Lost and Fondue (3 page)

Sylvie shrugged off her ocelot coat to reveal a silver lamé sweater so tight that it made her ample breasts look like pyramids. To complete the outlandish ensemble, she wore gold spandex pants tucked into matching gold ankle boots. I bit back a comment. Taste had never been one of Sylvie’s strong suits.

“I was overwhelmed and so young when I had the girls,” Sylvie said.

She’d had the twins at the age of thirty-four. Hardly young.

“Do they miss me?” Sylvie twirled her hand in a circle. “Of course they do.” She rifled through her tote bag, pulled out a wadded-up tissue, and blew her nose—a big honking sound.

I searched for the most tactful way to make her leave town. “Look, Sylvie, the girls are happy now. They’ve gotten over your abandoning them.”

“Abandoning? Is that what you told them I did?”

“You didn’t call. You didn’t write.”

“I was soul-searching. I’ve been seeing a therapist.”

I raised an eyebrow. Just because Sylvie had met with a therapist didn’t mean she’d reaped the benefits of therapy. “Amy and Clair wanted their mother, and you—”

“Oh, can it.” Sylvie’s tears dried up faster than rainfall in a desert. Her face turned hard. She grabbed her coat and bounded from the table. “I don’t need your permission to see them.”

I sprinted after her, ready to tie her up if need be. I kept heavy twine in the storage room, and I was a master at knots. I’d macraméd a fishnet to get my Girl Scout badge when other girls had only made plant hangers. I caught up with Sylvie by the archway and spun her around.

“Release me.” She batted my arm. The crown of her diamond ring stung like a you-know-what. “I’d expected the teary act would work with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” I sputtered.

“Weak.”

“What?” My voice spiked.

“You know what I mean.”

Actually, I didn’t. I was not weak. I was considerate. There was a big difference.

“I’m going to see them, Charlotte.” She thrust a wellsharpened fingernail at me. “Whether you and Matthew like it or not.”

“What won’t I like?” Matthew shuffled into the annex carrying a box of wine and came to a halt. He gaped at his ex.

“Hello, love.” Sylvie sashayed up to him and traced her finger along his strong jaw, then dragged her finger down his neck and arm. “So lovely to see you. You’ve been working out.”

I gulped. She was good. Matthew looked transfixed. Like a siren, Sylvie was pulling him in with her honey-toned voice.

“I’ve missed you so much.” Sylvie pried the box of wine from his grasp and set it on the wine counter. “Come sit, and let’s catch up.”

As she waltzed him toward the mosaic tables, Matthew pulled free. “Stop it, Sylvie!” He backed up two feet and glowered at her. Gone was his boyish demeanor. No longer was he a puppy with a gangly lope.

I breathed easier. A year ago, when Matthew was vulnerable, he might have caved to her wiles. But not now. Not when he had Meredith for support. Not when the girls had turned an emotional corner.

“But lover—”

“Stop it, I said!” Matthew’s words came out firm, commanding. “Why are you here?”

“Don’t get cheeky with me, Matthew.” Sylvie cocked a hip and streaked her tongue across her lips, making yet another attempt to lure him into her web. Matthew remained tense. “I’m here because I’m taking my girlie-girls ice skating at the Harvest Moon Ranch.”

Not many people booked weddings at the Harvest Moon during the winter and early spring, so the owners had turned their old red barn into a skating arena, fitted with an artificial ice surface.

“You’re doing no such thing,” Matthew snapped.

“The girls love skating.”

“And you hate it. Your parents put you up to this, didn’t they?”

“Tosh!” Sylvie thrust her chin upward. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. In fact, I don’t have to explain myself to anybody.” She strutted around him, marched through the main shop, and out the front door.

Matthew charged after her. “Now, you listen to me, Sylvie—”

The chimes over the front door jingled, and then the door slammed.

Seconds later, a shriek sliced the air. Female. From the street.

A current of fear shimmied down my back. I tore to the sidewalk and stood beneath the awning, protected from the rain. A blast of cool air hit my face. While peering for signs of Matthew and Sylvie, I spotted two young men in swimsuits and a bikini-clad young woman bounding down the street. All wore flip-flops. All were armed with water balloons. The young woman, whom I recognized as Meredith’s niece Quinn, screamed—the sound matching the shriek that I believed had come from Sylvie. I breathed a sigh of relief that Matthew and Sylvie weren’t exchanging blows, though I shivered at the sight of the students. What were they thinking, being out in the cold in such skimpy outfits?

Rain-wet red hair clung to Quinn’s pretty face as she dashed toward the tallest of the young men. “I’m going to kill you, Harker,” she yelled, raising her second balloon.

With his rippling muscles and surfer-dude blond hair, Harker looked like he should have been named Adonis. According to Meredith, Harker had more talent in his pinky than the rest of the artists put together. His fellow balloon thrower was Harker’s polar opposite, dark-haired and lean. A third young man, zipper-thin with hunched shoulders and baggy trunks hanging low on his hips, towed a Radio Flyer wagon filled with latex ammunition and a pile of something covered with a tarp. Give the guy a hump and he’d look as miserable as Quasimodo.

“Goose, goose, duck!” Quinn hurled the balloon.

“Missed, babe!” Harker laughed.

“Missed me, too,” said the dark-haired young man.

Harker bolted to the wagon, snatched more balloons, and flung one of his missiles at Quinn. It splat near her feet. She squealed with delight.

“Okay, gang, that’s enough.” Freddy Vance, Meredith’s brother, flew out of the Country Kitchen across the street. “Did you hear me?” He hustled between parked cars and clapped his hands. From a distance, he appeared the same as he had in high school, compact and energized. A star gymnast. “Enough, I said.” He waved his arms overhead. His orange slicker, which was just this side of Day-Glo, made him look like a crossing guard on fire. “Let’s not scare off the nice folk of Providence. Show some respect. Quinn, where are your clothes? Do not tell me you left them at the bed-and-breakfast.”

“They’re in the wagon,” Quinn said.

“Put them on,” Freddy ordered. “All of you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Harker waved him off.

Freddy charged Harker and nabbed him by the shoulder. He must have pinched hard, because Harker instantly acquiesced. He jogged to the Radio Flyer wagon, reached beneath the tarp, and pulled out dry clothes. After donning them over his wet swimsuit, the other students did the same.

Rebecca exited The Cheese Shop and joined me under the awning. Plumes of her warm breath fogged up the cold air. “Are they the artists?”

I nodded.

“Hey, Charlotte!” Freddy strolled toward me wearing that familiar wry grin. “I leave the kids alone for one minute, and see what they do? Mind if we warm up inside your shop and grab a bite to eat? I heard it’s
the place
to hang out.”

Rebecca elbowed me. I got her drift. We didn’t actually serve meals, and I didn’t want to compete with the Country Kitchen on a regular basis, but who was I to say no to a little extra business during a slow season?

“Be our guests.”

Freddy gave me a quick squeeze and a rain-soaked kiss. “Gang, inside.” He pushed open the front door and allowed his flock to pass beneath his arm. Quinn, who had covered her teensy bikini with a long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and hiking boots, pulled up the rear. Before entering, she gave me a fierce hug. I could feel the dampness from her wet swimsuit seeping through the cotton.

Freddy lingered by the open door. “So you own The Cheese Shop. Wow! I always knew you had a bright future. And you’re a knockout. Meredith said you were, but who could believe Sis? Say cheese!” He scooted inside.

Shaking off the chill that was cutting into my bones, I followed him and moved behind the counter. “What’ll it be, everyone?”

Rags weaved figure eights around my ankles. I nudged him with my toe, and he got the message. Everything was fine. He could retreat to the office and nap.

Before one of the students called out an order, the front door opened yet again, and a statuesque woman in her late twenties flounced in. “Fredddddddddy?” She reminded me of a luscious Italian diva, with lungs that could blast out a pitchperfect aria. “It’s as cold as a polar bear’s nose out there.” She approached the cheese counter, nestled beside Freddy, and assessed me with open amusement.

I considered checking a mirror to make sure I didn’t have something caught in my teeth but fought the urge.

“How do you do?” she said. “I’m Winona Westerton.”

“Winona’s a potential donor for the college,” Freddy said.

“More than potential, darlin’. I’ve already given a hundred”—she paused for effect—“thousand.”

Exactly what did she do that she could afford to give so much money to a boutique college?

Winona gave me a sly, bordering on disdainful look. If she wasn’t careful, she and Prudence Hart, Providence’s new self-appointed society goddess, would have to duel it out for Witch of the Midwest.

Freddy said, “Everyone, let’s order breakfast before we paint.”

“We’re going to paint in this weather?” Quinn said.

“Of course we are,” Harker chimed in. “It’s ideal impressionist lighting outside.”

Through the eyes of an artist, I mused. To most, the rain would seem grim.

“I think it’s more like Dalí meets Van Gogh.” Winona winked at Harker. “Jewels melting on sidewalks.”

He didn’t seem to appreciate the comparison.

“That’s what’s great about art,” Freddy replied. “To each his own.”

As the students eyed the cheese selections, Quinn skirted around the counter. She drummed my forearm with her fingertips, and whispered, “Sorry you had to see us, you know, goofing around. We aren’t smashed or anything.”

“Not to worry,” I whispered. “I’ve had my share of romps.” In college, a group of us had decided hitchhiking to the big football game was a safe venture. Along the way, everyone backed out except for me, who stupidly showed her mettle by getting into a car with four men. Luckily, they were all businessmen with young daughters, each of whom lectured me about the dangers of the road. Throwing water balloons on a chilly spring morning was a minor infraction compared to that. “Now, what can I get you?”

“How about that big pear-shaped cheese?” Quinn said.

“San Simon, a cow’s milk from Spain. Nice choice. It’s from the Galician region and tastes creamy and smoky.”

“Oh, rats. I can’t have that. I’m allergic. I can only eat goat’s cheese.”

“We have lots of goat cheese selections,” Rebecca said. “Goat Camembert and goat Brie.” She leaned forward as if imparting a dire secret. “My personal favorite is Cypress Grove Purple Haze. Here, taste this.” She cut Quinn a slice from an opened round of cheese and handed it to her. “It’s got hints of lavender and fennel, and it’s fabulous melted on a grilled portobello mushroom.”

Quinn slipped the morsel into her mouth. “Oh, that’s delish.”

“Winona, what’ll you have?” Freddy said.

“How about that sourdough roll?” She wiggled a fireengine-red fingernail at the shelf filled with baskets of freshbaked breads that we ordered from Providence Patisserie. “It looks crusty.”

“Soft as cotton on the inside,” I said. “Which cheese?”

“No cheese. It’ll make me fat.”

“A piece of cheese won’t make you fat,” I said, eager to dispel the rumor. “Though eating too much of anything will.”

“I’ll take that roll, too,” the zipper-thin young man with the hunched shoulders said. “And some of that white cheese.”

“The Collier’s Welsh Cheddar.” I pulled out a wedge. “Good choice. Nutty with a hint of crystallization.”

“Nutty,” Harker said. “That’s perfect for you, Edsel. Don’t forget to say please and thank you, man.”

Harker poked Quinn. She snickered. Edsel shot Harker a stern look. Freddy shot Quinn one.

“Hey, Harker, you gotta see this room.” The dark-haired young man stood in the archway of the annex. On the back of his T-shirt the word DANE was painted in huge letters. Was it a statement of origin, or a tribute to a dark and brooding Hamlet? He had the look—the somber eyes, the familiar chip on his shoulder. “It’s so retro,” he went on.

Retro? I didn’t think the way we had decorated was retro at all. The annex was chic yet rustic. We’d lined the walls with mahogany, laid the floor with travertine tiles, brought in an antique wood bar and stools from an old Irish pub, and created cubby holes for each wine bottle.

“Wait until we get into the winery, Dane,” Harker said.

Aha. Dane was the young man’s name.

“I hear it’s
major
retro,” Harker added.

“Don’t make fun.” Quinn nudged Harker with her hip.

If my romance radar was working properly, I’d say they had a little thing going, and moody Dane wasn’t too pleased with that scenario. Neither, it appeared, was Edsel.

“Don’t mind them, Charlotte. I like what you’ve done to the place,” Freddy said. “Don’t you, Winona?”

“How am I supposed to know, silly man?” She flicked her fingernail on his sleeve. “I’ve never been here before.”

Freddy snapped his fingers. “Right.”

“What cheese do you want to order, Dane?” Quinn asked.

“Morbier,” Dane said, with the proper French pronunciation—a kid after my grandfather’s heart. Pépère loved the flavorful cheese with the layer of vegetable ash in the middle.

“And what about you, oh glorious treasure hunter?” Quinn asked. “What are you going to get?” She bumped Harker again.