Sheila Roberts - Better Than Chocolate

Learning that Waldo had no life insurance hadn’t helped. Mom had felt awful when she called with the bad news and Samantha had felt numb. But not so numb that she couldn’t exclaim, “How could he have been so irresponsible? My God! First the business and now this.”

“Let’s not panic,” Mom had advised.

“Mom,” Samantha had said sternly, “we’re in a burning building and the fire department is on strike. What do you expect me to do?”

“We’ll think of something,” Mom had assured her.

Easy for her mother, the queen of clueless, to say. She knew nothing about business or finance. “You’re right,” Samantha had lied, trying to make up for her gaffe. “I’d better go.” Before I explode.

After she hung up she’d felt awful. If there was an award for the most insensitive daughter, she’d win it hands down.

Now she made her way up the walk, slo-o-owly, and then let herself in, hoping to hear Mom’s voice drifting down from the loft as she talked to Cecily and Bailey on the computer. Instead, she found her mother rooted in her favorite yellow leather chair, nursing a cup of chocolate-mint tea. The aroma drifted across the room to greet her.

“I have a pot of tea on the counter,” Mom said as Samantha bent to kiss her cheek, “and Pat brought over white-chocolate raspberry brownies. Vitamin C,” she added, referring to the family joke that chocolate was the equivalent of vitamins.

At the rate Samantha was going, she’d wind up overdosing on chocolate. She moved to the counter, poured herself some tea and took a brownie. Just one. She’d make this the last fattening thing she ate for the rest of her life. Okay, for the rest of the month. The week. The night, anyway.

“How are you feeling?” Mom asked.

Like French royalty about to face the guillotine. Samantha shrugged. “I’ve been better.”

Her mother’s face was a picture of sympathy and regret. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

That made two of them. “Mom, about this morning. I’m sorry I snapped at you.” Daughters were supposed to be a comfort to their mother. She was about as comforting as a kick in the shins.

Mom waved away the apology. “Don’t give it another thought. I know you’re under a lot of stress.”

Stress, the all-American excuse for bad behavior. Could she go back to the bank and try that one out on Blake Preston?

Mom gave her a motherly pat on the shoulder. “Somehow this will all work out, sweetie.”

Samantha had to find a way to make that prediction come true. The weight of responsibility on her shoulders felt like twin elephants. How was she going to get them out of this mess? Panic!

No, no. No panicking. Stay calm and think.

“So they haven’t called yet?” she asked, stating the obvious. Suddenly she was eager to talk to her sisters. Even though there was nothing they could do to help, a big dose of moral support would be good.

“Not yet,” Mom said. “I was just about to go up to the loft. We can start talking to Cecily. You know how to do this Skype thing, right? Waldo always…” Mom’s sentence trailed off.

Samantha simply nodded and led the way upstairs. At first it looked like Mom had done some serious cleaning in the office, but on closer examination Samantha realized her mother had only stacked all of Waldo’s paperwork in neat piles.

“I’m working through your stepfather’s papers,” Mom said as she sat down and booted up the computer.

“I can help you with that,” Samantha offered, pulling up a chair next to her and clicking on the Skype icon.

“It can wait,” Mom said. “You’ve got enough on your plate.”

Not as much as Mom had. Yes, Samantha was feeling responsible for keeping the company going, but Mom was coping with the loss of a husband and probably her house, on top of all this trouble with Sweet Dreams. All the sparkle had drained out of her and she looked like a zombie with her eyes bloodshot from crying. Samantha, with her ill-considered outbursts, wasn’t helping.

Their call went through and Cecily appeared on the screen. She was perched on a brown microfiber love seat in her living room, looking comfy in sweatpants and an old sweater, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. On the wall behind her Samantha could see Mom’s 1979 Moskowitz print that Cecily had taken with her when she’d moved to L.A. It depicted three pastel-colored ostriches, one with its head in the sand, two staring out at the world with perplexed expressions. Rather symbolic of most of the women in her family if you asked Samantha. Not that anyone had.

“Bailey isn’t here yet,” Cecily told them. “She called to say she’s running late.”

“What a surprise,” Samantha murmured.

“Baby of the family. What can we say?” Cecily said. She widened her eyes. “Is that a brownie you’re eating?”

Samantha stuffed the last of her brownie in her mouth. “Mmm.”

Cecily made a face. “Unfair.”

Kind of like her being up here all by herself, worrying about Mom and the business. Then she reminded herself that she’d been the stupid martyr who insisted her sisters return to their lives in L.A.

“But better your waist than mine,” Cecily taunted.

“By the time everyone in Icicle Falls is done bringing food we’ll have no waists. We’ll be tree trunks,” Mom predicted. “Still, it’s very thoughtful.”

And it’s free, Samantha thought. Right now free was good, as her savings account was on the verge of flatlining.

“So, have you come up with any ideas for how to get the money we need?” asked Cecily.

The elephants sitting on Samantha’s shoulders settled in for a nice, long stay. “Other than robbing the bank, no.”

“I still think I should take out a loan,” Cecily said. “Maybe I could get a home equity loan on my condo.”

“Nice try, but I told you, no loans,” Samantha insisted. “This family isn’t going any deeper into debt.” Mom being upside down on her house was bad enough. They didn’t need to put her sister in the same position.

Cecily gave a fatalistic shrug. “You know, I always thought I was pretty good at thinking outside the box, but I’ve got to admit that so far I’m at a loss. Other than matching you up with a rich man,” she teased Samantha.

“Meeting a nice man, there’s an idea,” Mom said, perfectly happy to take her seriously. “Maybe someone who’d be willing to make you a personal loan.”

“No problem,” Samantha said irritably. “Let’s run down to the rich-guy mart and pick up a sucker.”

“We wouldn’t have any luck, anyway,” Cecily said. “Your boobs aren’t big enough.”

Now Mom was looking thoughtful. “What’s the new bank manager like?”

“He’s no Arnie,” Samantha said bitterly. An image of Blake Preston with his broad shoulders and superhero chin came running into her mind, all dressed up in his football regalia. Samantha benched it.

“Still, surely he could be of some help,” Mom said.

Samantha shook her head. “I’ve met him. He’s useless.”

“Maybe you didn’t get off on the right foot,” Mom persisted.

If snatching back the bribe she’d brought him counted, no, they hadn’t. Samantha shot her sister a look that warned bodily harm if Cecily ratted her out to Mom and said, “Trust me, he won’t be any help. A man can’t always fix things,” she couldn’t keep from adding.

Her mother heaved a sigh. “I wish your father was alive. He’d know what to do.”

“If Dad was alive we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place,” Samantha said, and then wanted to bite off her tongue. Just shoot me now, she thought, watching her mother’s shoulders stiffen. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” she muttered. Except she had and they both knew it.