To Brie or Not to Brie (40 page)

“Adore it. All kinds. I’m most fond of triple creams. They’re sinful.” Noelle dressed
in jeans and a long-sleeved tee shirt that said:
Life is too short to drink bad wine!
, and
we retreated to the kitchen. “By the way, I’ve heard great things about The Cheese
Shop. That’s what the locals call it, right? I can’t wait to visit and inhale the
aromas.”

“We’ll go first thing in the morning.”

Over our light dinner, I listed all the fun things to do in and around Providence
in November. Hiking along Kindred Creek, taking an Amish tour, or visiting the nearby
city of Columbus to see the Ohio Historical Center and the Center of Science and Industry.

“Locally, there’s also the Providence Playhouse,” I said. “Usually the theater puts
on an eclectic array of productions, but right now, my grandmother is directing a
Thanksgiving Extravaganza. Matthew’s twins and their schoolmates will be reenacting
the first Thanksgiving. And then there’s the Thanksgiving Parade. You’ll see people
decorating the streets around the Village Green for the next few weeks.”

“Sounds fun.” Noelle promised to attend both.

An hour later, I made a dessert platter of crisp apples and slices of Roquefort, grabbed
two Riedel wine tumblers and a bottle of the chenin blanc that Matthew had brought,
and we returned to my makeshift workshop.

“This cheese is deliciously smoky.” Noelle licked remnants off her fingertips. “Cow’s
milk?”

“Sheep, aged in the Combalou Caves of Roquefort-sur-Soulzon.”

“There’s some European law, isn’t there, about Roquefort cheese only coming from Roquefort?”

“Yep. It’s called protecting the designation of origin,” I said. “The laws about importing
the cheese are strict, as well. The U.S. doesn’t get nearly as much Roquefort as I
would like. And the tariffs? Don’t get me started.”

Noelle laughed.

“It’s best if eaten between April and October,” I added. “After a five-month ripening
period.”

“So we’re eating it a month late? It’s still excellent, in my
humble opinion.” She downed another piece then wiped her hands on a cocktail napkin
and eyed the secretary desk. “Tell me what to do, boss.”

I pointed out the various boxes on the shelves and what they held: sandpaper, tools,
paintbrushes, and rags. I mentioned that she should bypass the two Tupperware containers
because they held my parents’ love letters. I explained where I had found them.

“How romantic.” Noelle’s eyes grew misty. “I can’t imagine finding a treasure like
that after all these years.”

Together we stripped the desk’s legs. We held them over a drip pan while daubing them
with paint remover, making sure junk didn’t collect beneath the T joint in the hollow
of the leg. The buildup of paint wasn’t as bad as I had expected. In less than an
hour, the grain of the wood peeked through.

When we took our first break, Noelle picked up the wooden dowel I had carved into
a digging tool. “I remember how my Paps and I would sit on the stoop and whittle.”

“Paps. Is that what you called your father?”

“No, my grandfather. My father was…” She pursed her lips. “Let’s just say that my
parents…When they died…” She swallowed hard. “I’m not sure if Matthew told you, but
I was orphaned at the age of seven.”

He hadn’t, but I wouldn’t have expected him to. “I’m an orphan, as well. My parents
died in a car crash.” My throat grew thick. “I was raised by my grandparents. They
are salt of the earth.”

“You were lucky. I ended up in a Catholic dump after Paps died of cancer.” She swizzled
the wooden dowel between her fingers. “The place wasn’t all bad. I learned an incredible
work ethic from the nuns.”

“How’s that?”

“I hate pain. It only took a couple of penitence sessions on my knees and extra duty
scrubbing the bathrooms to get me in line.” She twitched her nose. “I don’t think
I’ll ever erase the scent of Lysol from my memory bank.”

“How did you become involved in the world of wine?”

“When I left the orphanage at the ripe old age of eighteen, I took up bartending.
A patron at the restaurant offered me the job of a lifetime to become a wine sales
rep.” She raised an eyebrow. “There were strings, of course, and not being the kind
of gal who wanted to go down the dating-a-married-man path, I quit, but not before
I became an apprentice sommelier. Turns out I have a great nose. Matthew was my mentor.”
She pressed her palm to her heart. “I’m so happy for him and Meredith. Wow. I can
only hope to find their kind of love.”

“Tell me about the dinners you’ll be throwing at the winery,” I said.

“We’ll set them in Shelton’s private tasting room. Have you seen it?”

I hadn’t, but I had heard about it. Like the cellar at Fromagerie Bessette, it was
below ground, with nooks and crannies, and a fabulous dining table made of preserved
redwood that Shelton had picked up in California.

“We’ll feature the wines from his famous private collection.”

“Why did you decide to make a career change?”

Noelle contemplated the question, folding her lips inward for a moment, then she popped
them open. “I wanted a fresh new start. Away from Cleveland.”

“Why not in New York or another big city?”

“Bigger isn’t always better.” Noelle’s mouth screwed up like she wanted to say more,
but she didn’t.

* * *

The next morning I woke to the aroma of fresh coffee. Though I was an early riser,
Noelle had beaten me to the kitchen. Rags lay nestled in her lap at the kitchen table
when I entered.

“He’s going to leave hair on your beautiful suit,” I said. The woman had exquisite
clothes.

“I don’t mind. I can use the love.”

Rags nuzzled her, his eyes so dreamy he appeared to have been drugged with a love
potion.

“I’ve eaten,” Noelle added. “So has Rags, which means we’re ready when you are.”

I had offered her a walking tour of Providence, followed by a visit to Fromagerie
Bessette. She had a day to sightsee before taking on her new job. I constructed a
quick piece of toast topped with fig jam and Rush Creek Reserve, a pasty raw cow’s
milk cheese made with evening milk and wrapped in a thin strip of spruce bark, and
I downed it in four bites. Divine.

A short while later, we left Noelle’s BMW parked in the driveway and set off with
Rags on a leash. He was one of the few cats I knew that had taken to one. I think
he felt safer and somehow protected.

No season thrilled me more than autumn in Providence. Spring was beautiful, with all
the hope of new growth, but autumn stirred something deep inside me. The sky was a
brilliant blue. Most of the leaves had turned gold or crimson. Plumes of warm breath
clouded the crisp air as I pointed out the Village Square, the Congregational Church,
Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub, and some of my favorite shops. When Noelle had visited
for the wedding, she had come in for the day and left before midnight.

“It’s so charming,” Noelle said. “I love all the people walking around, and it’s not
even 8:00
A.M.
”

“We have lots of strollers. Many of them congregate at our local coffee bistro, Café
au Lait, or the Country Kitchen, a diner known for its homey comfort food.”

“I’m game for either…both.” She laughed. “And the decorations are so festive.”

“Our town council, mainly my grandmother, loves the Thanksgiving holiday.”

For the past week, local volunteers had been decorating for the Thanksgiving holiday,
hanging
We Love Providence
banners at intersections and attaching gold and burnt orange flags to the lampposts.
Soon parade stands would appear. There wouldn’t be any floats in the parade, but nearly
every farmer would arrive in a festooned carriage. The high school band, heavy on
the brass, would march. Shops would line the sidewalks with their goods for inspection
by the multitude of tourists. And my grandmother, our eloquent mayor, would give a
rousing speech that would remind each of us how thankful we should be.

When we entered Fromagerie Bessette with fresh cups of coffee from the diner, I spied
Matthew polishing the wine bar in the annex. My assistant Rebecca, a young Amish woman
who had left the fold years ago, moved about the kitchen at the rear of the shop fixing
the morning’s allotment of Roquefort Bosc pear quiches. In addition to cheeses, we
offered a few seasonal savory delights. The Roquefort’s pungency was a perfect complement
for the firm, sugary fruit.

Noelle’s eyes widened with delight. “Look at your beautiful display window.”

“We get into the spirit for a number of holidays.”

My grandfather, who had ceded the shop to my cousin and me, said appealing displays
drew customers. In the front window, I had set out huge waxed wheels of Edam, each
topped with a fluted vase and filled with orange-tinted silk orchids and berry branches.
At the base of the vases, I had scattered pinecones and small apples. A variety of
baskets held crackers and accouterments like jams and dried fruits. The idea was that
we would build similar baskets for customers, adding three cheeses to each. My suggestions
for this week included three distinctly different cheeses: the ever-popular Pistol
Point Cheddar from Oregon, a Salemville Amish Gorgonzola in the pretty blue box, and
Snofrisk goat cheese, a tart, cream cheese-like delicacy. Of course, customers could
ask for their favorites instead.

The telephone rang. I headed to answer. Before I reached the phone, the ringing stopped.

Seconds later, Rebecca raced toward me while flagging me down with pot holders. “Charlotte,
phone! Hurry.” She swatted me with the pot holders. Flour dusted the air. “It’s
him.
He’s on hold.”

Him as in Jordan?

My heart danced with anticipation as I shoved my cup of coffee into Rebecca’s hand
and sprinted to the office. Rags galloped to keep pace. I swooped up the telephone.
“Hello?”

Jordan said, “Good morning, sweetheart.” We had spoken a mere three times since he
had left town. I couldn’t contact him. He needed to call me on a secure telephone,
probably one of those disposable kinds that had to be tossed after one conversation.
“I miss you.”

My soul wrenched with longing, but I forced myself to sound happy-go-lucky. “Ditto.”
Rags leaped onto the desk chair and craned his neck to listen in to the conversation.
He adored Jordan. I bent and placed the receiver between our ears. Rags cooed his
appreciation. “How’s it going?”

“Slow,” Jordan said. The attorneys forbade him from revealing any particulars of the
case. For his safety. And probably for mine. Jordan said that if word got out that
I was his fiancée, I could be in danger. The men he was trying to put away with his
testimony were dangerous. They wouldn’t hesitate to take me hostage. They could use
my capture to coerce Jordan. The thought sent shivers down my spine. “I can’t talk
any longer today. Will you make sure my sister is okay?” His sister owned a pottery
store in town and was also overseeing his farm.

“You know I will. Jordan—”

“Where are you?” a man yelled from the shop.

“Charlotte,” Rebecca screamed.

The front door slammed with a crack. Had Jordan’s foes found me?

I bid Jordan a hasty good-bye, grabbed a pair of scissors off the desk, and bolted
from the office.

A man appeared at the junction to the shop and the hallway
leading to the office. He was a fury of red—red face, red hair, and red parka—and
looked like he would burst into flames if I struck a match. “I know she’s here.”

“She?” I sputtered.

“Noelle!” he brayed. “I know you’re here.”

“Charlotte, do something.” Rebecca hovered behind the man, oven mitts crisscrossing
her chest.

What could I do? A pair of scissors was no match for this enraged bull. I snagged
a slender tube of Genoa salami from the S-curve holder on the tasting counter and
instantly felt like an imbecile. Perhaps The Three Stooges could pull off a salami
fight. Not I.

“Noelle,” the man yelled again.

The door to the wine and cheese cellar in the kitchen burst open and Noelle charged
out carrying a wheel of Ementhal cheese and a bottle of white wine. “Boyd.” Her face
registered shock.

“How could you leave me?” Boyd walloped his chest with his knuckles.

“I didn’t leave you.” Noelle’s nostrils flared. Her shock morphed into fury. “We split
up months ago. I left Cleveland.”

“I want you to come back. I’ve changed.”

“I haven’t.”

The barb struck home; the man flinched, but he quickly regrouped and slinked toward
her. “This is a small town.”

“So?”

“You’re not a small-town girl.”

“Boyd…” Noelle set the cheese on the counter and gripped the wine bottle by the throat.
I was impressed with her response. A whack with a wine bottle would have a ton more
impact that a cylinder of salami. “You should go.”

“What’ve you got up your sleeve?” he snarled.

“I’m warning you.” She shot a finger at him with her left hand while raising the bottle
over her shoulder with her right. “Stop harassing me. Get out of town, or else.”