But Travis wasn’t there. He’d gone out for dinner, Mom told her. Disappointed, then annoyed because she was disappointed, Samara picked at her food. Who was he having dinner with? Why hadn’t he taken her mother with him? Maybe it was another woman. He probably had lots of friends...including old girlfriends in Portland he hadn’t seen for ages. Maybe it was clients. That bugged her just about as much as thinking about him with another woman.

Or maybe he was just abiding by their agreement to stay away from each other. Damn him.

“What are you going to wear Friday?” Mom asked over dinner. It was just the two of them. Samara would have skipped it except her mother had set the table, and she just couldn’t find it in her to be that rude.

The age-old female question. Samara didn’t want to admit she’d been thinking about that too. “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I didn’t pack a lot. I was kind of in shock.” The idea that she’d needed to pack something for a funeral had almost paralyzed her.

“Do you need to borrow something? Or go shopping?”

Samara was not going to wear her mother’s clothes to the funeral. “I’m sure I have something that will do.” She tried to sound offhand.

“After dinner we could have a look,” Mom tentatively offered. Samara opened her mouth to refuse the offer then caught the look on her mother’s face. Nervous diffidence, as if she were fearful of being rejected. Again, Samara couldn’t bring herself to hurt her mother’s feelings.

She nodded, her throat rigid, and lifted her fork to her mouth. She had no idea what she was eating; she chewed and swallowed without tasting a thing.

They went to her room after dinner, and Samara opened the closet door. She’d unpacked the few things she’d brought with her and hung them up. “Um...the room looks nice,” she said, reaching for the hangers. “I like how you redecorated it.”

“Thanks.” Mom smiled. “I didn’t want to change it too much, but it looked a little...juvenile.” She pursed her lips. “I’m glad you like it. I kept hoping—”

“This is what I have.” Samara interrupted her mother, not wanting to hear what she’d been about to say. She was afraid her mother was going to try to have that talk she’d said they would have, and she was so not ready for that yet. It was bad enough that they were being all girly friendly and looking at clothes.

She held up a black wrap dress with cap sleeves in her left hand, and a black suit in the other. The suit was a business suit, with a simple pencil skirt and tailored jacket.

“Um...you might be warm in the suit,” Mom said. “It’s supposed to be eighty-five degrees.”

Samara nodded. “If you think the dress is okay, that’s what I’ll wear.” The truth was the wrap dress was one of her favorites. The cut was flattering, and the V neck was a good style for her. “Um...do you think it’s too low cut?”

Her mom eyed the neckline. “It’s hard to tell on the hanger. Do you have a camisole you could put under it?”

“No.”

“Try it on.”

Reluctantly, Samara pulled her T-shirt over her head and unzipped the cotton skirt she was wearing to stand self-consciously in her underwear in front of her mother. She was wearing lime green lace boy short panties and a matching push-up bra. What did her mother think of that?

She pushed her arms through the sleeves and did the dress up, tying it at her waist, then looked down at herself. The push-up bra definitely enhanced her cleavage. “I have a black bra,” she muttered.

“Then you’re fine,” Mom said, studying her. “The green shows a bit, but black will work.” She smiled, and the fact that she looked a little teary gave Samara a little jolt. “You’re so beautiful, Samara.”

Samara swallowed hard. “Thanks.”

“You could show up wearing a bathrobe, and you’d look gorgeous,” her mother said with a little laugh, touching a fingertip to the corner of one eye. Samara laughed, warmth expanding in her chest. “How about shoes?”

Samara reached into her suitcase for the only black pair she’d packed, her favorite Jimmy Choo stilettos. She looked at her mother inquiringly. Then she let out a huff. Who cared what her mother thought? They were the only shoes she had, and she was wearing them.

“Oh, those are darling,” her mother said, moving closer and taking one from her. She held up the black kidskin pump. “I love Jimmy Choo.” She sighed. “I should take you to this new little shop that opened in the Pearl District. They have some gorgeous shoes.”

She and her mother had always had a love of shoes in common. It almost made Samara smile, but she clamped down on any soft feelings and said, “I don’t need any more shoes.”

Her mother’s smile faded. “Oh,” she murmured. “Well. You’re all set then.”

Samara set the shoes on the carpet. “What will you wear?” Damn, the words popped out before she could stop them.

“I have a little suit,” Mom said. “It has short sleeves so I think it will be okay, even in the heat.” She hesitated. “Come and see it. I don’t think I need a blouse under it, but come and tell me what you think.”

Samara followed her mother into her bedroom down the hall. Her parents’ bedroom. Now her mother’s bedroom. Mom crossed to the large walk-in closet Samara had loved as a kid. Her gaze brushed over the men’s clothes hanging along one wall, suits and dress shirts, golf shirts and khaki pants. Her throat squeezed, and her mouth trembled.

“This is it.” Mom pulled a suit out from among many garments and held it up. “If I wear a blouse, I can take the jacket off if I get too warm. What do you think?’

Samara liked the suit. It was so cute. “Is it Michael Kors? “

“Yes. I got it at that new little shop I was telling you about it, just a few weeks ago.” She sighed, and when she spoke, her voice shook. “I never dreamed I’d be wearing it to Parker’s funeral.” Her features drew down into such sad lines Samara’s heart gave a little bump.

Her mom had loved her dad. That was obvious. And confusing. Samara had always wondered how her parents had dealt with what had happened, how they’d stayed together. Questions hovered on her lips, but she didn’t utter them. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “I think it would look better without a blouse.” A small ruffle edged the collar so it wasn’t revealing.

Mom nodded, her mouth quivering as she clearly tried to control her emotions. Well, that made two of them. “Okay. Thanks.”

Her own grief simmering just beneath the surface, Samara wanted out of there before she broke down and cried in sympathy with her mother.

She knew her mother had always enjoyed clothes, hell, they’d shopped together all the time. She’d never related her own love of fashion to her mother, but she supposed she had to reluctantly admit that her mom had, in fact, influenced her that way. Damn.

“I’m tired,” she said. “Is there anything else we need to do tonight?”

Her mom hung the suit in the closet. “I have some things to do. Ava was getting dishes and silverware ready for the party. I’m going to check on that and maybe arrange some of the flowers. Make sure we have enough ice. If you’re tired, you just go to bed, sweetheart; we’re going to have a busy few days.”

Samara nodded. “Okay. Good night.”

She returned to her own room and sank down on the bed. Bonding with her mother over clothes and shoes was not what she’d expected to happen on this trip.

* * *

Samara clamped down on the nervousness and trepidation coiled tight inside her and drove downtown to the offices of the Cedar Mill Coffee Company the next morning. When she emerged from the elevator on the eighteenth floor of the DeWitt Building, the receptionist sitting in the lobby was someone she didn’t know.

“Hi,” Samara greeted her, leaning on the blonde maple counter. “I’m Samara Hayden.”

The girl nodded, then her eyes widened as she made the connection. “Oh, Miss Hayden!” She blinked at her a few times. “Um...who are you here to see?”

“Nobody in particular.” Samara flashed her a small smile. “I’ll just go back to my father’s office.”

“Uh...okay.” The girl looked taken aback. “Should I call Paulette and let her know?”

“That’s okay.” Samara waved a hand as she headed to the door to the left of the reception desk. “I’ll find her.”

She breezed through the door and started down the carpeted hall, passing various offices on the way. She didn’t look inside because she didn’t want to attract more attention than she needed to. Next to her father’s office, located in the back corner, was Paulette’s own small office. Samara peeked in, but it was empty.

With a frown, she hesitated then turned the knob on the door to her father’s office. Pushing inside, she stopped at the sight of Paulette and Travis sitting at the round table in one corner of the spacious room. They both looked up at her and stopped talking.

An awkward silence expanded while they stared at her, and nerves fluttered in her tummy again. Taking a breath, she smiled. “Hi, Paulette.”

“Samara!” Paulette rose to her feet. Casting a sideways glance at Travis, she crossed the room and took Samara’s hands in hers.

Paulette was in her mid-forties. Her blonde hair was touched with grey, and no makeup adorned her round face. A pair of reading glasses perched on her nose, and her blue eyes held a somewhat stunned and sad expression. She’d worked for Samara’s dad for the last fifteen years. She had to be devastated by this too.

“What are you doing here?” Paulette asked. She glanced again at Travis, who had also stood up.

“I wanted to come and check on how everyone is here.” Samara ignored Travis.

Paulette squeezed her hands and then released them. “Oh, Samara. You don’t need to worry about it. Travis has things under control.”

That was the problem. Not that she didn’t trust Travis. Certainly he knew the business better than anybody besides her father. She trusted him; she just wanted to make sure that everything that needed to be done was getting done. She had no idea why she felt as though she needed to do this, but she did.

“I’m sure he does,” she murmured, flicking a glance his way. He stood there, head tipped to one side, hands in the pockets of his black dress pants, his shoulders wide in a crisp blue dress shirt, his face impassive. She turned back to Paulette. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, Paulette, but my father left his shares in the company to me, so I’ll be stepping into his role.”

Paulette’s eyes widened, and then she looked to Travis for direction, which irritated Samara.

“No, you’re not,” he said.

“Yes, I am.”

They stared each other down while Paulette looked from one to the other.

“Would you excuse us for a few minutes, Paulette?” Travis asked softly.

“Of course.” Paulette booked it out of there, moving as if a snarling beast was snapping at her ankles.

“What were you working on?” Samara asked, dropping her purse onto a chair.

“Nothing much. Paulette is canceling meetings and a trip scheduled for next month.”

Samara nodded. “Seriously. What can I do?”

Travis shook his head. “Samara, you really don’t need to be here. You can’t be in any state of mind to be thinking about the business.”

“I want to make sure that people know the business is safe,” she insisted, crossing her arms over her chest, meeting his gaze. “It is safe, isn’t it?”

Travis hesitated. “Of course it’s safe. But losing a highly visible, charismatic CEO like your father does have potential impacts.”

“Like some of the partners might not want to continue to do business with us, without him there? Is that right?”

“Well...it’s possible. I don’t have any hints of that yet, but of course it’s too soon to tell.”

“What if I called them myself? Reassured them that—”

“I’m doing that, Samara,” he interrupted, his voice hard.

“But you...” She trailed off then tried again. “I’m family. That would carry some weight, wouldn’t it?”

He sighed. “Maybe. But, Samara, you don’t need to do this.”

Why didn’t he understand? She lifted her chin. “I want to, Travis.”

She dragged her gaze away from his look of frustration to study the office. It was just as she remembered, nothing particularly fancy. She wandered over to the big U-shaped desk unit in the corner and stood looking at the framed photographs of her and her mother sitting on one shelf, the computer sitting dark and silent, the various office supplies neatly arranged. Paulette must have tidied up in there because her father wasn’t known for being neat and organized. His desk was usually piled with papers, journals and magazines, even burlap bags of coffee beans.