Cream of the Crop (14 page)

He walked toward me, and the diner disappeared. I couldn't hear the waitresses cackling with Roxie's mom, I couldn't hear the orders being called out. I was vaguely aware of “I Can't Get Next to You” playing on the jukebox, and my brain granted me exactly one second of mental clarity to acknowledge that the song was perfect for this moment before slipping back into appreciation for a slow-walking Oscar.

He walked like he was in a Michael Bay film, striding across the tarmac to save the world from a rogue asteroid or kamikaze fighter planes. I could only stop and watch and admire the pretty.

Wearing faded jeans, scuffed work boots, a holey old off-white Irish sweater with big cable knits, just the edge of a white T-shirt peeking out of the collar, he was right off the pages of
Fuck
Off
He's
Beautiful
monthly. He
could
have been wearing
clown shoes and a sandwich board that said Eat at Joe's for all I cared, because what really made me gulp in air faster than I could actually breathe it was his face.

He might be the best-looking man on the planet. On any planet. His hair was tied back in his usual leather wrap, which accentuated the cheekbones, the jaw, the strong brow, the full, kissable lips. But what was most striking today was the measured joy. He was obviously happy to see me, but he was working to hide it somewhat, allowing only bits and pieces of it to show through. Wanting to hold something back, perhaps? I could understand that. It was early in whatever this was, to be showing every card. But I enjoyed the fact that he was happy to see me.

And once more, he surprised me. Before I could say hello or ask what he thought of the meeting, he slung one big arm around my shoulder, grabbed my bag and put it over his other shoulder, and said, “Let's go make some cheese.”

In the history of romantic opening lines, it probably wouldn't make anyone's top-ten list, but it was music to my ears.

Chapter 13

H
e opened the passenger door to his truck, and once he had me tucked inside, he went around to his own door. Score another point for being a gentleman. Inside, he turned the key in the ignition, pulled out of the parking lot, and headed in the direction of his place. All of this he did with his right hand firmly on my thigh, which he'd exposed almost immediately by pushing up my black tweed pencil skirt. It was luxurious, the ease he had with touching my body so freely, and the slightest bit possessively? Hmm . . . caveman.

“So, hi,” I offered.

He shot me a brief side glance. “Hi.”

Silence. Driving. Silence.

“Good week?”

“Good week,” he stated.

I was unable to take my eyes from the sight of his hand on my leg. Had I planned this when I picked out a skirt this morning? Not purposefully. Had I wondered, however, when I was standing in front of my overnight bag this morning and looking at the black peep-toe Manolos with the sparkly jewels, if I did happen to see Oscar today, would they drive him crazy?

You bet your sweet ass . . .

“So you had a good week. That's great. I did, too. So . . . thanks for asking.”

“I didn't ask,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road, but his fingers slid half an inch higher on my thigh—his caramel skin on my Irish cream—and I felt myself growing more and more excited. I was also growing more and more irritated that he wasn't at all interested in having even the most cursory of conversations with me, when he finally looked my way. “But I'm glad to hear it.”

My ears pinked up, I could feel it.

He continued. “I was distracted all week. I thought about you, thought about when I might see you again.”

“You did?” I asked, trying like hell not to squeak out the words but failing miserably. My cheeks pinked up, I could feel it.

“Mmm-hmm,” he said, sliding that hand north another inch. “Thought about those sounds you made, how sexy you looked.” He stopped at a railroad crossing and looked me straight in the eye. “In the barn.”

“Oh,” I managed, not even bothering to squelch the squeak. Something else pinked up, I could
feel
it.

“You here till Sunday again?” he asked, the railroad light flashing. Vaguely, I could hear a
ding
-
dong ding
-
dong
from the signal . . .

“Uh-huh.” This time I sounded like I smoked eight packs of cigarettes a day.

The lights stopped flashing. The dinger quit donging. And I was lost in those smoldering eyes, which were touched by a bit of happy. “Good,” he said, all heat and smooth and sweet and rough at the same time.

“Good,” I repeated, reaching down and sliding his hand up another inch.

“Holy shit, you weren't kidding.”

“What did you think I meant, when I said let's go make some cheese?”

“I thought we'd be wrapping those cute little Bries that I buy from you, in the sweet blue and white gingham paper?”

Oscar had driven me back to his farm. Over the hill and beyond some of the pastures was a large secondary barn proudly bearing the name Bailey Falls Creamery over the entryway.

“No way, Pinup. We're making cheddar today.”

This was it! This was my dream, the secret dream tucked away in the back of a kitchen cupboard in the form of cutout pictures of sweet cows and rolling hills and cardigans.

“I'm not really dressed for cheese making, am I?”

He popped out of his side and made his way to the passenger door. Tugging it open, he held out his hand and I slid on out, landing close enough to him that he'd be required to catch me. He lifted his eyebrows, knowing full well what I'd done as he caught me around the waist and set me right.

“Doesn't matter. You seemed to do okay in my boots last weekend, didn't you?” He winked and led me around toward the back of the truck. By my hand! “Besides, we've always got smocks and hairnets for visitors.”

Hairnets?

Oh yeah, hairnets. Within fifteen minutes of my arrival at Bailey Falls Creamery, which had always sounded quaint and darling and maybe just the tiniest bit Dickensian, I was beginning to realize that cheese making, even artisanal hipster made-by-the-hottest-man-imaginable cheese making, was an industrialized kind of operation with sterile, stainless-steel troughs, drains in the floors, and tables that looked right out of the movie
Saw
.

The “shed” that I'd observed was huge! Room after room of all kinds of equipment, not to mention several “caves,” where the cheese was aged. Another concept I'd Disneyfied in my mind. Although an actual French Roquefort would only be called a Roquefort if aged in the actual caves where the bacteria is naturally present to create its beautiful, pungent beauty, most cheeses these days apparently are aged in noncave caves: climate- and humidity-controlled environments where cheeses can age and mellow over time, and be turned occasionally by the cheese maker.

And my personal cheese maker had an entire team of cheese makers. A few full-timers, some part-timers that looked like local high school kids, and interns from the Culinary Institute up the road in Hyde Park. Bailey Falls Creamery was quite the operation.

I was given a fifty-cent tour, basically a brisk walk-through end to end, before being brought back to the first room. The enormous stainless-steel trough was waiting for milk, which I'd learned was not only from Oscar's herd, but from several other dairy farms in the area. Only pasture-raised, only organic, only happy, humanely treated cows got to bring their milk to his creamery.

He watched happily as the milk spilled into the trough. Three women stood at the ready, stainless-steel paddles in hand, waiting for the milk to get to the right temperature.

“Fantastic, I can't wait to see how the magic happens!” I cried, clapping my hands. I looked around and saw a low bench over by the window. “Should I go ahead and sit over there? Don't want to get in the way,” I said, starting for the bench.

“Natalie,” a low voice called out softly, and I turned to see Oscar. Holding his paddle. Ungh.

“Yes?” I asked, just as softly.

“Here's your hairnet,” he said, throwing me what looked like a handful of old hosiery.

“You're adorable.” I laughed and began to turn away once more when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Put on the hairnet, and the smock, and the boots, and meet me back here in five minutes.”

I blinked back at him. “You're kidding.”

“You better get a move on,” he warned, not at all kidding. But just when I was about to tell him where he could stick his paddle, I saw the twinkle in his eye.

Country boy tries to show the city girl she can't cut the mustard. Hmph.

I snatched the smock, and the boots, and the godforsaken hairnet, and met his challenging gaze with a toss of my hair. I'd call his bluff, no problem. “Should I take everything off and just wear the smock, or . . . ?” I looked at him innocently, opening the top button on my fitted black oxford.

“Over your clothes is fine,” he replied through clenched teeth.

I heard the women over by the tub giggle.

“Be right back,” I sang out, heading for the restroom. Inside, I stared at the hairnet.

I'd better get to take home some cheddar . . .

It turns out I look fucking fantastic in a hairnet. I piled all my hair up on top of my head, popped the net on, but off to the side in a jaunty fashion, touched up my siren-red lipstick, and I was ready to paddle some cheddar. I plodded out in my shapeless smock and Oscar's boots, with a grand smile, and was pleased when I saw him scan the length of my leg now visible beneath the smock.

I had, in fact, taken off the clothes underneath. Because I was hot . . .

“Okay, Caveman, show me how you make your wares,” I announced, rolling up my sleeves and trying to take the paddle away from him.

“Not so fast. You'll watch first, then you can go to work on that tub over there.”

“Whatever,” I replied, playing along. I stood off to the side with Oscar and watched as the three women worked on the first trough.

“So when the milk is the right temperature, they add the rennet. In this tub over here, they've already done that. See how when she slices into it, it almost looks like it's set up a bit? Now it's ready for the next step.”

“Which is?” I asked, conscious of his elbow touching mine. He was, too, because he bumped me with his.

“Remember Little Miss Muffet?”

“I should probably tell you now that if you're going to call a spider over to sit down beside me, you're also going to want to hold tight to your balls, because—”

“Good lord, woman,” he interrupted, furrowing his brow—while also surreptitiously dropping his hands protectively. “What the hell kind of fairy tales did you read when you were a kid? They're separating the curds from the whey.”

“Oh! Sure, sure, that part.” I sighed, relaxing back once more. And as we watched, the woman walked up and down the length of the tub, pulling along a steel contraption that almost looked a little like a small handheld rake, except with only a few teeth. Almost immediately, you could see that when it cut into the jiggly white mass, tiny pieces began to form, suddenly floating in a sea of yellowish-white liquid.

I wasn't aware that I was crinkling my nose until he bumped
me once more with his elbow. “What's the matter, not quite what you were expecting?”

“No.” I sniffed. “It's quite interesting. Very much so.” It looked disgusting. And now that it looked disgusting, I became aware of a somewhat strange odor in the air. It wasn't rancid or spoiled; the place was spotless, for goodness' sake. But there was a definite . . . funk. Funk I liked, especially when I was enjoying a really good piece of Maytag blue at the end of a long day with a few figs and some honey. But this funk was all around me, and I wasn't really liking it.

“Okay, your turn!” Oscar said, tugging me by the elbow to the untouched third tub, obviously my introduction to the world of cheese making.

“Fabulous,” I said, smiling wide as I approached the milky-white substance. Not at all what cheese making had represented in my head for so many years. Where were the artfully scarred wooden tables, the crooked yet charming slate floor, the barn cats cleaning their faces prettily in the window while waiting for a bowlful of cream?

Not here. But Oscar was still smiling, and looked so proud. “Go ahead, see if it's ready. If it is, when you slice into it, it'll give, but it won't be mushy. You'll be able to make a clean slice, but it'll still fall back on itself,” Oscar said, handing me a little curved spatula.

“Fabulous,” I repeated, the smell stronger here. I'd once gone to Coney Island when I was a kid and eaten three Nathan's hot dogs followed by a tall glass of milk. Two spins on the Wonder Wheel later and I'd honked it all up. I wasn't really a fan of hot dogs or milk after that, and this . . . precheese . . . had a similar warm smell. But when I looked over at Oscar, he seemed curious to see what I'd do, so I tried to remember what they'd done at the tub we'd just watched.

Initially, before slicing it, she'd poked it. So I poked it. It jiggled slightly. I poked it again. Same thing. It sort of sprang back, almost like a panna cotta or flan texture.

Now I never wanted either of those desserts again.

I started to poke it a third time, when Oscar leaned in behind me, and with his mouth right beneath my ear, and my hairnet, said, “Are you going to poke it all day, or are you going to do something with it?”

Stifling every witty retort I had flying through my brain in that instant, I took a deep breath and stuck in my little spatula. He was right, it wasn't mushy, and a clean slice fell back from the blade.

“Looks like it's ready to go,” I said, handing it back to him and starting to turn for the door.

“Whoa whoa whoa, city girl, we've still got a ton of work to do,” he called.