Better Than Chocolate Part 15

"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 a.s.sume 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 compet.i.tion? 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 a.s.sured her. "Probably walk out on stage without their s.h.i.+rts."

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 compet.i.tion.

"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 compet.i.tion. I'll come," he said. "I'll even vote for you," he added with a wink, and wheeled his cart out the door.

"My G.o.d, 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 embarra.s.sed.

"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 cus.h.i.+on 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 alb.u.ms.

"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 compet.i.tion. 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 ba.s.s in a barbershop quartet. "If we get much more of this d.a.m.ned 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 att.i.tude. 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.