Better Than Chocolate. Sheila Roberts

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СКАЧАТЬ he said he liked my hair.”

      “Compliments, that’s good.”

      Liza made a face. “Oh, yeah? Not when he says it’s the same color as his mother’s hair and then he starts talking about her.”

      “Maybe he thought you’d like his mother?”

      “Not by the time he was done. I swear it was like there were three of us on that date. And she lives with him. He’s forty and he lives with his mother? Sheesh. I can’t believe you don’t screen your guys better.”

      “Well…” Cecily stumbled to a halt. She wasn’t even sure what to say to that. She didn’t have a place on her forms to check off mama’s boy. “I’m sorry, Liza. I thought he’d be perfect.”

      “Well, he wasn’t. You’ve got to do better.”

      That might not be so easy, considering the fact that Liza had tried to sucker the last two guys she’d gone out with into taking her shopping on the second date. “I’ll try,” Cecily said. “But you have to remember not to ask these guys to buy clothes for you when you’ve barely started dating them. It makes them think that’s all you want out of the relationship.”

      Liza scowled at her. “Of course that’s not all I want. What do I look like, a hooker?”

      Actually, yes, and not a very high-class one. “No, no,” Cecily said quickly. “Don’t worry. We’ll find your perfect match.”

      “I hope so. I mean, I could go to someone else, you know.”

      The Millionaire Matchmaker on TV? Cecily smiled the diplomatic smile that had always stood her in good stead. “Of course, I want you to be happy.” The rest of that sentence should have gone something like, “And I’m going to do everything in my power to find the perfect guy for you.” But the rest of the sentence never got out of her mouth. Instead, she discovered she had an evil twin, and the evil twin said, “So if that’s how you feel, then you should trot those Jimmy Choos somewhere else and see if they can find you a man who’s into gold diggers.” Oh, dear God, had she just said that?

      Liza obviously couldn’t believe she had. Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

      Oh, boy. “I don’t think I can help you,” Cecily said simply. And then the evil twin added, “And I don’t think I want to.”

      Liza’s eyes flashed. “I want my money back!”

      Good luck with that, thought Cecily. That money was long gone, just like her patience. “You got your money’s worth. I’ve matched you up with six eligible men. It’s not my fault you blew it.”

      Liza glared at her. “Fine. I’m telling all my friends never to come to you. Ever!” And with that, she grabbed her Kate Spade bag and teetered out of the office on her three-inch heels.

      Cecily ran a hand through her hair. This was abysmal. Not losing Liza as a client—she’d had a feeling all along that she wouldn’t be able to help the woman. No, it was the way she’d reacted to Liza’s threat—so tacky, so unprofessional. What was wrong with her? She was burned out, plain and simple.

      She told Willow, her secretary, to hold her calls and locked herself in her office with a cup of chamomile tea, but the tea didn’t make her feel any better. She tossed out the remains and went back to her emails. And with each new one she opened, she kept asking herself, What are you doing here?

      Good question.

      * * *

      Samantha was about to leave the office when her mother called to ask how she was doing.

      “I haven’t slit my wrists yet,” Samantha reassured her.

      “Don’t even joke about things like that,” Mom scolded. “I just talked to Cecily. It sounds like we’re set for a brainstorming session tonight and I was wondering if I should make dinner.”

      While Samantha always preferred other people’s cooking, especially her mother’s, the idea of sitting across the table from Mom after everything that had happened, and now this latest development—she couldn’t face it. “I’ve got a million things to do before we Skype.” Please don’t ask what. “Can I take a rain check?”

      “Of course,” Mom said. “But let me send some food home with you after. I’m up to my nose in casseroles.”

      Free food. That would work. And stuffing herself with Mrs. Nilsen’s triple-threat mac and cheese was a step above medicating her pain with goodies from their gift shop or chewing off what few fingernails she had left.

      She pulled up in the driveway at 6:55, turned off the ignition and sighed. It was wrong not to want to spend one-on-one time with her mother. She loved her mother. But right now she felt a big, lumpy wall between them, a misshapen, awkward pile of resentment, guilt and who knew what else, that she wasn’t sure how to scale. Mom was trying, though, God bless her. Which, of course, made Samantha feel all the more guilty.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ