That last thought came as a bit of a revelation. “I need you to help me keep all these balls in the air,” she said. “And to keep me sane.”
“Well, I’m not sure about that last one, but I can help with the juggling.”
“Thanks,” Samantha said. “Have I told you recently what a great sister you are?”
“No. But you’re right. I am.”
She could hear the smile in Cecily’s voice, and when she hung up she was smiling, too. She wasn’t going to have to hold down the chocolate fort alone. Reinforcements were coming. She shot an email to Ed to let him know she was getting the permit process started, then grabbed her purse and coat and left her office.
“I’m off to city hall to apply for permits,” she told Elena, who had stopped a rapid-fire conversation in Spanish to ask where she was going. “I shouldn’t be long.”
Elena nodded and returned to her conversation, frowning and gesticulating madly. The waving arm and Spanish could only mean one thing—she was talking to her mother. Samantha was glad she’d be out of the office for a while. It always took Elena at least half an hour to calm down after one of her mother-daughter chats.
What was it about moms? They could be a girl’s best friend one minute and her worst enemy the next. Your mother was never your enemy, she reminded herself. Mom wasn’t psychic; she couldn’t have known how things were going to turn out. She’d been nothing but supportive all of Samantha’s life. Well, until Waldo.
Samantha frowned. And there was the rub. She’d resented Mom’s decision to put him in charge then and she still resented it, even now that he was gone.
I do need a shrink, she thought as she made her way toward the end of Center Street, where Icicle Falls City Hall and the police department were located. But she didn’t have time for one now.
Priscilla Castro was on the front desk and she greeted Samantha with a superior smirk, her usual greeting for her former rival. In high school Samantha and Priscilla had battled each other over everything from grade point supremacy to boys. Priscilla’s friends had called her Cilla. The other girls called her Prissy, which quickly got changed to Pissy. Samantha had beaten her out as class valedictorian and—worse—taken the Miss Icicle Falls crown and the college scholarship money that went with it, leaving Pissy in the dust as third runner-up. Pissy got even by stealing Samantha’s boyfriend, Neil Castro, right before senior prom. She wound up marrying Neil, who went to work in a fruit-packing warehouse in Wenatchee. Not exactly the catch of the century as far as Samantha was concerned. Or Pissy, either. They got divorced after a couple of years, something Pissy probably blamed Samantha for, too. If Sweet Dreams went under, Pissy would probably climb on the roof of city hall and crow. Long live high school.
“Hi, Piss…Priscilla,” Samantha said.
“Samantha, what brings you here?” Pissy’s tone of voice added, Not that anyone wants to see you.
“I need permits for a special event and I figure you’re the go-to gal,” Samantha said with forced pleasantness.
“Special event?” Pissy cocked her head like the inquisitive crow she was. “Who’s doing a special event?”
“The Chamber.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it,” Pissy said.
“Well, that’s because it was just decided.” Samantha strove to keep her smile in place.
“Does Mayor Stone know?”
Del Stone, like Pissy, didn’t like anything happening in town that he didn’t know about. “Not yet, but I’m sure Ed York will give him all the details. So, what do I need to fill out?”
Pissy handed over the appropriate form. It was a mile long. “You can bring it back tomorrow.”
“You know, I think I’ll take care of it now,” Samantha said sweetly. The sooner she got the process going, the better.
Pissy shrugged. “Suit yourself. We close in ten minutes.” She sauntered off in the direction of the mayor’s office to tattle, leaving Samantha at the counter.
Samantha had barely begun when Del Stone emerged from his office, a short stocky man who loved to pair crazy neckties with his conservative suits. Today he was sporting a black necktie featuring a leaping salmon and the caption Born to Fish.
“Samantha,” he greeted her, taking her hand and giving it a fatherly pat. “How is your mother doing?”
She has no money and she’s sleeping all day. “She’s fine,” Samantha lied.
“Well, if there’s anything I can do…”
Just don’t ask her to marry you. “Thank you,” Samantha said.
“I hear the Chamber is talking about a festival,” the mayor said. “This is news to me.”
He was smiling but Samantha knew a scolding when she heard one. She looked over to where Pissy now sat at her desk, still in smirk mode. “Well, we just voted on it today.”
He shook his head. “I wish I could’ve been there. I’m afraid I had business in Wenatchee. Is it something for summer perhaps?”
Once more it hit Samantha how crazy it was to try and slap this together in such a short time. “Um, no, a little sooner than that.”
“Oh?” he probed.
She could feel her cheeks warming. “More like Valentine’s Day.”
The good mayor’s smile did a Cheshire Cat fade. “Valentine’s Day,” he repeated.
“Actually, Sweet Dreams is going to sponsor it.”
“Figures,” Pissy muttered over at her desk.
“Samantha, this really isn’t very practical,” the mayor said.
“We’re going to start small,” Samantha assured him.
“With so little time you’ll have to start microscopic.”
“I think we can do it,” she said.
Now the mayor was frowning. “If this comes off half-baked, it won’t look good for our town.”
“It won’t, I guarantee it,” Samantha insisted. He was standing there like a two-legged rain cloud ready to dump on her festival, so she hurried on. “Why don’t you let Ed and me take you out to dinner at Zelda’s tonight and tell you more about it? You’ll find that this is something we can all get behind.” Great. There went more money flying off over Sleeping Lady Mountain. The mayor loved to eat. And drink. Dinner would cost a fortune.
Del nodded thoughtfully. “All right. And why don’t you bring your mother? It would do her good to get out.”
Just what her mother always wanted, dinner with Del Stone, swinging bachelor. Del had been divorced for years. With no wife on the scene he’d done his best to turn himself into an urbane ladies’ man, and it was looking like Mom was the new lady of choice.
“I’ll see if she’s feeling up to it,” Samantha said.
Mayor Stone nodded again. “I’ll see you tonight. Shall we say around seven?”
Samantha nodded, too. She hoped Ed would be free. Del rarely got excited about any idea that hadn’t come out of his own balding head. It would take some convincing to get him in their corner—but getting him there was bound to move the permit process along.
He checked his watch. “Well, then, see you tonight. And don’t forget to bring your mother.”
As she watched him return to his office, she wondered if that was a condition for receiving Del’s blessing. Probably.
Now the clock on the wall said one minute until closing time. Samantha frowned at the half-finished form on the counter in front of her. Between them, Pissy and Del had managed to prevent her from getting her form turned in. And Pissy’s smirk had grown
.
Samantha folded the form, put it in her purse and smirked right back. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” And for the rest of today she’d be seeing red. Why did people have to keep complicating her life?
She marched out of city hall, her pace fueled by frustration. This called for a large dose of…coffee.
She had just gotten a double-shot mocha latte at Bavarian Brews and was envisioning herself back at city hall first thing in the morning, stapling her completed form to Pissy’s forehead, when at the end of the order line she spotted—did he live here?—Blake Preston, business gobbler and festival saboteur. The steam coming from her to-go cup was nothing compared to what she could feel coming out of her ears.
At the sight of her, his jaw set in determination. “Samantha.”
Oh, no. I do not want to talk to you. She averted her gaze and skirted the edge of the tables, occupied by retail clerks taking an afternoon coffee break and high school students fresh out of school for the day.
“Samantha, wait,” he called.
She pretended deafness and scooted past a table where two older women were enjoying coffee and scones. He cut her off.
“I really don’t have time to talk to you,” she snapped, and headed the other way around the table.
“I just want five minutes,” he said.
“I’d give you five minutes,” one of the women said, patting hair that had been dyed a color found nowhere in nature.
Samantha picked up her pace. Or tried to. Unfortunately, she tripped over a large purse lying by the woman’s chair. Instead of making a rushed but dignified exit from the coffee shop, she did a clown-style lurch, sloshing her latte from the cup onto her gloves, her coat and the floor. She landed with a squeak in the lap of a burly high school boy.
“Whoa,” he said in pleased surprise, and his friends snickered.
This was like being in a movie where everyone froze so all eyes could be on her.
There was no “like” about it. All eyes were on her. Her face flamed. “Sorry,” she muttered, and scrambled to her feet.
“Anytime,” the kid said.
Abandoning all attempts at dignity, she made a dash for the door.
Blake followed her out and caught her by the arm. It was hard to ignore the jolt she felt at the contact.
“Samantha, wait,” he said.
She waited. And removed his hand from her arm. Irritation with both herself and him filled her with a strong desire to kick him. Grown-up that she was trying to be, she resisted it. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were stalking me.”
He frowned. “Very funny.”
“These days I have to find humor where I can.”
“Look, I know you think I should have said more at the meeting today.”
“You could have,” she said coldly.
“I was honest,” he said. “You’re not going to make much money this first time around with so little time to plan.”
“Well, I’d love to have a year to pull this together, but, as you know, the bomb is ticking and I don’t have that luxury.”
“Samantha, it may not look like it, but I’m in your corner.”
Watching her get pummeled to death. “Oh, please,” she said, and rolled her eyes.
He let out an angry hiss. “You can’t believe I want to call in that note.”
Okay, she’d had about all the hypocrisy she could stomach for one day. “It’s a free country. I can believe whatever I want,” she informed him. “And once I pull my company out of this mess, I will be taking our business to a bank that puts its money where its mouth is and really helps its customers.” He started to speak and she held up a hand. “Don’t. Say. Anything. If you do, I just might trip again and spill the rest of my latte all over you.”
“Go ahead, if it’ll make you feel better.” He threw out his arms and puffed out his chest, turning himself into a target.
But all she could see was how big his chest was.
She raised her chin. “No, I think not. There’s no point wasting a perfectly good latte.” Having delivered her parting shot, she turned her back on him and crossed the street to return to her one true love—her business.
Chapter Nine
There is a difference between selling your ideas and selling yourself.
—Muriel Sterling, Knowing Who You Are: One Woman’s Journey
With its art deco decor and a menu that featured Northwest-style specialties, Zelda’s restaurant was a hopping place when winter sports enthusiasts were in town, and locals couldn’t get in without a reservation. No reservations needed for tonight, though. It was a weekday and the tourists had been few and far between, thanks to the sparse snowfall. That, combined with a cold sleet falling outside, left the restaurant less than half-full with a couple of families and some couples taking advantage of the twofer coupon Charley had run in the Mountain Sun on Sunday.
The aroma of spices and seared beef greeted Samantha as she and her mother walked in the door. The sizzle of cooking meat from the open kitchen, where Charley’s new chef was hard at work creating culinary masterpieces, provided background music for the spurts of laughter coming from a table of three women, who had obviously gotten a head start on their drinking. Later they’d drift into the bar to meet up with local guys, but for now they were indulging in Zelda’s huckleberry martinis and shrimp tarts. Over by the window Samantha caught sight of Luke, their production manager, out on a date with his four-year-old daughter, Serena, who was finishing up a hot fudge sundae. He gave Samantha a smile and a wave.
Luke was a single dad, not by choice. His wife had been tragically killed two years earlier, hit by a car when she was out jogging. He was a nice man and a hard worker, one of many employees who depended on her company for his livelihood. She waved back, trying to ignore the weight of responsibility that was suddenly crushing her appetite.
A group whoop from the party girls made Mom frown. “I shouldn’t have let you talk me into this.”
“They’ll be gone soon,” Samantha said.
“It’s not them, it’s me. I’m not ready for socializing, sweetie. You entertain the men. I can walk home.”
She turned to leave, but Samantha laid a pleading hand on her arm. “Mom, please. It’s only for an hour. I really need your support.”
And she needed Mom to bat her eyes at Del so he’d want to get behind the festival. Pimping out her own mother. She was pathetic.
Ed was waving at her from a corner table. Next to him sat Del, looking downright eager. “Anyway, they’ve seen us,” she added. “It would be rude to leave.” Playing the courtesy card always worked with her mother.
Sure enough, Mom resigned herself to her fate with a sigh. “All right. But I don’t want to be here all night.”
Charley, taking the place of the hostess who’d been overly hospitable to Charley’s now-ex-husband, greeted them with menus in hand. “Ed and Del are already here. I’ve got you at a nice corner table where you can talk.” To Mom she said, “Good to see you, Mrs. Wittman.”
Mom managed a smile and murmured her thanks, and Charley led them to their table.
Both men stood politely as they approached. Next to Ed, who was tall and lean and still had his hair, Del, with his paunch and bald head, didn’t exactly show well in spite of his black suit and crisp white shirt and impress-the-ladies lavender tie he’d exchanged for his earlier fish number.
Ed took both of Mom’s hands in his and said, “I’m glad you
came.”
Del did him one better, raising a hand to his lips and kissing it. “You look lovely tonight, Muriel.”
No lie there. Mom wore a simple black dress and hadn’t bothered with any makeup other than mascara and eyeliner (which she wouldn’t be without, even on her deathbed), but her pale face made her appear vulnerable. Which was exactly what she was.
Mom’s polite smile slid south. “Thank you,” she murmured, and extricated her hand.
They all sat and Del gave Mom a genial smile. “How about something to ward off the cold?” he asked. Judging from the near-empty glass in front of him, Del had already driven away the cold.
“A cup of tea would be nice,” she said.
“I was thinking something a little stronger,” Del said. “Some white wine, perhaps?”
Mom shook her head, and Del looked disappointed.
Maria came to the table, ready to take their orders. “May as well get a bottle, don’t you think?” he said to Ed.
“Sure,” Ed agreed.
Samantha hoped he was going to pick up the tab for it.
Once the wine had arrived and they’d chosen their dinners—steak for the men, chicken with raspberry sauce and baby potatoes for Samantha and a small salad for Mom—Samantha introduced the subject of the festival.
Del took a sip of his wine and shook his head. “Plenty of time to talk about that,” he said. “But first let me just say, Muriel, that if there’s anything you need, I hope you know you only have to ask.”
“Thank you, Del. I appreciate that,” Mom said.
And here would have been the perfect opportunity for her mother to say, “I need you to support this festival we’re planning.” Instead, she took the little pot Maria had brought and poured tea into her cup.
Samantha forced herself not to drum her fingers on the table. She glanced at Ed. He was busy enjoying his wine and seemed in no hurry to get down to business. And that is how you do business, she had to remind herself. Don’t rush right into talking about what you want. Get the other person relaxed and receptive first. Actually, Del was already relaxed. So was Ed. She was the one who was tense.
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