Sweet Dreams on Center Street (14 page)

The answer to that was easy. She was the oldest. She got to do
the dirty work.

Later she found Cass and her daughter, Danielle, busy draping a
necklace holder with necklaces and bracelets made of chocolate cookie hearts
with pink icing.

“They're for the festival,” Cass said. “What do you think?”

“I think they're adorable,” Samantha gushed. “Who's the
designer?” She didn't really need to ask. Danielle was beaming and Cass was
looking like a proud mama.

“It was Dani's idea,” Cass said. “Is she good or what?”

“Or what. You're an artiste,” Samantha told the girl.

“Try one,” Danielle urged.

They were almost too pretty to eat. Almost. Samantha bit into
one and got sent straight to taste-bud heaven. “These will sell like crazy,” she
predicted.

“Especially with middle-grade girls,” Danielle said. “If they
go over well, then maybe Mom will sell them on the website,” she added, looking
to her mother.

Cass nodded slowly. “It's a possibility.”

“Could Luke help me figure out how to box them so they don't
break?” Danielle asked Samantha.

“I'll send him over later today,” Samantha promised, happy to
support a budding entrepreneur.

Two teenage girls entered the store in search of after-school
sustenance and Danielle went to serve them.

“You have such a great daughter,” Samantha said.

“Yes, I do,” Cass agreed, looking at Dani with pride. “I just
wish her sister would stop driving me crazy,” she said, brows furrowing.

Amber, Cass's youngest child, was fourteen going on trouble.
“Willie's doing okay, though,” Samantha said in an attempt to help her look on
the bright side. Between wrestling and football and Boy Scouts, her son had
plenty of activities to keep himself out of mischief.

Cass gave a snort. “Two out of three's not bad. Is that what
you're saying?”

It had been. Lame. “She'll come around. Cecily went through a
phase where she drove our parents nuts and she came out of it.”

“I'm sure Amber will, too,” Cass said. “It's either that or I'm
going to kill her. I know, maybe I'll adopt her out. Would you like a
fourteen-year-old?”

“In about twenty years,” Samantha quipped.

Cass shook her head. “I love her dearly but sometimes… If only
she didn't take after her father. She can be so surly. And stubborn.”

As far as Samantha could tell, that described most
fourteen-year-old girls.

“And, of course, I'm the bad guy these days, getting on her
about her grades, ruining her social life,” Cass continued, “while he gets to
look like a cross between Santa and Saint Christopher. Men,” she added in
disgust.

Cass was obviously not feeling generous toward the opposite sex
right now. Maybe this wasn't the moment to ask if she wanted to help choose
Icicle Falls' first Mr. Dreamy.

But Cass was always unhappy with her ex, so there'd probably be
no good moment. “Speaking of men, we need an impartial judge for our Mr. Dreamy
contest. Cecily was hoping we could recruit you.”

“As long as none of them look like Mason I can be unbiased,”
Cass said with a grin.

“We'll work on that.” Samantha sobered. “You know, I've got to
admit I'm surprised you're willing to do this.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Well, for one thing, it's silly.”

“It's also fun and I'll enjoy watching those men jump through
whatever hoops Cecily dreams up. And I assume there'll be chocolate in it for
me, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then call me Your Honor.”

Well, that was easy, Samantha mused as she left. In fact, other
than the frustration of not knowing where those permits were in the tangle of
city hall red tape, plans for the festival were coming along nicely. What should
have required months was falling into place in record time, thanks to an entire
town full of enthusiastic volunteers. And things like that just didn't happen
except in books and movies.

So, when was the other shoe going to drop?

* * *

Cecily started a buzz in the grocery store when she
stopped by to put up a poster for the Mr. Dreamy contest on the community
bulletin board.

“How fun!” exclaimed Lauren Belgado, who had ducked in on her
coffee break. “And, oh, my gosh, look at the stuff the winner gets. I'm so
nominating Joe.”

Her boyfriend, Joe Coyote, had a nice face and a nice build.
Due to a scar on his face and a limp (a souvenir from a construction accident)
Cecily wasn't sure he could compete against some of the better-looking men in
town. Still, if a man could win on heart alone, the prize was Joe's.

Now another woman had come over. “Oh, wow, I read about this in
the paper. I'm going to pick up an entry form. If my boyfriend wins, we can take
that wine tour.”

“What all do the guys have to do?” asked Lauren. “Is there,
like, a talent competition? Joe's kind of shy.”

“No talent.”

“Then what do they have to do?” the other woman asked.

“Oh, we'll have some questions for them to answer, like what
their favorite Sweet Dreams candy is.”

“Research,” Lauren said happily, making Cecily wish her sister
was present to hear this conversation. “What else?”

“Nothing too hard,” Cecily assured her. “Probably walk out on
stage without their shirts.”

The women giggled.

“Dumb,” a deep voice said behind Cecily.

She turned to see that Todd Black had emerged from his man cave
to purchase sustenance for the Neanderthals. If you could call a grocery cart
filled with soft drinks and pretzels sustenance. The first thought that came to
mind was
There's our first Mr. Dreamy.

She quickly squelched it. She didn't know Todd Black's
educational background, but wherever he went to school he must have majored in
obnoxious behavior. “No dumber than the Miss America Pageant,” she said.

“True,” he agreed in a tone of voice that told her what he
thought of that competition.

“Or the Victoria's Secret special,” she said sweetly,
determined to strip off his P.C. camouflage and reveal that he was just as
superficial as any other man.

He didn't disappoint her. “That's worth watching,” he said with
a grin.

Now two more women were eavesdropping and she felt the need to
put him in his place. Diplomatically, of course. “Not to us,” she told him. “And
that's why we're having a Mr. Dreamy contest. Since women are the ones who like
chocolate—”

“Guys like chocolate, too. Remember?” he said.

“Just not chocolate festivals.”

“Have a Miss Chocolate Kiss competition. I'll come,” he said.
“I'll even vote for you,” he added with a wink, and wheeled his cart out the
door.

“My God, he's gorgeous,” one woman breathed.

“Better than chocolate,” another said.

“
Nothing
is better than chocolate,”
Cecily informed them even as her traitorous hormones muttered that she'd sell
off all the stock in the Sweet Dreams warehouse for a night with him.

Fortunately, her brain was in charge now. Her hormones had
proved they couldn't be trusted.

Oh, but she was willing to bet he was an exceptional
kisser.

Lots of practice,
said her brain.
Leave him in his man cave where he belongs.

Good idea.

* * *

Muriel had meant to get dressed, she really had. But
somehow the day had gotten away from her. Now the doorbell was ringing and she
was in the living room in her pajamas.

She wouldn't answer. The drapes were drawn. She could just hide
in here until whoever was pestering her went away.

But then she heard voices and a key in the front door lock and
she had to find a new hiding place. She scurried down the hall to her bedroom
and shut the door.

A moment later Cecily's voice drifted down the hall to her.
“She's home and I'm sure she'll want to see you.”

No, she wouldn't, whoever it was. She slipped into the bathroom
and shut that door, too, putting another barrier between herself and the
world.

She heard a knock on the bedroom door, then, “Mom?” followed by
tentative tapping on the bathroom door. “Mom, Pat's here.”

“Tell her I'll call her later,” Muriel said. “I'm not feeling
well.” That was certainly no lie.

“Okay.”

She sounded disappointed, like Muriel had failed some sort of
test. This was hardly surprising. She seemed to be failing all kinds of tests
lately.

Pat was a good friend. It would be rude not to see her.
Reluctantly, Muriel opened the door and said, “Never mind.”

Cecily looked at her in surprise. “I thought you didn't feel
good.”

She wasn't sure she'd ever feel good again. She wasn't sure
she'd ever
feel
again. But she was still here and
she had to interact with people. That was how life worked, or at least how it
was supposed to work.

“I'll be fine,” she told both her daughter and herself, and
went to the living room to greet her friend.

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

T
uesday 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 enough 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.

The two women exchanged looks. Bill Will was a bit of an
exhibitionist.

“Should we warn Samantha?” Heidi asked.

Bill Will putting on a show would be good publicity. Whatever
he planned to do was bound to spice up that article Nia was writing for the
Sun.
“Let's keep it a surprise.”