Clobbered by Camembert (3 page)

“Your crew?”

“The Do-Gooders.”

I’d heard about the Do-Gooders, a volunteer organization that restored historic buildings in the Midwest. All the women wore turquoise-studded hats and turquoise-studded clothing. Their show of unity reminded me of the fabulous Red Hat Society ladies.

Rebecca whispered, “She’s lying.”

“Shhh.”

Undaunted, she pinched my arm. “Ask her what’s she doing buying the farm next to Ipo’s.”

I shot Rebecca a look. It wasn’t like her to detest someone so out of hand, and truthfully I wasn’t picking up any bad vibes from our visitor.

“Charlotte.” Kaitlyn swiveled and met my gaze. “I knew your—”

“Achoo!” A fine-boned young woman with matted black curls scuttled into the tent. Her classic black wool coat swallowed her up; her five-inch platform-heel boots looked as clumsy as army boots.

“Bless you,” I said.

“Sorry.” Seeming as miserable as a wet poodle, the young woman dabbed her chapped nose with a wadded-up tissue and gripped her coat at her throat.

“I told you not to come inside, Georgia,” Kaitlyn said. “Go back to the car.”

The young woman flinched at the imperious tone but obediently shuffled out. How she balanced on those heels was beyond me.

“Forgive me,” Kaitlyn said. “That was my CFO. She’s under the weather. No need to be spreading germs.”

“You hired a CFO for the Do-Gooders?” I said. Having one sounded pretty formal for a regional organization.

“Oh, no. She works for Clydesdale Enterprises.” Kaitlyn replaced the Vacherin Fribourg cheese information card. “That’s my main business.”

Rebecca elbowed me. “Told you so.”

Kaitlyn eyed Rebecca. “Am I missing something? Why are you upset with me? Who are you?”

“Rebecca Zook.” Rebecca threw back her shoulders with youthful exuberance. “And you—”

I rested my hand on her forearm. “My assistant believes you’ve purchased the cattle farm next to the Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm.”

Kaitlyn smiled shrewdly. “We’re in negotiations.”

Her revelation surprised me. Information about a place for sale should have surfaced in The Cheese Shop, if not from Sylvie, then from any of the dozen other people who liked to congregate at the shop to swap stories.

“‘We’?” I said. “There’s more than one of you at Clydesdale Enterprises?”

“My business partner and I. The seller is rather eager to close, so it should be final soon.”

“You can’t,” Rebecca blurted.

“Young lady, I can do as I please.”

Kaitlyn looked down her nose at Rebecca with a maliciousness that bordered on evil, and in a snap, my opinion of her changed. How rude. Nobody talked to my young friend that way. I got a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. Maybe Rebecca’s concerns were well founded. Maybe Kaitlyn intended to bury Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm. But why, for heaven’s sake?

“Now, where was I?” Kaitlyn shook her head like a horse disgruntled with its rider and drew in a deep breath. “Oh, yes. Charlotte, as I was saying before, when we were interrupted.” She glowered at Rebecca as though she were a gnat. “I knew your parents.”

I fell back a step, shocked. Was that why she had come into our tent? Not to set up a cheese tasting for her crew but to talk about my folks? Most of what I remembered about them, I had learned from my grandparents. I was three when they died. I kept a hope chest filled with memories—my mother’s linens, a copy of
Wuthering Heights
, my father’s box of fishing lures, LPs of the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and Elvis. A therapist had told me that with time the loss would soften, but I could feel my eyes welling with moisture.

“Such a tragedy.” Kaitlyn strolled to me and patted my upper arm. “That darned cat.”

I stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

Kaitlyn placed her hand on her chest; her mouth drew into a thin line. “Didn’t you know?”

“Know what?”

“People, including your grandmother, said your cat was roaming around the car and distracted your father.”

My stomach clenched as a streak of orange and white zipped across my mind.
Sherbet
. My cat. We’d owned a cat. Until now, I’d blocked the memory from my mind. Images flickered before my eyes. I was sitting in the backseat of our Chevrolet. Sherbet was nestled in my lap. My father was driving fast and laughing. My mother laughed, too. Wind blasted through the car. We took one of the hills like a roller coaster, and my mother said, “Whee!” I whispered to Sherbet not to be scared. My father looked over the seat and winked at me. His face was full of lightness and joy. When he turned back to face the road, there was a blur. “Horses,” my mother screamed. My father swerved.

I glowered at Kaitlyn Clydesdale. “No, that’s not what happened. Sherbet was in the car, yes, but she was clutched in my arms.”

“Are you sure?”

I willed away tears threatening to fall. Could I be sure? Had I forged my own memory? Had I blanked out the possibility that Sherbet had bolted from my arms and made my father swerve? Any reminder of Sherbet had been removed from my grandparents’ photograph albums. Had my grandmother believed Sherbet was to blame? It was my fault that we’d had a cat at all. For months, I’d begged for a kitty. I’d whined until my parents had caved.
Oh, Sherbet. What happened to
you?

“Your mother was a darling friend,” Kaitlyn went on glibly, as if she hadn’t thrown an emotional boomerang into my life, and once again I grew uneasy. Who was she, anyway? Was Rebecca right to mistrust her? “We had such romps, she and I. She was a gifted singer, did you know? She would have been very proud of you and your accomplishments. Fromagerie Bessette is renowned.” An alarm sounded from inside Kaitlyn’s purse. She pulled out her cell phone. “Sorry, I must go. I have an appointment.”

“Wait,” I called, eager—even if I was put off by the woman—to know more about my mother, but Kaitlyn strode through the tent door without a look back.

No sooner had the door clicked shut than it reopened, and Sylvie sashayed in. At least this time she had the sense to wear a robe.

“I know something you don’t know,” Sylvie sang.

Refusing to rise to the bait and eager not to dwell on the event that led to my parents’ deaths until I could talk to my grandmother and glean the truth, I said, “Rebecca, go back to the shop and get those platters I need for the photography shoot. We’ll figure out what’s up with Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s plans later.”

“You bet you will,” Sylvie said, triumph in her tone.

At times I wished I could pull out her wispy hair, strand by strand.

“You’re not going to like who her business partner is,” she went on.

I strode to the buffet table cheese counter, removed everything from it, and polished it to a gleam.

Sylvie trailed me like a hard-to-lose shadow. “I heard they want to take over Providence.”

“‘They’ who?” Rebecca said.

Sylvie kept mute. Obviously she wanted me to be the one to beg for the answer. Well, she could choke on her gossip, for all I cared. She didn’t give a whit about Providence. Her main thrill in life was to upset Matthew and her twins’ lives. Selfish, that’s what she was. Maybe
she
was the partner. I could see her begging her doting mother and father for cash to buy the property so she could make a name for herself in a town that had snubbed her. Except, thanks to reckless business judgment, her parents were broke. La-di-dah.

“Who?” Rebecca demanded. “Tell us who.”

CHAPTER

Sylvie, the witch, didn’t blab. Before scurrying out of the tent, she smiled a wicked grin and cackled. Give her a broom and she could celebrate Halloween three hundred and sixty-five days a year.

“Good riddance,” I muttered. What I wouldn’t do for a bucket of water.

For the next hour, I remained at Le Petit Fromagerie and photographed a variety of cheese platters—a square slate one, a raw-edged granite one, and a round teak one—each laid out with a different selection of cheeses. While I worked, I started to make a list of possible business partners for Kaitlyn Clydesdale. According to Sylvie, I wasn’t going to like whoever it was. Prudence Hart, the town’s self-righteous, style-challenged society goddess came to mind. She would do anything to make waves. I wouldn’t put it past her to want to own a number of competitive businesses. She’d threatened to open her own cheese shop, except she wasn’t fond of cheese. Arlo MacMillan, a curmudgeon of the highest degree, dreamed of expanding his chicken farm, which lay to the west of Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm.

“Move the wedge of Triple Crème Brie to the left, Meredith.” I steadied my camera while Meredith, my best friend and schoolteacher extraordinaire, fiddled with the slate platter of cheeses.

With mid-morning light filtering through the tent’s windows, I focused on the center of the platter, which I’d adorned with goat, sheep, and cow’s milk cheeses, as well as crackers and a mound of luscious dates.

“How’s that?” Meredith asked.

“A bit more to the left.”

“You’re as much of a sneak as you were in grammar school.” Meredith whisked her shoulder-length hair off her freckled face. “How dare you wrangle me into a job with the promise of tasty tidbits and then renege. And I’m not talking about gossip. I was expecting f-o-o-d.”

I chuckled. “Don’t worry. You’ll get some cheese. But I need to takes these photos in just the right light. Updated photographs on a website draw customers. And Rebecca is more than occupied on her break.”

I glanced at Rebecca, who was supposed to be arranging jars of honey on the pair of baker’s racks that we’d brought to the tent, but she was flirting with Ipo. She twirled a lock of hair around a finger and twisted the toe of her right ballerina slipper in the fake green grass. I couldn’t fault her. The honeybee farmer, a transplanted Hawaiian and a former fire dancer at luaus, was not only handsome but a sweetheart. I gazed at my own heartthrob, Jordan, a local cheese farmer who had offered to help Matthew lug in boxes of wine. Muscles rippled beneath his work shirt. Perspiration beaded on his chiseled face. He must have felt me looking, because he turned his head and gazed at me with such passion that heat swizzled to my toes. Over the past few months, we’d spent a lot more time together. And not only on dates. Fromagerie Bessette was in the process of adding a cheese and wine cellar beneath the shop—we wanted to offer the freshest cheese selections around as well as preserve all our shipments of wine—and Jordan was helping us design it. As the owner of the building, he had even offered to foot half of the expense. He called it an investment.

“Yoo-hoo, where’d you go?” Meredith said. “As if I didn’t know.”

I yanked myself back to the photo shoot and clicked off a few more pictures using a wide-angle lens. “So, have you set a wedding date?”

Meredith and my cousin Matthew were engaged.

She said, “We’re thinking that autumn would be—”

“Charlotte,” Rebecca called. “What’s that cheese you said Ipo would like?”

“That little round of Emerald Isles goat cheese. You know the one, from Emerald Pastures Farm.” A charming artisanal cheese maker north of town owned Emerald Pastures Farm. She put her heart into her work. “It’s got a luscious mushroom flavor. Very earthy. I’ve stored some in the refrigerator.” In addition to the wine and cheese tastings we were offering in the tent, we planned to sell a modest selection of other cheeses and wines. I’d had a glass-fronted refrigerator delivered for the occasion. It stood between the baker’s racks.

Rebecca pulled a hatbox-style cheese container from the refrigerator and plopped it into one of our pretty gold gift bags. “And what about the Brie?”

“I’d suggest using the same one I’m photographing. Rouge et Noir Triple Crème.” It was a fabulously creamy Brie made by the Marin French Company, the oldest cheese manufacturer in the US. “And don’t forget the Chevrot I told you about. It’s young, so it’s sweet.”

“Like you,” I heard Rebecca say to Ipo.

Warm breath caressed my neck. Jordan brushed my back with his fingertips, then kissed my cheek. “Ah, true love.”

Desire crackled through me.

“I’ve got to return to the farm,” he whispered. “Catch you later.” He disappeared out the rear door.

Matthew followed him, saying he had business calls to make back at the shop.

“Earth to Charlotte.” Meredith waved a hand in front of my eyes. “Are you ever going to tell me about your trip with Jordan? You’ve been pretty mum since you got home.”

“It was wonderful, exotic, enticing.” Jordan and I had spent a week in Switzerland, tasting cheese, sipping wine, and chatting. Well, doing more than chatting. Seven glorious days, six romantic nights. “I showed you pictures.”

“Yes, you told me you listened to Alphorns and rode the funicular to Plan-Francey, and you toured the village of Gruyères and Chateau de Gruyères. But who is Jordan? Really?”

Jordan had lived in Providence for five-plus years, yet he had a mysterious past that I hadn’t tapped. On our trip when I asked how he had learned to make cheese and, more particularly, how he had learned the art of affinage—the craft of aging cheeses, which he did in his huge caves for many of the smaller farms in the area—he told me a British cheese maker named Jeremy Montgomery had tutored him.

I related the story to Meredith.

“But Jordan isn’t British,” Meredith said.

“His parents were working in the American embassy in London.”

“Aha, now we’re getting somewhere. Doing what?”

“Not sure.”

Meredith put a hand on her hip. “Where did he go to college?”

I took three pictures in a row. “Why are you grilling me?”

“Because he has a secret past.”

“He likes the movie
The Godfather
. Matthew told me that any man who likes
The Godfather
is good by him.”

Meredith offered her best schoolteacher-who-doesn’t-believe-the-dog-ate-your-homework look. “Do you believe this story about the cheese maker?” She snickered. “What a silly question. Of course you do. You love him. Jordan could have told you he was formerly an Antarctic explorer, and you’d have believed him.”

“And I’d have been captivated.” I winked at her.

She grinned. “Okay, next round of questions. Who is this Kaitlyn Clydesdale that Rebecca was telling me about, and who is her mysterious partner?”

“Moi,”
a man said.

A shock wave of anxiety shot through me at the sound of the man’s voice. I spun to face him as he entered the tent, and my heart skipped a beat. Actually it started to hammer my rib cage.

Chippendale Cooper, aka Chip Cooper, aka Creep Chef, let the door of the tent swing shut. He finger-combed his honey-colored hair and struck his typical jock pose. “
Bon soir
, Charlotte. I’m back from France.” His sea green eyes sparkled with mischief. With as much humility as he could muster—which wasn’t much—he added, “Long time, no spy.”

Meredith clutched my hand in a death grip. “What’s he doing here?”

I shook her off as deep-rooted anger surfaced. My hands balled into fists. Chip gazed at me warily and lowered his chin. Did he think I’d whack it? I couldn’t top the damage that all the hockey sticks had done to it during high school. Not that I didn’t want to try.

In response to my seething silence, he offered a devil-may-care grin. “Love your hair, babe. It’s longer. The color suits you.”

I self-consciously toyed with strands at the nape of my neck. I had grown my hair to chin length and had added gold highlights in the winter. It was flirtier; Jordan liked it.

Chip held up his iPhone. “Smile for the camera.” He snapped a picture. “Beautiful.”

Only Chip and Indiana Jones could have scars that turned into charming dimples. Jordan had a scar down the side of his neck—an ugly, jagged scar, usually hidden by the collar of his work shirt. I had discovered it one night during our trip to Europe—one intimate, lovely night. When I’d asked about it, he wouldn’t tell me about the event that had led to it. I had attempted a guess or two, of course: a hard life on the street; a drunken brawl; an attack by an angry ex-girlfriend? Jordan had cracked a smile at the latter but had offered no answers. Maybe a wayward penguin had attacked him on one of his Antarctica explorations, I mused.

Rebecca raced to my side. “What’s going on? Who’s the hunk?”

“Chippendale Cooper,” Meredith said, as if that explained it all.

Rebecca gasped. “Creep Ch—”

“Chip,” I said. “Call him Chip.”

“Of all the gall.” Rebecca flung her ponytail over her shoulder and glowered at
the hunk
as if she was the one he had maligned.

Chip took a quick picture of Rebecca, then hitched his head. “Can we talk outside, babe?”

“We have nothing to talk about.” The level of bitterness that crawled into my throat surprised me. If I wasn’t careful, tears would surface. No way was I going to let that happen. Chip could make all the snipes he cared to; I’d remain stoic. “Rebecca, I’m going back to Fromagerie Bessette. You close up the tent. Meredith, would you give her a hand?”

I strode toward the exit. Chip raced ahead of me and held back the tent door. While tightening my neck scarf, I sidled out, doing my best not to breathe or touch him as I passed. I didn’t want to remember his musky scent. I didn’t want to remember his fingers stroking my neck, my cheek.

Cool air blasted my face as I headed south through the Village Green.

Chip hustled behind me, stating the whys and wherefores of his decision, on one fateful winter’s night years ago, to flee to France. He begged me to forgive him. “I was young.”

“You were thirty.”

Dodging hordes of folding tables and chairs, boxes of crafts, and clothing racks, I snaked through the white tents. I sped past a security guard for the Winter Wonderland faire, who tapped the brim of his hat with a fingertip in greeting. Too angry with Chip, I failed to respond to the guard. I would have to apologize another day.

“Thirty is a formative time in a man’s life,” Chip said, keeping pace.

“In a woman’s, too,” I hissed.

“Tick-tock, yes, I get that.”

“Not tick-tock. Not that at all.”

“Don’t you want children?”

I blasted past the ice sculpture of the Great Dane and kittens. Sure, I wanted kids. Yes, I was nearing my mid-thirties, and yes, every dratted magazine on every dratted magazine stand displayed some kind of article about the risk of having children over the age of thirty-five, but I ignored the articles. I did. I had eons of time. I was healthy, vibrant. I exited the Village Green and skirted around a man offering authentic Amish horse and buggy rides to tourists. Chip followed and gingerly scruffed the horse’s nose as he passed.

“Then what is it, Charlotte?” Chip pressed. “Why are you so mad at me?”

I stopped on the sidewalk near the Country Kitchen diner. Every red booth inside the diner was filled with patrons. All seemed to be staring at us. I said, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“What?” Chip threw open his hands like a petitioner waiting for me, the judge, to deem him innocent.

I waggled a finger. “We are not having this conversation.”

“I’ve come home to tell you I love you.”

“Home? This is not your home. You abandoned the town. Your folks have moved away. You have no heritage here. Go back to France.”

He shrugged. “There’s nothing for me in France.”

“There’s nothing for you here, either.” I folded my arms across my chest. Defensive, sure, but I needed armor, which seemed to be sorely missing. Maybe I had left it at the dry cleaners.

Chip jutted his hip like a cocky teenager, but he didn’t fool me. I had shocked him with my tirade. His eyes shuttered rapidly like a camera lens on the blink. “Don’t you want to hear my plan? Why I became Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s partner?”

“Not really.”

“She ran into me at Le Creperie on Avenue Italie in Paris. She said I made the best crepes she’d ever tasted.”

He did make good crepes, as light as clouds. I would never forget the time, right after college, when he had brought me crepes in bed, on a tray decorated with a rose in a vase. But that was beside the point. He had walked out on me. In the middle of the night. A man doesn’t do that and return expecting instant forgiveness. Or any forgiveness, for that matter.

I squelched my emotions, found my spunk—sans the armor—and started across the street. Chip grabbed my arm. I wrenched free and glowered at him.

He threw his arms wide. “Hear me out, please.”

He gazed at me with imploring eyes, and something stirred. Mind you, I didn’t exactly melt, but I was curious. I said, “Thirty seconds.”