Mrs. Scrooge

by Barbara Bretton

  Sam would rather tame a grizzly bear. At least grizzly bears hibernated six months of every year. She could never find time in her crazy daily schedule for a man, no matter how handsome. She turned and looked at her fluffy blond friend. "Do me a favor," she said, giving way to another yawn. "Why don't we just pretend you gave me matchmaking lecture number 378 and be done with it?" Caroline started to protest but Sam raised a hand to stop her. "It's not as if I haven't heard it all before."

  Caroline leaned her head against the worn leather seat. Even at the end of a rainy, cold Monday she looked superb. If they weren't best friends, Sam just might hate the woman.

  "You may think you've heard it all," Caroline said, "but I can tell you haven't paid attention. Patty needs a father, Sam."

  Sam's jaw settled into a stubborn line. "Patty has a father," she snapped. "It's not my fault Ronald doesn't care that he has a daughter."

  Caroline was as stubborn as Sam. "I'm not talking about Ronald Donovan and you know it. I'm talking about you, Sam. About your future."

  "My future is fine, thank you. This time next month, I'll be open for business and from there the sky's the limit." For two years Sam had eaten, breathed, slept Fast Foods for the Fast Lane and she was finally on the eve of reaping the benefits of her backbreaking schedule of work and school and motherhood.

  "There's more to life than your career, Sam."

  "Easy for you to say. You already have a career. Mine hasn't started yet."

  "There's Patty," Caroline said softly, tearing her limpid blue-eyed gaze away from the man in the gray flannel suit across the aisle. "You should think about her happiness."

  Sam's fatigue disappeared in a quick blaze of anger. "That's exactly what I'm thinking about, Caroline. Patty needs more than I can give her waiting tables or typing envelopes. Fast Foods for the Fast Lane is my best hope."

  Having a genius for a daughter wasn't your everyday occurrence. Patty was quickly outstripping the ability of Harborfields Elementary School to keep up with her. Unfortunately Patty's nimble mind was also quickly outstripping Sam's financial ability to provide tutors, books, and advanced courses her little girl deserved but didn't have.

  Sam had no college degree, no inheritance to fall back upon, no friends in high places. What she had was a sharp mind, common sense, and the ability to turn the simplest of foods into the most extraordinary fare. With the area around Princeton booming with two-paycheck families and upscale life-styles, Sam realized that all the modern conveniences in the world couldn't compensate for the lack of a home-cooked meal made to order and ready when you were.

  From that simple idea came her brainchild, Fast Foods for the Fast Lane and with it the hope that she would be able to give Patty every chance in the world to achieve her potential.

  The tinny voice of the conductor blared from the loudspeaker: "Princeton Junction, next stop!"

  Caroline, elegant as always in her timeless gray silk dress, stood up and reached for her parcels in the overhead rack. "I should be imprisoned for grand larceny," she said, sitting back down next to Sam, her lap piled high with loot. "Three vintage Bob Mackies and a Donna Karan and I didn't have to empty my bank account."

  "I take it business is going well?" Sam asked, collecting her books and papers from the empty seat next to her. Caroline ran an offbeat boutique called Twice Over Lightly, where one-of-a-kind designer dresses could be rented for a night by New Jersey CinderelIas.

  Caroline's broad smile told the tale. "It's going so well I can afford to wear the Schiaparelli to the TriCounty Masquerade Ball. Jeannie Tremont will be green with envy."

  "No," said Sam, searching her briefcase for her car keys. "Absolutely not."

  "Absolutely not what?" Caroline asked.

  "I am absolutely not going to the Christmas party."

  "Of course you are," Caroline said. "Don't be silly,"

  "I hate Christmas parties and I refuse to go to one where all the adults wear Santa Claus masks. I have better things to do with my free time."

  Caroline's elegant nose wrinkled in disdain. "Spare me your Mrs. Scrooge routine, Sam. It was old last year."

  "I don't ask you to forgo your mistletoe, Caroline," Sam said evenly. "Don't go asking me to run around whistling Jingle Bells."

  "You used to love Christmas," Caroline persisted. "You used to start decorating before Thanksgiving,"

  "I used to wear braids and watch Saved by the Bell, too."

  "You even celebrated Christmas the year you were expecting Patty and we both know what a rotten holiday that was."

  "I was seventeen." Seventeen and filled with hope and promise despite the fact that she was about to become a single mother. She had decorated her parents' house from top to bottom and even lit the dozens of tiny candles that illuminated the driveway on Christmas Eve. Had there really been a time when setting up those tiny white candles outside had seemed so wondrous, so important? "I didn't know any better."

  Leave it to Samantha Dean to fall in love with a boy from the right side of the tracks. A high school romance with a girl from Rocky Hill was one thing; marriage to that very same girl was something else entirely.

  There would be no marriage, said the illustrious Donovan clan, not even to legitimize the baby Sam carried. And so it was on Christmas Eve that Ronald was whisked away from the temptation and sent west where he ended up in the United States Air Force Academy, on the road to a bright and shiny future as a pilot.

  And good riddance.

  Sam had done fine by Patty up until now and, God willing, she would do even better once her catering business got rolling.

  "You should get out more," Caroline continued, as the train rattled into the station. "Socialize. Christmas soirees are all part of doing business in this town, Sam."

  "Well, the soirees will have to go on without me, I have ten weeks' worth of work and only four weeks to accomplish it. Trust me: I don't have time for Christmas."

  "Everyone has time for Christmas."

  Sam laughed out loud. "You don't even have time for the Tri-County meeting tonight."

  "That's different. The store is open tonight and Jeannie has the evening off." She narrowed her eyes in Sam's direction. "I hope you're going."

  Sam glanced out at the cold rain lashing against the train windows. "Not me. I intend to stretch out on the sofa and watch Sex and the City reruns while Patty tackles nuclear fusion."

  "Not a very businesslike attitude, Sam."

  "I'm not in business yet, Caroline."

  Caroline waved her words away. "A mere technicality. You should be out there spreading Christmas cheer. I don't think you're being fair to Patty." Caroline looked altogether too pleased with her logic for Sam's taste.

  "Just because I don't turn all warm and mushy when I hear 'Deck the Halls,' doesn't mean I'm going to deny Patty her fun."

  "Well, thank God for that," Caroline murmured.

  "I would have kidnapped that girl for the holidays."

  "Wait until I'm established," Sam said. "In a few more years I'll have plenty of time for Christmas celebrations?''

  "I certainly hope so. Christmas is a time for miracles, honey, and there aren't many of them around these days. Who knows? For all you know, your big break might be waiting for you at the Tri-County meeting." Caroline patted Sam's hand. "You just have to believe."

  "Oh, I believe," said Sam as the train stopped and the doors slid open. "I believe in peace on earth, joy to the world, and that not even the promise of a weekend in the Bahamas could tempt me to go to that meeting tonight.

  Chapter Two

  "No," Sam said, kicking off her wet Reeboks and collapsing into a kitchen chair. She'd been home less than fifteen minutes and already Patty was trying to push her back out the door. "Absolutely not."

  Her daughter's bright blue eyes flashed with a spark of stubborn recklessness that Sam was all too familiar with. Nothing short of a world-class brainstorm would have kept Patty away from Monday afternoon Math Club.

  "But,
Mom, I—"

  Sam groaned and closed her eyes. "Not another word. The only place I'm going tonight is to bed."

  Patty's cheeks flushed with determination. "I promised you'd go to the meeting."

  Wearily Sam braced herself and opened one dark brown eye. "That's what you get for making promises you can't keep."

  "You have to go! I'll be humiliated if you don't."

  "Then prepare yourself to be humiliated, Patty, because I'm not moving from this house." She stifled a yawn. "I may not even move from this chair."

  "That's very unprofessional, Mother."

  So it was going to be one of those nights, was it? Whenever Patty called Sam "Mother," Sam knew she was in for trouble.

  "How can you be a small business when you don't go to small business meetings?" her small and brilliant daughter reasoned.

  "I'm not a small business yet and I never will be if I don't finish this last course." Loss Management and Customer Relations had turned out to be a combination of Abnormal Psychology 101 and Deficit Spending for the Soon-to-be-Bankrupt, while Food Preparation and You made Martha Stewart's elaborate arrangements look like leftovers. "What I need is warm food, a hot bath and a good night's sleep."

  Patty's red brows knotted together over the bridge of her eyeglasses. "Test tomorrow?"

  "A final."

  "Are you scared?"

  Sam opened her other eye. "You're the ten-year-old. You should be the one taking tests and I should be the one looking concerned."

  Patty grinned and lifted the lid on Sam's favorite saucepan and the mouthwatering aroma of chili filled the tiny kitchen.

  "I even left out the garlic," Patty said.

  Sam had been a mother long enough to recognize a con job when she saw one, but there was something so wonderful about hot chili on a cold, wet evening that her maternal defense mechanism lowered.

  "Did you remember to brown the meat?" Sam asked, weakening.

  "Of course!" Her oh-so-grown-up little girl looked highly affronted. "And I mixed my own chili powder instead of using the bottled stuff."

  Sam sighed. Although she prided herself on her Cordon Bleu-style of cooking, chili was her downfall and Patty knew it. "The spirit is willing," Sam muttered, "but the flesh is very weak. What's the catch, kiddo?"

  Her daughter was the picture of innocence. "There's no catch."

  Despite her genius IQ, Patty was transparent as plate glass, a fact for which Sam was forever grateful. It was one of the few advantages she had left. "You didn't volunteer me for another Christmas Party committee at school, did you?"

  "Not after the kids nicknamed you Mrs. Scrooge last year." Patty ladled some chili into a heavy white bowl and handed it to Sam. "I just think you should go to the meeting tonight, that's all."

  The chili was warm, spicy, and downright delicious and Sam's defenses lowered yet another notch. "Any particular reason?"

  Patty met her eyes head-on. "I think it's good business."

  "Okay, what's his name?"

  "Mom! Why are you being so suspicious?"

  "Because I'm a mother, that's why. The chili is terrific, and I'm probably going to go to the darned meeting tonight but I think I deserve a straight answer, don't you?"

  "Murphy O'Rourke," said Patty, sitting down at the table opposite Sam with her own steaming bowl of chili.

  "What?"

  "His name is Murphy O'Rourke."

  Sam's spoon clattered back into the heavy white bowl. "You know how I feel about matchmaking. I don't have enough time for you much less a boyfriend."

  "I am so not matchmaking," her daughter protested. "This is a business matter. He runs a bar in Rocky Hill and he lost his chef. I told him you could supply the food for the bar until he hires a new chef."

  "Cook, honey. Bars don't have chefs." There was something very daunting about a ten-year-old child with the instincts of a Donald Trump. "I suppose you also negotiated a price."

  She had. Sam whistled low. "That much?"

  "I probably could have asked fifty percent more but it's Christmastime."

  "What does Christmas have to do with good business?"

  "Really, Mother!"

  "Oh, don't look so shocked, honey. I was only kidding." Each year she vowed to make an effort for Patty's sake, and each year it grew harder and harder to do. "How much did you say the job would pay?"

  Patty told her again and it was still impressive.

  "And you wouldn't even have to work there," Patty continued, her voice eager. "You could make up the food here and drop it off at the bar on your way to the train."

  "And school finishes up tomorrow," Sam said, warming to the idea despite her better judgment. With that amount of money for making a few hors d'oeuvres for a local tavern, she'd have time to get the store ready for its opening day, sleep late, Christmas shop and be able to pay her bills. It was too good to pass up. "What time did you say the meeting was?"

  "Eight o'clock," said Patty, her small freckled face beaming with excitement.

  "And he'll be there?"

  Her daughter's red braids bounced as she nodded her head. "Yes. He promised to give you first chance at the job."

  "All right," said Sam, giving in at last. "I'll go. If I'm going to be the Princeton corridor's number one entrepreneur, I suppose I'd better start entrepreneuring."

  * * *

  TWO HOURS LATER, the best mother in the world stood in the doorway of the meeting room and took stock of the crowd. Brooks Brothers, Saville Row, and a touch of DKNY thrown in for good measure. Ivy League personified.

  She glanced down at her flour-speckled sweater and trusty cords. Whatever had possessed her to be so cavalier about the Tri-County Small Business Association anyway? An elegantly coiffed woman in a navy suit walked by and instantly Sam felt two feet tall.

  Eye shadow, thought Sam with a groan. Gold earrings and lipstick and a clean sweater and that's just for starters. Everything Patty had begged and pleaded for Sam to wear. As it was, she looked like a struggling grad student.

  Maybe she should pretend she was there to scrub the floors in the ladies' room. That would be an easier sell than trying to convince these tailored wonders that she was one of them.

  She stepped inside the doorway, keeping the wall firmly against her back. Where on earth had she gotten the idea that these meetings were casual? Well, there was no hope for it. Sam hadn't come all that way to slink out of there without accomplishing her objective. Sixty-three dollars for a tray of cocktail sandwiches wasn't something she could easily turn away from and, like it or not, Mr. Murphy O'Rourke would have to accept her the way she was or find someone else to do business with.

  She eased into the crowd and scanned the stick-on name tags affixed to bosoms and pecs, feeling vaguely like an upscale pervert. Kaplan . . . Oliver. . . DeSoto . . . Brennan . . . Everything but O'Rourke.

  A tall, dark and handsome man in a sophisticated tweed suit approached. If this was Patty's business conquest, she would have to compliment her daughter on her good taste. He was positively gorgeous.

  "Good evening," he said, white teeth gleaming.

  Sam straightened her shoulders and wished she'd at least worn her hair down instead of in a ponytail. "Good evening."

  "Still cold outside?"

  "Freezing, but at least it isn't snowing."

  Nodding, he drained a cup of coffee. "The pot's empty."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "The coffeepot's empty," he repeated. "I believe we could use more. The meeting's about to begin."

  Sam arched a brow. "Then perhaps you should speak to someone who might be able to help you."

  He had the decency to flush beneath his perfect tan. "I thought--I mean, aren't you—"

  "No," she said, "I'm not."

  His dark blue eyes traveled swiftly over her bedraggled form and she held her breath, praying he wouldn't call a security guard to evict her from the premises.

  "I'm waiting for someone," she said, although it was really none of his b
usiness. "I'm a member."

  "I'm sure," he said, nodding, but it was obvious he had difficulty imagining an over-aged street urchin being granted membership in such a hallowed institution.

  She might as well go for broke. "You wouldn't happen to be Murphy O'Rourke, would you?"

  "Afraid not," he murmured in a lock-jawed parody of all things Ivy then moved back into the crowd.

  We need to have a long talk, Patty, she thought as she poured herself a tall glass of iced water and watched the Ralph Laurens mingle with the Armanis.

  "Quite a turnout, isn't it?" asked a middle-aged man in aviator glasses.

  "Quite," said Sam, feigning an air of privileged indifference. There were far too many prep school clothes at the Tri-County meeting for her taste. She'd spent a good part of her early adult life feeling second place to people whose claim to superiority was nothing more profound than being born in the right zip code.

  Come on, O'Rourke, she thought, returning to her place by the double doors. She wanted to meet the man, solidify Patty's deal, and go home—preferably in the next five minutes, if possible. She scanned the smoke-filled room once again. Sam had checked the name tag of every man who even remotely matched her daughter's description of the elusive Murphy O'Rourke to no avail. In fact, not one of the men she'd approached had even heard of O'Rourke. Either Patty was playing an extremely unfunny practical joke or the mystery man had been stringing along a little girl who had been known to get more than a little pushy when she was trying to make a point.

  One day when Fast Foods for the Fast Lane was underway she would belong here with the Stocktons and the Witherspoons, but this definitely wasn't the day. She was cold and wet and exhausted and positive she should have stayed home with a blanket and a hot-water bottle as she'd originally planned.

  A white-haired woman took the podium, rapped sharply with her gavel, then launched into a series of public address announcements with a delivery flat as the Mojave Desert.

  "Oh, no," muttered a male voice behind Sam. "I should've stayed home and watched the game."