To Brie or Not to Brie (39 page)

Anything worth having is worth suffering for, isn’t it?

—FROM
THE DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES
BY J. P. MILLER

“Get a move on, Charlotte,” I muttered. Time and I were not fast friends. On any given
day, I felt like I was behind. Rags, my sweet Ragdoll cat, twitched his tail and meowed,
the little taskmaster. When my cousin Matthew and his twins moved out a few weeks
ago, I made a pact with myself to refurbish each of the rooms in my Victorian home,
one at a time, after work at The Cheese Shop and on weekends. I had a to-do list so
long that it would make an obsessive person nuts. Me? Okay, I was nuts.

Seeing as many tasks were going to be messy, I had decided to convert my rarely used
garage into a workshop. But before tackling the job, I needed sustenance. I stood
in my kitchen, preparing an appetizer that was fast becoming one of my favorites:
Charlotte’s Nirvana
. To make the appetizer, I chose a sliver of an heirloom tomato plucked from the hothouse
behind Fromagerie Bessette, a hearty slice of San Joaquin Gold, which was a buttery,
cheddar-like cheese, and a portion of prosciutto. I stacked the trio on top
of sourdough slathered with homemade pesto and cut it into bite-sized pieces. I popped
one into my mouth, set the rest of my treat on a platter, covered it with a checkered
napkin, poured a glass of water, and, with Rags trailing me, traipsed to the garage…workshop.

The space teemed with books and boxes filled with discarded clothing bound for the
homeless shelter. My mountain bike and cross-country skis—neither used in well over
a year—hung on the wall. A sizable wine cooler that held nearly sixty bottles of wine,
all recommended by my savvy cousin, stood in the far corner and hummed with energy.
I set the snack on a red metal cart that held my tools, then pushed everything from
the center of the garage to the sides and laid out a tarp. Cool air whistled through
the opened windows and the pedestrian door to the garage, but I was too revved up
to care.

As I moved the Tiffany lamps, Chippendale side tables, and antique desk from the office
to the workshop with the help of a dolly, Rags paraded beside me. He tilted his chin
with curiosity. I said, “Relax, buddy, I’m not going anywhere.”

The secretary desk was first on my makeover agenda. My great-grandfather on my mother’s
side had purchased the desk in the early 1900s. Sometime between then and now, someone
had given the desk a coat or two of murky brown paint—why was beyond me.

Intent on restoring the desk to its original beauty, I set a can of stripper and stack
of sanding paper on the tarp. Next, I donned a pair of gauntlet gloves to keep my
hands from becoming shoe leather, and I strapped on a pair of goggles. Using a power
screwdriver, I disassembled the desk. I placed the organizer cubby, carved legs, and
dovetail drawers on the tarp, and then eyed the desktop.

“I’ll sand the belly first,” I said to Rags. He mewed his assent.

Carefully balancing the desktop against my legs, I
flipped it on its edge and lowered it to the tarp. As it landed, dust poofed into
the air. When the dust settled, I spied a hidden compartment on the underside of the
desk. I pushed up my goggles and wiggled open the drawer, expecting to find nothing
more than a nest of spiders. Excitement rushed through me when I caught sight of a
stack of letters tied with gold ribbon. Whose were they?

The single overhead garage light was not enough illumination to do the letters justice.
I switched on a Tiffany lamp.

Rags nuzzled his head beneath the hem of my tattered jeans and purred:
Tell me. What did I help you discover?

I removed my gloves and lifted the stack of letters. I plucked the topmost and unfolded
it, mindful that the stationery was delicate. My heart snagged in my chest as I scanned
the words:
Missing you…adore you…be together soon.

Rags yowled.

“It’s a love letter from my father to my mother,” I explained. “When Dad had to go
to an education convention.” As a school principal, my father had traveled often to
keep up with the trends. He had given my mother the same assurances that Jordan, the
love of my life, had given me weeks ago. Jordan, who had moved to Providence under
the protection of the Witness Security Program, was involved in a trial in New York
and might be away for a long time, but he promised we would be together soon.

Not soon enough.

Rags flicked me with his bushy tail.

“You’re right. If I take the time to read all the letters, I’ll fall behind on my
project, and I’ll wind up a mess of tears.”

Reluctantly I inserted the love letter back into the stack with the others, but I
didn’t return the packet to the drawer. I grabbed a pair of Tupperware boxes, emptied
them of nails and screws, dusted them with a clean rag, and deposited the letters
into them. I sealed the containers and set
them high on the shelves that held the rest of my tools and rags. I would read the
letters another day, when I was stronger and not aching with loneliness.

“It’s back to work we go,” I sang while lifting Rags with both hands, my thumbs tucked
beneath his forearms, and kissing him on his nose and mismatched ears. Then I hooked
him over my shoulders. He loved being carried like a rag doll, as many of his breed
did, hence the name. He chugged with contentment.

Better a cat’s love than no love, I mused.

For a half hour, I applied stripping fluid with a paintbrush, scraping occasionally
with a curved-edge scraper when necessary. The spindles would be the hardest to clean.
I shaped a wooden dowel into a sharp tool to work the grooves. I had purchased a sanding
cord for the tightest turnings. When my fingers ached from cleaning the main body
of the desk, I took a break. I plucked an appetizer from the plate atop the tool cart
and downed it in one bite. After savoring the salty goodness, I quickly ate a second.
Heaven. Rags begged for a taste of cheese. I obliged, although I never let him have
more than a fingernail-sized portion, and then I re-covered the platter with the napkin,
hoisted the sander, and returned to work.

I was lost in a world of my own when I felt Rags grumble. Glancing up, I noticed the
silhouette of a man on the shelving; his arm was raised. I whirled around, brandishing
the sander like a knife.

“Whoa, cuz,” Matthew backed up, arms raised, a goofy grin on his handsome face. “It’s
just me bearing gifts.” He offered the bottle of wine he carried. “Bozzuto chenin
blanc.” Bozzuto was a local winery north of Providence. “It’s a lively wine, offering
fine concentration and balance.”

“Sounds delish.”

“And the sweetness of the wine won’t be overcome by the pungent flavor of any cheese.”

I took the wine, admired the artistic label, and set the
bottle on a side table. “To what do I owe—?” I glanced at my watch. Nearly 7:30. “Oh,
my. Time got away from me.”

“You and your projects.” Matthew grinned as he ran his fingers through his tawny hair,
which was in dire need of a trim.

“Is she here?”

“Right outside.” He leaned out of the garage and beckoned.

Seconds later, Noelle Adams entered. “Hello, Charlotte.”

I had met Noelle last month at Matthew’s wedding. Willowy, with classic features,
she reminded me of a French movie star, the kind that could make the hardest-hearted
man swoon. She was certainly working her charms on my Ragdoll cat. He rubbed Noelle’s
calfskin boots with fervor.

“Hi, Noelle.” I fingered the scarf I had tied around my head to prevent sawdust from
sticking to my hair. “Sorry about the mess.”

“Forget it. Matthew warned me. And don’t fuss. You look great.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You do. Fresh and natural, the all-American girl. Don’t forget, I know what you look
like in a fabulous gown.” Noelle hoisted her matching tote higher on her shoulder
and bent to scratch Rags’s ears. “Hello, gorgeous. Marry me?” Rags rumbled with motorboat
intensity, the traitor. After a second, Noelle stood and tugged at the ecru wool serape
she had draped dramatically over her shoulders. “What a great place you have, Charlotte.”
Even her voice was deeply sensual, like fine wine rolling over the tongue. “It’s so
nice of you to let me stay with you.”

A contemporary of Matthew’s, Noelle used to be a sommelier that offered her expertise
to famous restaurants in Cleveland, Chicago, and New York. Recently she had been hired
by the local Shelton Nelson Winery to help them create buzz about their business.
I had offered her the guest room because the inns were full up with all the pre-Thanksgiving
events in town, and Matthew’s place was jammed with the twins, the dog, and mounds
of unpacked boxes. The cottage Noelle had rented wouldn’t be ready for a couple of
weeks.

“Matthew said you were tweaking a few things around the house.” Noelle’s eyes sparkled
with amusement. “Perhaps I could help. I can see you mean business.” She lifted the
pencil-sharp dowel and sanding cord. “I’ve done some refinishing before. My Paps was
a master builder.”

“You don’t have to—”

“But I’d love to. I’m willing to work for my bed and board, and it’ll help me stay
grounded. You know what they say about busy hands.” Noelle smiled with warmth that
would melt icebergs. “I feel like my feet haven’t touched earth for days. I’ve been
flying around the Northeast meeting all my former contacts in person to tell them
about the career change.”

To snag her, the Shelton Nelson Winery must have offered her the stars.

“However, I should unpack and change before tackling this project.” Noelle fingered
her sheath. “These aren’t exactly my furniture-stripping togs.”

“I’d help, too,” Matthew said, “but I’ve got to split. PTA meeting. I put her suitcases
in the kitchen.” He kissed Noelle and me good-bye.

I led Noelle back to the house, hoisted her two small suitcases, and guided her up
the winding mahogany staircase. The wood creaked beneath our weight. I sighed. They,
too, were on my to-do list.

“Love the chandelier,” she said about the grape-motif fixture hanging in the foyer.

I adored everything about my home, from the eleven-paint scheme and NECCO candy-style
tiles surrounding the dormer windows on the exterior to the bay windows, quaint kitchen,
and built-in shelves inside. I swung back the door to the guest room. “This will be
your room.”

“Mm-m-m.” Noelle inhaled. “It smells good in here.”

My throat clogged with emotion. Even though I had turned the twins’ bedroom into an
adult space, and I had decorated for Thanksgiving with gourds, colorful fall foliage,
and homemade pumpkin-scented candles, I could detect the girls’ youthful fragrance.

“The room is so pretty and quaint,” Noelle continued. I had added a patchwork quilt,
lace runners, brocade drapes, and a gold-based lamp with gold shade, which sat on
the turn-of-the-century writing desk. “It’s just like”—she hesitated—“when I was a
girl growing up in Cleveland. My mother…” She let the sentence hang. I didn’t press.

I set Noelle’s overnight-style suitcase on the bed and the other on a luggage rack,
and then opened the doors to the closets. “Make yourself at home. There are lots of
hangers. And the drawers in the bureau are empty.”

“I only brought the basics—movers are hauling the rest.” She placed her cell phone
and a bright pink iMac computer on the desk, and then emptied her overnighter onto
the bed. As the contents spilled out, she giggled. “Who am I kidding? Maybe I did
bring all of my worldly goods.” The items were varied—a chic leather briefcase, a
silver corkscrew with a sweetheart handle that had been given as a table favor at
Matthew’s wedding, a book of wine references, two personal leather-bound booklets,
a Mont Blanc pen, a Nikon camera with multiple lenses, and toiletries.

“Are you nervous about starting the job?” I asked as Noelle unzipped her other suitcase
and removed clothes draped in plastic dry-cleaner bags.

“Absolutely. I want to make a good impression.”

I didn’t think she would have to work too hard. Miss America would have a tough time
competing with her.

“So much is at stake.” Noelle pressed her lips together; her face clouded over.

“What exactly will you be doing for Shelton Nelson?”

“Hmmm?” She snapped her gaze in my direction. “My
job. Right. He wants me to get the word out about his white Burgundies. An interview
piece in
Wine Spectator
wouldn’t hurt.”

“Can you do that?”

“I’m sure going to try. White Burgundies are unusual to find in this climate, but
Shelton’s done a lot of prep work to the soil, and he keeps the vineyards heated to
prevent frost. He also ships in grapes from a few California vineyards. No shortcuts
for him, he says.” Her mouth quirked up. “If I can get some of my former clients to
start touting the Burgundies, word of mouth plus a dose of passion will sell them
to the general public.” She removed elegant suits from her suitcase and hung each
carefully in the closet. “I’ll be hosting an auction to start the buzz. Among my other
duties, I’ll be guiding personal tours for collectors and throwing some fabulous multicourse
dinners.”

According to Matthew, Noelle was at the top of her game as a sommelier, yet she had
wanted a change of pace. She had met Shelton Nelson a few months back at a tasting
of his wines, and suitably impressed, had fashioned the job for herself. She had asked
Matthew to tell Shelton that he would be an idiot not to hire her.

“I have to admit, I’m a little wary about being accepted by Shelton’s daughter and
the manager of the winery,” Noelle said. “Both have been, how can I put it nicely,
a little standoffish.”

“Change isn’t easy.”

“You can say that again, sister.”

After she stowed her toiletries in the adjoining bathroom, I said, “Let’s get something
to eat before we do anything in the workshop. I’ll throw together a fall salad with
toasted pumpkin seeds and some local chèvre. Do you like cheese?”