The Return of Betty Snickerdoodle Page 13

  “And you’re sure you don’t want me to come pick you up?”

  “What’s the point of you driving from the City to pick me up, only to turn around and drive back? It’s going to be a busy morning,” Bea said. “Besides, thanks to you, I’m all about the Youber. Just see if you can get Oliver for me.”

  “Okay, if you insist. Have you got something nice to wear?” By “nice,” Angela was aiming, optimistically, for clean and reasonably presentable. And a bra. She’d been pleased to notice that Bea had been paying more attention to her attire lately. Some of those Swooping Falcon outfits weren’t too bad. But she still worried about what kind of random ensemble Bea would put together without outside assistance.

  “You just worry about your own outfit,” Bea said.

  Angela packed up her laptop and stood by the back door, ready to leave. “Well, if you’re all set, I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll be scrambling to promote this thing tonight, so feel free to call my cell if you need anything, even if it’s late, okay?”

  “A dance for luck before you go, Angie,” Bea said, “Rebecca, play ‘She Works Hard for the Money!’ Perfect for you, girlie!”

  Angela set her bag by the door and clasped Bea’s hands as they danced around in a circle.

  “Louder, Rebecca!” Bea shouted. Angela laughed, and some of the stress lifted. After one last whirl, the two women landed on the couch, arms and legs like noodles.

  “Phew, that was fun, Bea. Thank you.”

  “No, thank you, Angie. I don’t say it enough. And don’t worry. We’ll be fine tomorrow. I know how important it is to you.”

  Angela reached over to give Bea a hug, which Bea tolerated for a moment.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Bea said. “Now you’d better get going – you know you’ve got lots of work to do before you can rest!”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Oliver! Nice to see you again,” Bea shouted as the handsome young man emerged from the driver’s side of the shiny black SUV. “Would you mind carrying this?”

  “Not at all,” Oliver replied, taking Bea’s cane. “But don’t you need it?”

  “I’m doing much better without it, but I still like to have it handy for self-defense.”

  Oliver pulled out a step-stool from the back of the vehicle and placed it in front of the open back door – a new protocol he’d added after their mortifying previous incident.

  “Take my hand when you step on the stool, Miss Sickles – just to be safe.” With the help of the stool and Oliver’s steadying hand, Bea slid gracefully into the back seat.

  “Thanks, Oliver – that was much easier than last time. But I think I prefer the old way,” Bea snorted. “I guess it really wasn’t as good for you as it was for me!”

  Oliver shut the car door and hurried around the back to the driver’s side, and as he settled in behind the wheel, Bea saw he was blushing once more. Bea could see his pink cheeks in the rear-view mirror.

  “You’re even cuter when you’re embarrassed,” Bea teased, giggling.

  Oliver shrugged and sighed. There was no point in trying to fight the flush; he might as well just enjoy his ride with the salty Ms. Sickles. He touched his phone to confirm the address and directions.

  “Jefferson Park Hotel in San Francisco, is that right?”

  “Yep. That’s the place. So what’s our ETA?”

  “Should arrive early. It’s a beautiful, clear day, and the Golden Gate Bridge traffic is no problem.”

  The SUV cruised easily through Marin County and the Robin Williams Tunnel, then around the bend to the majestic red bridge. The view was perfection. Bea even spotted a professional photographer with a tripod at the Vista Point, capturing the postcard-ready panorama.

  “Never gets old,” Bea said.

  As they sailed through the toll gates and toward the Marina, Bea realized that something was different in Oliver’s car. There was no delightful cinnamon smell. No snickerdoodles. She opened the console to look for them, and it was empty.

  “Um, Oliver, I was hoping you’d have some of those tasty cookies on hand – you know, the ones you and your friends make in honor of that author you love. Got any?”

  Oliver apologized for not having any treats on hand, stammering as he explained that most of the Betty Bros had decided to give up on Betty, since they learned about the shocking, trashy Treacle Town book that had blown up social media.

  “At first it seemed like just a stupid joke, and that was insulting enough to us fans,” Oliver said. “But when it turned out to be a publicity stunt, that was just too much to take. Us Bros built a whole community around her books. We trusted her, and she – well, she just was manipulating us the whole time, I guess. It must have been about the money and the fame all along. Kind of obvious, when you think about it. We just thought Treacle Town was better than all that. Anyway, I couldn’t bring snickerdoodles – I guess I’ll have to think of something else to start offering my rides.”

  Oliver sounded sad when he spoke – and it made Bea a little sad, too.

  “That’s terrible,” Bea said. “So you don’t suppose there’s any chance Miss Snickerdoodle didn’t mean it that way? It’s hard to imagine she didn’t appreciate you and the other Bros.”

  “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. The reviewers said all our favorite characters behaved terribly – they’re now just the opposite of what we thought they were like, and the opposite of why we loved them. And it was filled with cheating and crime and horrible tragedy, too. I know it must sound awfully corny, Miss Sickles,” Oliver sighed, “but it really hurt. Those characters were like our friends – or maybe even our role models. Not that any of us believed we could be as perfect as they were, but we could try.”

  Bea’s face felt hot and prickly. She was experiencing the unfamiliar, unpleasant sensation of guilt. But why should I feel guilty? she thought. I was just being myself – and that book was never supposed to be read by anyone but Charlie and me, much less be published. Cash stole it. I’m the injured party. I never set out to hurt anyone. Isn’t that what matters? Still, the guilt persisted.

  Bea powered down the window, letting the cool, misty breeze hit her face. She and Oliver rode in silence for the last few minutes of the journey. At the curb beside the hotel, Oliver placed the stool on the sidewalk for Bea, and offered her his hand as she exited the car.

  “Thank you, Oliver,” Bea said. “Listen, Oliver, have you got another rider right now? Because I’d like to invite you to come inside the hotel with me. I know it sounds weird – but I think you’ll really enjoy it.”

  “Miss Sickles … I am not sure that’s appropriate …”

  Bea let out a cackle so forceful, she almost fell over.

  “Oliver, I’m not that kind of girl,” she sputtered. “Besides, I’m old enough to be your great-granny. I’m inviting you to a presentation, not an assignation,” she added, still laughing, her hand on Oliver’s shoulder for support. “So do you have time? I think it’s something you’ll be quite interested in. And there’ll probably be free muffins. It’s in the Paris Ballroom. Ooh boy, you’re looking like a beet again, Oliver!”

  Oliver composed himself and finally said yes, he could come to the mysterious presentation – at least for a little while. He just needed to park the SUV. “Valet it,” Bea said. “I’ll pay for it.”

  As the two walked into the hotel, Oliver noticed a large, plain sign on an easel: “Author Press Conference: Paris Ballroom, Mezzanine Level.” A huge arrow pointed toward an escalator.

  “That’s our meeting,” Bea said. “Before we head up there, how do I look?” Bea stood back and held her arms out so that Oliver could appraise her appearance. She was wearing stretchy black pants tucked into her furry boots, a white blouse, and a voluminous wool cardigan decorated with huge appliques of vintage playing cards and fastened with buttons shaped like hearts, clubs, spades, and diamonds.

  “Bold and confident. Like you’re dressed for a special occ
asion,” Oliver said. He meant it, too. By comparison to the tangerine track suit she’d worn the first time they’d met, this tasteless ensemble was positively elegant. He decided it was best not to comment on her makeup. Bea had matched both her lipstick and her eye shadow to the burgundy streak in her bangs, and the application reflected her tendency to color outside the lines.

  At the top of the escalator, they found the Paris Ballroom. Angela was standing outside, beside a check-in table. She looked at Oliver, then back at Bea. “Who’s this?”

  “Oliver, this is Angela. She’s running this thing. Angela, Oliver is my guest – is that okay with you?”

  “Sure,” Angela replied. “I’m not sure if we’ll fill the room, anyway – it’s less than a half hour to show-time, and so far, only a few bloggers have checked in.”

  “Have faith, Ang,” Bea said. “I think they’ll come. Now Oliver, feel free to grab a snack, then come back and find a seat you like. Oh look, here comes your mom, Angie.”

  Oliver glanced over at the escalator, then did a conspicuous double take. That couldn’t be … Betty Snickerdoodle herself … could it?

  Maria walked straight toward them with a big smile, then gave her daughter a hug and a kiss. “Well, Bea,” Maria said, “are we ready to get started?”

  “As soon as Charlie gets here, we can get settled in. In the meantime, we can test the microphone. Oliver, we’ll see you later, okay?”

  As Maria and Bea walked into the ballroom, Oliver turned to Angela, who was busily checking a list of names against a box of badges. “Is that woman actually …”

  “My mother? Oh yes, one and the same,” Angela said, touching Oliver’s shoulder to gently hustle him along. “Now weren’t you going to grab coffee and a snack? I’ve got some work to do before we start, so please excuse me.”

  Oliver wasn’t sure what to make of any of it, but he wanted in on whatever was coming. So he went to the table full of beverages and pastries, grabbed himself a large black coffee and a scone, and then headed back into the ballroom to snag a prime seat near the front.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  As the start time approached, journalists filed in and the ballroom started to fill up. Contrary to Angela’s fears, it looked like it would be standing-room-only in the Paris Ballroom. Most of the bloggers and local newscasters she’d hastily called last night seemed to be showing up. A simple stage, with a long, white-skirted table with a microphone and seats for three panelists, had been set up at the back.

  Behind the table, an enormous screen displayed a presentation slide with covers of Betty’s books, and a large title:

  “Betty Snickerdoodle: A Message for Her Fans.”

  Angela pulled the mic off the table and quickly addressed the audience.

  “Thank you all for coming. We’ll give people a few more minutes to arrive, grab a coffee, and find a place in the room. Thanks for your patience. We’ll start shortly.” She placed the microphone back in its stand on the table, then looked over to Aseem and nodded. Aseem hit a few keys on his laptop, and music filled the room: “Fixing a Hole” by The Beatles. Angela cast a questioning look in Aseem’s direction and mouthed, “What’s this?” Aseem shrugged and mouthed, “Bea’s idea.”

  The song concluded and Angela lowered the lights, signaling that the meeting was about to start. Charlie, Maria, and Bea sat at the panelists’ table. Angela climbed onto the stage and stood beside them, looking crisp and professional and serious. Aseem positioned a light to illuminate her.

  “Thank you again for coming today. My name is Angela Garcia. I’m the marketing manager for Betty Snickerdoodle. The past couple of days have been turbulent and trying for all of us who love Betty and her books. Nobody on our team ever intended to hurt Betty’s fans. So today we will fill in some of the blanks of Betty’s story – hopefully, we’ll shed some light. You’re going to hear about misunderstandings and even a serious crime. Secrets that have been kept for a very long time will be revealed. Without saying more, I’d like to start by introducing Charlie Carter, the agent who discovered Betty all those years ago. Charlie?”

  Angela placed the mic in front of Charlie. Aseem redirected the overhead spotlight to the panelist table, and Charlie cleared his throat.

  “Thank you, Angela. You all know Betty Snickerdoodle as one of the most successful authors in the world. But when I met her more than two decades ago, she had never published a book. In fact, she’d never published a single word. She was just a determined lady with an idea she loved about a sweet, wholesome town where Christmas was the most important thing in the world. All she really needed was someone to believe in her. Fifteen agents had already turned her down. Lucky for us both, I was just getting started as an agent. Treacle Town was the opportunity we both needed.

  “In the early years, writing those first few books, Betty lived in a tiny, dark little apartment in a not-so-safe part of town. She was betting it all on Treacle Town. She lived like a pauper. She worked tirelessly on those books, obsessing about all of the details of a New England Christmas that she wanted to get just right. Treacle Town was created out of nothing but the imagination, sweat, and love of the woman we know as Betty Snickerdoodle. She wasn’t thinking about the money. She had no idea that so many people would love the little town she created as much as she did. She only hoped a few people would.

  “Betty invested more than two decades of her life in creating Treacle Town. Some people look at her success, and they think it was easy – or that she was incredibly lucky. Those people have no idea how Betty got started – the risks she took, the lean times. Some of those people look at someone like Betty, and they think it’s okay to steal from her. The worst part for me is I realize now that I made it far too easy for someone to try.”

  Charlie got choked up as he described how he’d hired Cash as an intern at the behest of his son, who’d befriended Cash – unwisely, as it turned out. “Chase, my son, has a huge heart. He wanted to help another young man have a chance at an honest career, so that his life wouldn’t be ruined by bad decisions he made as a teenager.” Charlie explained that, prior to meeting his son in college, Cash had had a dubious history of cutting corners, petty crimes, and betraying his friends, starting back in boarding school. Cash’s parents had all but given up on him. Chase’s appreciation of his own family life spurred him to try to help his wayward friend.

  “It’s bad enough that someone I trusted stole from Betty, intending to make a quick buck from her work. What’s worse is that you all think it was a publicity stunt, because that’s something Betty Snickerdoodle would never, ever do. That manuscript that Cash published was never meant to be published as a Treacle Town tale. I ask you to believe me, because it’s the truth – and it’s my fault it happened.

  “Betty Snickerdoodle is my friend. It hurts to know that I enabled a situation that hurt her – and her fans. I hope she — and you — will accept my apology.” As he said it, he looked past Maria to Bea, who smiled back at him. Some of the journalists in the crowd shared confused glances.

  Charlie concluded by announcing that Betty would now share some thoughts of her own – and passed the microphone to Maria, who then picked it up by its heavy base and passed it again to Bea. As the microphone skipped past Maria’s familiar face to the unfamiliar older woman at the end of the table, some of the attendees began whispering to each other.

  Bea leaned into the microphone in front of her and breathed deeply, sending a creepy whoosh through the room. She pushed the microphone away from her, and sat back in her chair. As she surveyed the room, Bea caught a glimpse of Angela pacing back and forth in the back, trying to conceal her nerves as the pause grew longer and more awkward.

  Finally, as the crowd shifted in their seats and scanned the room for clues to the mystery, Bea pulled the mic toward her once more and began to speak.

  “Once upon a time, decades ago now, an ambitious, independent young lady came to this very city – this very neighborhood – to make her mark. And as
luck would have it, she landed the kind of job she’d dreamed about, as a secretary at a fancy company in a penthouse skyscraper suite, looking down on this beautiful city.

  “She didn’t mind that she was on the very bottom rung – fetching coffee, fetching dry cleaning, fetching anything the masters of the universe she worked for asked her to fetch. She didn’t mind that it hardly paid enough to live in a run-down little studio above a strip club in North Beach. But she did mind when one of those masters of the universe put his hand where it didn’t belong. And when she gave him the smack he deserved, she got fired – without so much as a pot to piss in!”

  Bea blurted out a squawk of laughter. “Sorry for the crude language, but that’s what this girl was like. She was tough. And she had to find a way to make a living, and she knew it was never going to be in a fancy office. That dream was dead. That scumbag boss had told all his cronies that she was ‘bad news.’ It didn’t matter that she was smart and determined – or that he was the one who was bad news.

  “So this girl, well, now she had to think fast. And she came up with the crazy idea to make a living playing cards. She thought, I’m smart, I’m brave, and the other grinders won’t see me coming. And she did it. For years, she eked out her living, rounding the dingy cardrooms of the Bay Area, taking on the dudes. It wasn’t easy – there’s a saying in poker, that it’s a tough way to make an easy living, and she would tell you that’s for sure.

  “There’s not a lot of room for sweet dreams in professional poker. The cards can be brutal, and the other players even worse!” Bea let out a chuckle, breathing loudly into the mic again.

  “She made it work, though. And all the while she did, even though she didn’t realize it, a new dream was taking hold of her imagination. A vision of a pretty, gentle, fair place. A place where love and respect – and Christmas – lived all year round. That place was the very opposite of the poker world. In her fantasy world, people weren’t trying to outsmart each other; they helped each other. The dream made her smile during long, boring nights in the cardrooms, patiently scratching out her little profit. But then one night, she had another crazy idea. She thought she could bring that charming place to life by writing stories about it – even though she’d never written anything more serious than a grocery list before.”