Clobbered by Camembert (4 page)

Townspeople scuttled by on either side of us. The gentleman who owned the Igloo Ice Cream Parlor gave me a guarded look, as if to ask if I was all right. I offered a reassuring nod. He moved on.

“Kaitlyn said she had a hometown business she wanted to start.” Chip laced his fingers behind his neck.

Was he flexing his muscles to impress me? Oh, please.

My right foot started to tap, and I smiled to myself. My grandmother did the same thing when listening to a fish story.
Liars never prosper,
she said.

“After a year running her business,” Chip continued, “Kaitlyn will back me so I can open my own restaurant.”

“Your own restaurant?”

“Yeah, you know, the one I’ve always dreamed of starting. Chip’s Creperie.” He swiped his hand in front of him as if painting the sky with neon. “Doesn’t it sound swell?”

Swellheaded, more likely. “Aren’t there enough creperies in France?”

“Here. She’ll back me here. In Providence. I’m moving home. For good. The restaurant won’t be on the main square, of course. Retail space is at a premium. But I’ll find a location on the north side. Someplace with lots of foot traffic.”

I stiffened. No, no, no. I needed a clean break. I needed to move forward with my life. I did not want my ex-fiancé hovering over my shoulder and judging my relationship with Jordan. My head started to throb. What horrible thing had I done to deserve such a lot in life?

“What the heck do you know about bees?” I demanded, sounding shrewish, but I couldn’t help myself. If the rumor was accurate and Kaitlyn Clydesdale intended to turn the cattle farm into a honeybee farm, then according to Chip, she expected him to run it. But that wasn’t possible. “You hate the sight of spiders and ants and all sorts of tiny creatures. How in the heck will you suit up in a beekeeper’s uniform and cultivate the buzzing horde?”

“I’ve been studying up on bees. They’re docile.”

“Are you kidding me?” My voice grew louder. “They’re not docile. What if you get stung?”

“I’m not allergic.”

“You’re impossible.”

“But adorable.” He traced a finger down my sleeve.

I recoiled. “Goodbye, Chip. Good luck.” With my insides quivering in confusion, I strode across the street. When I entered The Cheese Shop, I could feel him gazing at me, but I didn’t look over my shoulder. I gave myself a mental pat on the back for my keen resolve.

* * *

“Chérie.”
My adorable grandfather, Pépère, stood behind the cheese counter, fiddling with the buttons of his navy blue jacket that appeared close to bursting. After a second, he gave up and ruffled his feathery white hair. “Bah. It is not cold enough to bother. Come here while there are no customers.” He beckoned me to the kitchen at the rear of the shop. “It is nearly three o’clock. Load me up.”

“Just a sec.” On my way through the store, I tweaked the displays. I turned out the labels of the jars of jams and the many gourmet vinegars on the shelves, and reassembled hatbox-style containers and waxed rounds of cheeses on the five weathered barrels that graced the floor. I nudged in the ladder-back chairs by the marble tasting counter and, using the elbow of my sweater, polished a smudge from the glass front of the cheese counter. I would never forget my grandfather telling me, when I had started working at Fromagerie Bessette, that everything in the shop should appear as appealing as a piece of art.

Before entering the kitchen, I took one last glance around, admiring how well the Tuscany gold walls went with the hardwood floors and how inviting the archway leading to the wine annex looked. Matthew and I had made a smart decision to redecorate. The only thing that was uninviting was the curtain of heavy plastic that covered the door to the basement, but it was a necessary evil. If someone accidentally left the basement door ajar while we were revamping the cellar, the plastic would prevent dust from seeping into the shop. Thankfully the dust was almost nonexistent since we had completed the framing and were waiting for workers to begin the next phase.

“Load me up.” Pépère removed the lid of a two-gallon cooler that sat on the floor. “What else do you want me to take? I don’t want to be late to Le Petit Fromagerie. You’ll give me what for.”

I tweaked his elbow. “Oh, yeah, like that has ever happened.”

His eyes crinkled with delight. “I have more of the Emerald Isles goat cheese, Zamorano, and Rouge et Noir.”

“Perfect.”

“Oh, and as you suggested, I set out a platter with the Two Plug Nickels’ cream cheese on the tasting counter.” Two Plug Nickels, another artisanal farm north of town, made the most fabulous lavender goat cheese and now a cream cheese that was silky smooth. “I put a bottle of the hot pepper pickle sauce beside it. The two are so tasty together,
non
?”

“Absolument.”
At Fromagerie Bessette, we offered samples at the tasting counter daily. Because I was focused on educating our customers about cheese platters, I had decided the cream cheese–hot pepper creation was a study in simplicity. The cheese, smooshed on a cracker and drizzled with sauce, was melt-in-your-mouth scrumptious.

“Take along these knives to the tent, as well.” I handed him a few boxes of silver, braid-handled spreaders. They were a popular item to purchase. “While you’re there, will you make sure I have enough serrated knives?”

“Mais
oui.”

Not wanting to haul a ton of cutting implements to the tent at the last minute, I had taken many over in batches.

I smoothed my grandfather’s collar and kissed him on both cheeks.

As he exited, Rebecca scuttled in. So did a handful of customers. While we served them, Rebecca plied me with questions about Chip—why he was in town and whether I still had feelings for him—until I grew so weary that I snapped at her to mind her own business.

A half hour later, as the shop emptied of customers, Rebecca joined me at the prep counter against the wall by the kitchen. She cleared her throat. I ignored her and continued dicing Liederkranz into half-inch cubes. It was a pungent cheese that had all but disappeared from the array of cheeses until its rebirth in Wisconsin. Same recipe, new cultures. I had devoted the month of February to creating exotic cheese trays for my customers. To start this particular display, I had adorned a broad blue-banded porcelain plate with a mound of rice noodles. Around the noodles I had scattered clusters of cashews.

“Charlotte,” Rebecca began.

“No,” I said instinctively and plopped a handful of dried apricots on top of the lacy mound.

“I’m not going to ask you about Chip.” She jutted a bony hip. “I got the hint when you snarled at me.”

“What, then?”

She started to giggle. The nervous laughter increased. She tapped her fingertips on her lips in an effort to stop from tittering, but the sound burbled out of her.

“Spill,” I ordered, “or you’ll burst.”

“Ipo is coming over tonight.” She danced a jig. The hem of her peasant blouse fluted around her hips. Her winter skirt swished side to side. “And we’re going to do it.”

I gulped.

“Not
it
, it,” she blurted. “We’re going to kiss.” Her fingers skirted to her neck, then her chest. A red flush decorated her pale skin. After a moment, a sob caught in her throat and she grabbed my wrist. “Charlotte, what if I don’t like it?”

She had never kissed a boy. Ever. Her Amish upbringing had kept her at arm’s length from all men. She had admitted to liking a lanky boy when she was thirteen, but the farthest they had ever gone in their relationship was holding hands—forbidden before marriage in some sects.

I squeezed her shoulder. “You will like it. Promise.”

“I hoped you’d say that.” She eyed the platter I was putting together. “That’s pretty. What cheeses are you adding to the Liederkranz?”

A few months ago, I had attended a cheese conference and had taken seminars to enhance my understanding of the art of plating. Cheese can be so varied in taste and texture, but many are pale. Adding fruits, nuts, olives, pickles, and meats, in a variety of colors, will brighten a tray and enhance the tasting experience.

“Yarg Cornish Cheese and Roaring Forties Blue,” I said.

“I love Yarg,” she gushed. “Did you know that Yarg is Gray spelled backward because Gray is the name of the couple who came up with the recipe for the cheese? Wait, of course, you did. You told me. The flavor of nettles is so unique,” she went on. “And I adore the Roaring Forties Blue. The nutty finish is divine.”

The front door chimes jangled, and Arlo MacMillan skulked in, all one-hundred-and-forty pasty pounds of him. His overcoat looked two sizes too big.

“Morning, Arlo,” I called.

He gazed at Rebecca and me from beneath his hooded eyelids and gave a hint of a nod. Then he shuffled toward the barrel that was stacked with jars of homemade raspberry jam. Every week Arlo graced the shop with his gloomy presence, but in all the years I had known him, I couldn’t remember him purchasing cheese more than three times—and then it was only Provolone cheese. I had tried to talk him into other selections, but he wouldn’t budge.

Two tourists and a bevy of children, each dressed in a heavy winter coat, trooped in behind Arlo, all chattering at once. They bustled toward the counter, and the man who I assumed was the father scanned the chalkboard menu behind me. At the insistence of a few tour guides, we had added a limited array of pre-made sandwiches to the other foods that we offered. When we sold out, we sold out.

“That Collier’s Welsh Cheddar, turkey, and cranberry croissant looks good to me,” the woman said to the man. “American cheese and salami on wheat for the kids, and include a wedge of that blue cheese.” She pointed at the Roaring Forties Blue. “We’ll add it to tonight’s salad.”

As I was wrapping their purchase in our special cheese paper—waxy on the outside, plastic on the inside—the front door flew open.

“Charlotte!” Tyanne Taylor swept inside. She stamped her tennis shoes on the carpet to clear them of debris, darted around the family, and scooted behind the counter. Runny black mascara streaked her pretty cheeks. Smidgens of it had dripped onto her snug cinnamon-colored jogging suit. Tyanne had worked hard to get rid of unwanted weight, and now she had what health magazines would call a super-toned body. “Sugar, he’s leaving me,” she drawled. “My Theo is leaving me and the children.”

“Why?” I asked in a gentle voice, hoping she would follow my lead. I didn’t want to scare off customers with talk of divorce, but I also wouldn’t turn away a friend in need. I finished off all the sandwich packages with our gold seals, slipped the sandwiches and the wedge of Roaring Forties Blue cheese into a handled bag, and gave the bag to Rebecca. “Ring them up, thanks.”

“Can’t yet. I think the dad has hit it off with Arlo.” Rebecca hooked a thumb.

Indeed, the father had joined Arlo by the barrel that held a display of rounds of Camembert, assorted goat cheeses, sourdough crackers, and jars of pesto, and they were chatting like old friends, which blew me away. Arlo didn’t like anyone. At least I hadn’t thought he did.

“I’ll pay,” the woman said.

I steered Tyanne toward the coat rack at the rear of the store.

When we were out of earshot, Tyanne said, “It’s … another woman.” She rolled her shoulders back. Her jaw drew taut. “But I won’t let him get the better of me. I won’t. I don’t need him.
We
don’t need him. I saw you were hiring.” She paused, her bravado weakening, and tucked her lower lip under her teeth. “I thought I’d better come and ask. Can I … Will you? I did all the marketing and computer output for the fresh market grocery down in New Orleans before … before …” She started to shake, unable to finish her sentence. Before Hurricane Katrina had turned her life topsy-turvy. After trying to make a go of it in ravaged New Orleans, her husband gave up and purchased his uncle’s insurance business in Providence and had moved the family lock, stock, and barrel. No debate.

I gave her a hug. “You’re hired.” I couldn’t think of anyone I would like more to work in the shop. She was a survivor. Salt of the earth.

“Oh, sugar, that’s such a blessing. Thank you.” She sighed. “I feel like such a cliché. He’s leaving me for his assistant, for heaven’s sake.” She blew a strand of hair off her face. “What did I do wrong? I lost weight. I streaked my hair like he wanted.” She shook her glossy layered locks. “Did I let my mind go flabby or something?”

I squeezed her elbow. “It’s not you. Sometimes we can’t fix things.”

Exactly when had I started to believe that? After Chip ran out, I guessed. I had poured my all into our relationship. A therapist told me the breakup wasn’t my fault. Prior to Chip, I had thought I could fix anything.

“When do I start?” Tyanne asked.

“Now. Bozz is tied up with senioritis at school.”

“It’s only February.”

“All the seniors check out mentally once they’ve heard from the colleges of their choice.” At first, I’d only hired my teenage guru, Bozz, to help with Fromagerie Bessette’s website design, but over the course of the past two years, he had grown into an invaluable employee, knowledgeable about cheese, marketing, and so much more.

“Where has Bozz been accepted?”

“To Providence Liberal Arts College.”

PLAC was the first college ever in Providence, and its debut freshman class would start in the fall. My pal Meredith was bubbling with excitement about the prospect. Her efforts to convert the old Ziegler Winery into a liberal arts college were coming to fruition. Bozz intended to work through college, but he had asked if he could cut his hours from sixteen to eight. I would miss seeing him as often.

I turned to Rebecca. “Would you bring Tyanne up to speed at the cheese counter and in the kitchen? A while later, Tyanne, I’ll walk you through the website, the newsletter, et cetera. Around here, we all pitch in with everything.”

“Might I freshen up, sugar?”

“Of course. You know the way.”

She headed toward the back of the shop.

As she disappeared, Prudence Hart marched in, her dark mood matching her charcoal coat, her prunish face twisted into a knot as always. “This Founder’s Day celebration, or Winter Wonderland faire, or whatever we’re calling it this year, has got to stop.” At times, she reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the East. She shook her fist overhead as if blaming the gods.