Sweet Dreams on Center Street

by Sheila Roberts

  Also a widow, Pat Wilder was a tall, attractive woman who, like Muriel, kept her youthful hair color with the aid of regular visits to Sleeping Lady Salon. Unlike Muriel, her roots weren’t starting to show. Pat was a sharp dresser and today she wore jeans and boots and a black leather jacket over a cream-colored cashmere sweater and a wealth of silver jewelry. A knit scarf in hunter-green—probably a gift from Olivia, who loved to knit—completed her ensemble. The faintest hint of her favorite floral perfume wafted toward Muriel as Pat reached out to hug her.

  Muriel hated to think what was wafting off her. Suddenly she felt self-indulgent and embarrassed.

  “I’m not going to ask how you’re doing,” Pat said, “because I know. I’m so sorry you’re having to go through this again.”

  Muriel could feel the tears collecting but she tried to be brave and murmured her thanks.

  Cecily hovered at the corner of the room as if uncertain whether to go or stay. “Would you like some tea?” she asked Pat.

  “I’d love some,” Pat said, and settled on the couch. She patted the cushion next to her and Muriel seated herself, acutely conscious of the contrast in their appearances.

  “It’s going to take time before you can string two thoughts together,” Pat said comfortingly, and Muriel couldn’t help wishing her daughters understood that. “And you’ve got all this craziness with the festival going on.”

  Craziness they could have avoided if she’d been a more astute businesswoman and hadn’t landed their company in this mess.

  “But I’m hoping I can talk you into going out for dinner.”

  Muriel stared at her friend. Of all the people in the world, Pat should have understood how little taste she had for socializing these days. And after the fiasco with Del the other night she had even less. “Oh, I don’t think—”

  Pat cut her off. “This isn’t exactly a social dinner.”

  Now Cecily was there with two steaming mugs, eavesdropping shamelessly.

  Muriel felt cornered. “I’m not interested in some multilayered business plan,” she said flatly.

  Pat chuckled. “You mean multilevel and that’s not what this is. Olivia and I formed a little group about a year and a half ago, after she lost George.”

  “A book club.” Of course. Pat owned a bookstore. But Muriel didn’t have time to join a book club. The girls needed help and she was busy…sitting around in her pajamas looking through photo albums.

  “No, no. Nothing like that,” Pat said. “This is a support group.”

  Muriel didn’t want support. She opened her mouth to refuse but Pat was too quick. “A widows’ club,” she added bluntly. “Dot is in it, too.”

  Dot, with her chain-smoking and sharp tongue, was no one Muriel wanted to get chummy with. “Thanks, but I’m not interested.”

  “I just want you to try us out. Come to dinner with us tomorrow.

  “Pat, I’m not ready,” Muriel said firmly.

  “You weren’t ready for Waldo to die, either,” Pat said, her gentle tone taking the sting from her words. “We’re not ready for much of life. It happens, anyway. Come on, what do you say? Dinner is on me.”

  “Why don’t you go, Mom?” Cecily urged.

  It was all Muriel could do not to reply, Why don’t you mind your own business?

  “Come this once,” Pat coaxed. “If nothing else it will be a chance to share your memories of Waldo.”

  That would be nice. Her daughters were too involved with the festival to ramble down memory lane with her. Maybe talking with women who’d gone through what she had would help her feel better equipped to cope with staking out new real estate in the land of the living.

  “All right.”

  Her daughters loved her dearly but they couldn’t take her where she needed to go emotionally. As an only child she’d missed out on having sisters. Could girlfriends fill the gap? Maybe she should find out.

  Chapter Twelve

  The best way to handle anything unpleasant is with a sense of humor.

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

  Tuesday evening found Muriel back at Zelda’s. Olivia, gray-haired and plump, dolled up in a sequin-studded black sweater and her favorite elastic-waist slacks, greeted her with a hug. “I’m so glad you decided to join us, lovie.”

  Actually, now that she was here, so was Muriel. Instead of feeling pressured and on edge, she hoped she could exhale and let herself fall into the deep comfort that could only come from the camaraderie born of a shared profound experience. No one would push her to plan events. No one would ask if she’d called Lupine Floral yet to see about getting floral arrangements donated for the ball or if she’d thought of any clever questions for the Mr. Dreamy competition. Here she could say how much she missed Waldo and how lost she felt and no one would merely pretend to be sorry for her loss. They would feel it.

  Charley had just seated them at a corner table when Dot Morrison arrived. She was skinny with short gray hair over a long face with a sharp nose. She had nice eyes, Muriel would give her that, but they seemed to be stuck in a perpetual squint, most likely in an effort to hide from all the smoke. In short, Dot looked like a real-life version of Maxine, the greeting-card cartoon character. Muriel had never bought Maxine greeting cards.

  Dot slid into her seat, bringing the scent of cigarette smoke with her. “What a night,” she said in a voice deep enough to sing bass in a barbershop quartet. “If we get much more of this damned freezing rain we’re all going to rust.” Now she seemed to notice Muriel for the first time. “I see we have a new LAM. Although I’m laying odds you won’t be with us for long,” she said to Muriel.

  Lamb, as in lamb to the slaughter? And what did she mean Muriel wouldn’t be with them for long? Were they going to blackball her?

  She smiled stiffly. “Lamb?”

  “Not lamb,” Olivia corrected her. “L.A.M. LAM.”

  “It’s an acronym,” Pat explained. “It stands for ‘life after men.’”

  Life after men; that sounded depressing.

  “It’s meant to be positive,” Olivia said, as if reading Muriel’s thoughts, “to remind us that just because our marriages are over it doesn’t mean our lives are.” She smiled gratefully at Pat. “If Dottie and Pat hadn’t taken me under their wing after George died, I don’t know how I would have coped. Helping the boys, running the inn alone, it was all so overwhelming. Sometimes I felt like the entire Cascade Mountain Range had fallen on me. And some days I still feel alone, but the truth is, I’m not.”

  Until you go to bed at night, Muriel thought.

  “Still, it’s hard to make that adjustment,” Pat said.

  “But don’t worry,” Dot said to Muriel. “I bet you’ll find another man and be off within six months.”

  She’d been wrong. There was no comfort to be found here. Disappointed and irritated, Muriel bristled. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re still young and pretty,” Dot said, as if age had anything to do with finding love, and as if a woman just skipped over to the park and began poking around under the bushes for a new soul mate like a child hunting Easter eggs.

  Or maybe Dot was insinuating that she wasn’t very picky. Whatever she was implying, Muriel didn’t appreciate her condescending attitude. In spite of that smoke-aged skin and gray hair Dot wasn’t much older than she was, so she hardly qualified for the role of wise old woman.

  “I’ve been lucky en
ough to be married to two wonderful men,” Muriel said, emotion giving her voice a sharp edge. “I’m certainly not going to run out and settle for someone simply because I’m lonely.”

  Dot raised both eyebrows. Translation: Really?

  Of all the nerve. If this was support, she could do without it. Muriel was about to remember a pressing need at home and excuse herself when Maria came to take their drink orders.

  “Hi, ladies. Time for another LAM meeting?”

  “Yes,” Pat said. “So bring on the champagne.”

  Maria nodded and hustled off and Pat smiled at Muriel. “We need to toast our newest member.”

  Newest member? Muriel had made no commitment. She’d just said she’d come to dinner. “Well, we’ll see,” she murmured. It would be impolite to leave now. She’d stay for one drink, wish them all well and then leave.

  As they waited for the champagne, talk fell to mundane things like the exploits of Pat’s grade-school-age grandsons, the new diet Olivia was on—something about seven days of vegetables followed by seven days of protein. Then the women began to discuss their businesses and Muriel felt like a fish out of water. These women were all competent businesswomen. She was…clueless. Another reason not to stay.

  Maria brought the champagne and filled their glasses.

  Pat lifted hers and said, “To Muriel. May lovely memories cradle you and new beginnings lead you.”

  “To strong women,” Dot said, raising her glass to Muriel. “Harsh winds may bend us but we don’t break.”

  “And though you’re now on your own, may you always remember you’re not alone,” Olivia finished. “To the LAMs.”

  “To the LAMs,” the other two echoed.

  As they sipped their champagne Muriel drank in the words of their toasts. Maybe she would stay for dinner, after all. It would be rude to rush off.

  * * *

  Cecily was surprised to awake to the aroma of bacon frying. Mom couldn’t be up already. And making breakfast? Really? She went to the kitchen and found her mother not only making breakfast but dressed. Mom’s red eyes betrayed a secret morning crying jag but it was encouraging to see her up and functioning.

  Cecily gave her a kiss. “That smells wonderful.”

  Her mother patted her cheek. “I’m sure you’ve got a million things to do today. I figured you could use a good breakfast.”

  “You thought right,” Cecily said, and poured herself a cup of coffee.

  Mom put bread in the toaster. “What’s on your agenda for today?” she asked for the first time since Cecily had arrived.

  “I’m going to print out pictures of all the men who’ve entered our Mr. Dreamy contest and hang them in the shop. And sometime before Bailey and I Skype this afternoon, I’d like to nail down a theme for the ball and start pulling together details on that.”

  Mom nodded and cracked eggs into a pan.

  “I could use some creative help,” Cecily ventured.

  She’d already asked Mom to come up with some questions they could ask their Mr. Dreamy contestants, hoping to take advantage of her mother’s writing skills and take her mind off her troubles, but had gotten a polite yet firm refusal so she wasn’t sure why she was asking.

  “Maybe I can come up with something,” Mom said.

  Other than the family brainstorming session, which she’d pretty much been forced into, it was the first time since Waldo’s death that their mother had taken any interest in the life that was still going on around her. Cecily didn’t know if her dinner out the night before with Pat’s support group had anything to do with this—Mom hadn’t shared details when she got home—but if it had, they all owed Pat chocolate for life.

  “That would be great,” she said. And Samantha would be really pleased to see Mom involved.

  “I don’t want you girls to think you’re pulling this load alone,” Mom said. She slid an egg onto a plate, added toast and handed it to Cecily.

  “You’re dealing with a lot,” Cecily said, feeling suddenly guilty that she’d asked for help.

  “We’re all dealing with a lot,” her mother said, “but together we’re strong enough to knock down any obstacle. We’ll get through this.”

  Mom was still the word queen. She could lay out a phrase like a comforting blanket. Cecily set down the plate and hugged her. “You’re always there for us.”

  “Thank you, dear,” her mother said in a choked voice, and hugged her back.

  It was a perfect way to start the day and Cecily left for the shop wearing a smile along with her jeans, turtleneck and winter jacket.

  Samantha wasn’t at the office when she poked her head in to say hi. “She went over to Bavarian Brews,” Elena said. “She’s meeting Nia Walters.”

  Of course, the interview for the Mountain Sun that Cecily had set up for her. “Great. I’m going to put up a display of our Mr. Dreamy contestants down in the shop. Maybe I’ll have her bring Nia over to see it when they’re done.”

  “That’s going to be some contest,” Elena predicted. “Heidi said another couple of guys dropped off entries this morning. Not surprising, considering the prizes.”

  Bailey had outdone herself. “It feels like every woman in town is entering her man.” Cecily smiled.

  “Not me,” Elena said with a snort. “Even if we could enter, I wouldn’t. Mine wouldn’t stand a chance with that big belly of his. He wanted to, though.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That he was loco.”

  “Do you think we were loco to have this contest?”

  “Loco like a fox. We’ll sell lots of chocolates at this, eh? I’m going to be there and I’m bringing my sisters.”

  Samantha could squawk all she wanted, Cecily thought as she went downstairs to the shop, but this was going to pack Festival Hall. Hopefully, the ball and the other events would be equally successful.

  “I never realized we had so many good-looking men in Icicle Falls,” Heidi said, handing over pictures and entry forms from the latest entrants.

  One photo was of Olivia’s younger son, Brandon, posing in full ski regalia. He was a ski bum and a bad boy, and he’d left a trail of broken hearts, including Bailey’s, scattered from Icicle Falls clear to Ellensburg. Bailey had hoped to see him when she came up for Waldo’s funeral but, thankfully, he’d been out of town. It looked like he was planning to be around for the festival, though, which could mean trouble for little sister.

  Cecily studied the picture, trying to decide what movie star he resembled. That square chin and brown wavy hair made her think of Orlando Bloom but he definitely had Jake Gyllenhaal eyes, and a lean Jude Law–style body. She finally concluded that he was simply a composite of gorgeous.

  And here was… She blinked. Blake Preston? Seriously? The man had his nerve.

  “What’s he doing in here?” she asked Heidi.

  Heidi replied, “Why shouldn’t he be?” reminding Cecily that their company troubles weren’t common knowledge. Thank God.

  “It doesn’t seem very dignified for a bank manager,” she said, improvising fast.

  “Tell that to his grandma,” Heidi said. “She thinks he’s gorgeous. And he is.”

  It was sad that such a handsome man had such an ugly heart. But not unusual. Most of the men Cecily had met were Shallow Sams who didn’t consider their heart their most important organ.

  She took the picture to the side of the shop where she was setting up her display and called her sister. “You’ll
never guess who’s entered our contest.”

  “Who?”

  “Blake Preston.”

  There was a charged silence on the other end of the phone. Then Samantha exploded. “Oh, for the love of chocolate. Of all the rotten, two-faced, low-class—”

  “That about sums it up,” Cecily agreed. “Should I lose his picture?”

  “No, save it. I might want to throw darts at it.”

  “At least you can tell Nia we’ve got the blessing of the local movers and shakers.”

  “I’d like to shake him, right off the top of Sleeping Lady Mountain,” Samantha grumbled. “Oh, here comes Nia now. Gotta go.”

  Cecily ended the call and got to work, still mulling over this latest development.

  She’d barely started when the shop bell tinkled and in walked Billy Williams, who worked at the River Bend guest ranch. One of their first entrants, Bill Will, as everyone called him, was another local bad boy and Cecily had run with his crowd for a brief time in high school. She’d grown up but it appeared Billy hadn’t. Heidi had caught Cecily up on his exploits in one succinct sentence: He loves to hang out at the Man Cave. That said it all, considering who owned the place.

  “Hi, Bill Will,” Heidi greeted him. “Did you come in for some chocolate?”

  “I came in to give Samantha a treat.” He pulled off his cowboy hat to reveal tousled chestnut curls. “Hey, Cec,” he said to Cecily. “Heard you were back in town.”

  “I am and I’m really busy with the festival,” she said before he could offer to show her a hot time.

  He shrugged good-naturedly. “So where’s your sis?”

  “She’s over at Bavarian Brews.”

  He nodded. “Okay. Guess I’ll go find her there.”

  “What do you need?” Cecily asked. And what was this mysterious treat? She’d never stopped to consider that anyone would try to bribe the judges.

  “Oh, nothing. Just thought I’d show her why I’m the best Mr. Dreamy in town. See you girls around.” Then he was out the door.