to enjoy every one of them.”

      “You think you’ll ever get married again?” Heidi asked.

      Charley made a cross with her fingers as if warding off a vampire. “Bite your tongue.”

      “You might want somebody around to bite yours once in a while.” Rita laughed. “Or other parts of you.”

      “Men are still good for some things,” Elena put in. “In fact, they’re good for a lot of things. You shouldn’t give up on all of them just because you got a bad one.”

      “Yes,” said Lauren, who was dating Joe Coyote, the nicest man in town.

      “Well, when you find a good one, let me know and I’ll take him—to the cleaner’s.” Charley’s comment made everyone laugh. “Seriously,” she added, “love’s a gamble, and I’m done gambling.”

      “Heck, all of life’s a gamble,” Samantha said.

      Charley gave her a one-armed hug. “You’re right. But I’m going to make sure the deck’s stacked in my favor, so from now on I’ll just keep men as friends.”

      “Friends with benefits?” Rita teased as they tossed the last of the paper plates on the embers.

      “Maybe.” Charley shrugged. “Who knows what the future holds. I’m open to anything but marriage.”

      “But don’t you want kids?” Heidi asked.

      Samantha thought of Elena’s handicapped daughter and the baby Rita had lost last year. Parenthood could be as risky as marriage.

      “I don’t need a man to have children,” Charley said. “That’s why there’s adoption. Meanwhile, you’ll share James, right? I’ll be his Aunt Charley and spoil him rotten.”

      Baby-sharing. It saved a girl from those pesky little complications, like men. And childbirth. Still, it wasn’t the same as having a child of your own.

      As Samantha walked home she had plenty to think about. Did she ever want to try and have a serious relationship? Her parents had had a great marriage. It could be done. Every man out there wasn’t a Waldo or a Richard. And just because she’d picked one Mr. Wrong didn’t mean she couldn’t find Mr. Right. Although she was beginning to wonder what the odds of that were. She hadn’t dated anyone since college who even qualified as Mr. Maybe. Sheesh.

      Look at it this way, she told herself. Your life has nowhere to go but up.

      * * *

      Or not. At the office the next morning Samantha ground her teeth as she sat at Waldo’s old desk, which was now going to be hers, and sorted through a mountain of papers in preparation for meeting with Lizzy, who had, thank God, consented to return. There was the mock-up for their spring catalog that he’d insisted on looking at three weeks ago and then ignored. And what did he need with a week’s worth of old newspapers? In another pile she found several threatening letters from suppliers who hadn’t been paid. She’d have to start calling them this afternoon, explain about Waldo’s death and beg for mercy. Oh, and here was a week-old invitation from Cascade Mutual to come to their open house and meet the new manager, Blake Preston, who, according to the invite, was anxious to assist her in any way he could.

      Blake Preston? The former football hero of Icicle Falls High? He’d been four years ahead of her in school and she’d been too young for his crowd, but it was a small school and everyone knew everyone. He’d winked at her a few times when they’d passed in the hall, like that was supposed to make her day. It had.

      Yes, good old Blake had been a player both on and off the field. But how the heck had he wound up as a bank manager? Banking and football didn’t exactly go hand in hand.

      She frowned, remembering the jocks she’d shared classes with as a college business major, not to mention the one she almost married. Guys like that spent more time studying their playbooks than listening to what the professor had to say in lecture hall. Some of those doofs should never have been given a business degree, but they’d gotten one, anyway. Her doof not only got a degree, he’d dumped her and gotten the richest girl in their graduating class. (And a cushy job with Daddy, too.) Thank God she’d gone out of state for her college education. At least she’d never have to see him and Mrs. Doof again. Wherever he’d ended up, he was probably busy ignoring his company to play golf and lunch with his old frat buddies.

      So what old frat buddy had given Blake Preston entrée into the world of banking? Whoever it was, he hadn’t done Icicle Falls any favor. She tossed the invite in the wastebasket and kept digging.

      One more layer of paper down she found a ticking time bomb—another piece of correspondence from the bank, this one not so nice. Her heart shifted into overdrive and she fell back against Waldo’s big leather chair, sure she was going to have a heart attack. There, under the Cascade Mutual letterhead, was a cold but polite missive informing her stepfather that Sweet Dreams was behind on its loan payment. “As you are aware”—were they?—“Cascade Mutual Bank has a strict ninety-day grace period regarding overdue installment payments. This grace period has expired on your note in the amount of…”

      Ooooh. The numbers danced in front of her eyes like tiny demons. No, this couldn’t be happening! She read on.

      “Because Sweet Dreams Chocolates and Cascade Mutual Bank have a long-standing relationship, we are extending the grace period until February 28, at which time the aforementioned amount is due in full. It is hoped this matter can be resolved as soon as possible.”

      Only if she started printing money in the basement. What in the name of Godiva was she going to do?

      Hyperventilate! A bag, where was a bag? She couldn’t breathe. She was going to be sick. She needed chocolate! Her cell phone rang. The ring tone—Gwen Stefani’s “Sweet Escape”—told her it was Cecily and she grabbed it like a lifeline. “Cec, we… Oh, I’m going to pass out. Where’s a bag?” She rifled through desk drawers, but came up all she came up with was an old cigar, paper clips, rubber bands and—what was this? A stress ball. She scooped it up and strangled it.

      “What’s wrong?”

      “We— The bank. Oh, my God, I can’t believe this!” Samantha wailed, and burst into tears.

      Now she’d made so much noise that Elena had rushed into the office. “What’s going on?” One look at Samantha and the blood drained from her face. “Madre de Dios.”

      “Get me chocolate,” Samantha panted, and squeezed the stress ball again. These things were useless. She threw it across the room and grabbed a fistful of hair as Elena rushed off to find a dose of restorative chocolate.

      “Sam, tell me what’s going on,” Cecily demanded.

      “The bank is calling in their note. As if everything wasn’t already enough of a mess. As if we didn’t already owe the whole friggin’ world! My God, what did I ever do to deserve this? Is it because