by Avery Aames
“Why, you—”
“Breathe, Belinda.” The clerk grinned. “Inhalation is guaranteed to extend your longevity.”
I suppressed a smile.
Bell turned on her heel and pushed her gaggle of friends toward the corner in which they had first convened. Bell whispered something to Prudence, who bobbed her head vehemently. I heard Bell say, “We’re doing it. It’s settled. She’s out. O-u-t. Agreed?”
I gulped. If they were intent on getting the clerk fired, I would vouch for her. She had done nothing wrong. On the other hand, if some other woman was the target of the group’s wrath, I pitied the poor soul.
CHAPTER
By the time I returned to The Cheese Shop, it was late afternoon. I hurried in, my intent to call Jordan. I wanted to tell him that I’d found his note, and yes, yes, yes, I wanted to go on a date, but I didn’t get the opportunity, because Rebecca waylaid me.
She clasped my hands. Hers were clammy and trembling. “I need you to come.”
“Where?”
“To the auditions. I need moral support.”
“But—”
“Rags can come, too. Please!”
I couldn’t believe she was this nervous. Whenever she needed to put one over on someone—like, say, Urso—she was fearless. On the other hand, back in the Amish fold, she had never acted. Sure, she’d played imagination games with the younger children, but the Amish reluctance to be self-promoting or vain—a concept known as Gelassenheit—was key to understanding why she had never found the courage to get onstage until now. I looked around the shop for the balloon O’Shea was supposed to have brought her on his break, but I didn’t see it. Maybe she had stowed it in the office. If I reminded her about how much he cared for her, perhaps she would have more courage.
“Have you seen Deputy O’Shea?” I asked.
“No. Why? Is something wrong?”
Not wrong, I thought, but curious. Why had he told Urso he was going out for some air if not to visit Rebecca and present her with his whimsical gift? Had he gone on a different adventure? Was he investigating his uncle’s death without Urso’s approval? Heaven forbid Urso found out.
“Did he say he wasn’t going to audition?” Rebecca asked, her voice tight with panic. “Did he say he didn’t want me to do so?”
“Stop it.” I tried to pry loose from her viselike hold, but to no avail. “You’re so edgy you’re going to drive yourself mad.”
“You’re right. I . . . I . . .” She let go and rotated her hand in front of her body in a wavelike motion to encourage breathing. “Inhale for four counts”—she obeyed herself—“and exhale for four counts. Again . . .” Soon the trembling ceased. “Wow, it worked! I learned that on a self-help tape I bought off the Internet.” She held up a fisted hand so I would knock knuckles with her.
I complied.
“Now, please say you’ll come.” She crossed to the tasting counter, nudged a ladder-back stool out of her way, and fetched a morsel of the specialty-of-the-day cheese, Boerenkass Gouda, which we imported from the Netherlands. She offered it to me.
“Are you trying to bribe me?” I plopped it into my mouth. Boerenkass was a delicious two-year cheese with rich notes of caramel and a hint of cashews.
“But of course. And I’m throwing in this, too.” She hurried behind the cheese counter and raced back with a decorative bag in hand. She thrust it at me.
Inside was a clear plastic box filled with sliced cheeses, jam, crackers, a plastic knife, and a bottle of spring water.
“Something to tide you over during auditions. The cheese is Rogue Creamery TouVelle.”
“Mmm. TouVelle.” The semihard cow’s milk cheese tasted like chocolate and nuts with a teensy tang.
“Your favorite.”
“My current favorite.” I had many more depending on the season and the setting. I’ve tasted over five thousand cheeses in my lifetime. I have certain favorites for dinner, others for appetizers, and others that are best eaten as a dessert, perhaps with a glass of port.
“Say you’ll come. Ple-e-ease!”
She was as giddy as a kid on Christmas. How could I deny her?
***
Whenever I entered the Providence Playhouse, I felt a grand sense of purpose. My tireless grandmother loved putting on plays. According to her, viewing plays ennobled the spectator. It didn’t matter whether the work was a musical or a straight play, a farce or a tragedy; the opportunity to get immersed in the moment of what she called la vie imaginaire—imaginary life—was a gift one should not refuse.
In the foyer, a bunch of volunteers were putting up decorations in honor of the upcoming Lovers Trail fest, including typical hearts and cupids. A string of hearts was draped from one end of the plate glass window to the other. One huge sign read: Welcome to the Love Letter auditions! In addition, smaller signs were posted on the walls with sayings like: All you need is Love Letters; When you invest in Love Letters, you invest in life; Love Letters is where the heart is. A table covered in a red checked cloth held sweet treats like heart-shaped cake pops, red-sprinkled cookies, and cherry-chocolate truffles that my grandmother must have made. She enjoyed keeping her actors, whether cast in the play or auditioning, fed and inspired. A pianist at an upright piano was playing very recognizable love songs—my grandmother’s attempt to get the actors in the mood.
“Follow me,” I said to Rebecca, nabbing a cake pop before going into the theater.
With Rags in my arms, I sauntered toward the stage, where my grandfather was pounding a nail into what was the most minimal set I’d ever seen at the theater. Black drapes hung on the sides of the stage. One wide black drape hung at the rear. Two platforms stood in the center of the stage, one platform with a window suspended over the rear edge, the other platform with a painting of a town suspended at its rear edge. On each platform stood two chairs and two writing desks with lamps.
Pépère rose to his feet and finger-combed his thinning white hair. “Ah, c’est très agréable de tu voir, petite-fille.”
I smiled. “It’s lovely to see you, too, Pépère.”
“Where is everybody?” Rebecca asked. Her voice sounded thin with tension. “Aren’t the auditions tonight? Do I have the wrong day? The wrong time?”
I gawped at her. Had she missed all the fanfare in the foyer?
Rebecca spun in a circle. “Where are the auditions going to be held?”
“Droit ici,” Pépère said. “Right here. Rebecca, sweet girl, do not worry. Bernadette—” He waved his hammer.
My grandmother’s name was Bernadette; my grandfather’s was Etienne. I, of course, had referred to them as Grandmère and Pépère all my life.
“She has taken all those who wish to read into the black-box theater for a brief—” Pépère whirled the hammer again, this time searching for a word.
“Chat,” I suggested.
“Oui. Chat. To prepare them with the background of the characters and the play.”
“You mean I’m late?” Rebecca cried.
“No. They just left. Go, Rebecca. That way.” He pointed. The black-box theater, an intimate ninety-nine seat auditorium, was located at the rear of the theater complex.
“Break a leg,” I said. No one was entirely sure where the expression break a leg came from. Some thought it meant if an actor performed well, the actor would take a bow, which, back in Shakespeare’s time when all actors were male, required the pose of bending or breaking one leg accompanied by the genteel swoop of a hand. Others believed that if an actor performed well, he would break through the leg—or the side curtain—of the theater to return to the stage for applause. No matter what, saying good luck was bad luck.
Rebecca thanked us both and sprinted away.
“Chérie, come sit with me.” Pépère slotted his hammer into his tool belt and descended the stairs into the theater. He sat down
in a loge seat in the front row and eyed my package. “You have brought dinner?”
“Sugar treats aren’t enough for you?” I teased.
“A man needs sustenance.”
“It’s only a snack, but I’ll share.” I set Rags on the floor. He wouldn’t roam. He liked to stay close to my feet. I opened the bag, removed the goodies, and handed my grandfather a slice of the TouVelle.
He hummed his appreciation as he did whenever he ate cheese. He adored all types, ergo the reason he and my grandmother had opened Fromagerie Bessette so many years ago. I think he missed running the shop, but Grandmère didn’t want him standing all day. It was much better for him to keep active by taking walks, working in the garden, and helping out at the theater. She also didn’t want him adding to his expanding girth. A morsel of cheese here and there was fine; hanging around temptation for eight or more hours a day was frowned upon. No one would get fat eating an ounce of cheese a day. Moderation, she instructed, was the proper way to live life.
Minutes later, Grandmère led the actors back into the main theater. I recognized many as regular participants in the Playhouse’s works. Rebecca, graced with a Mylar balloon, walked beside Deputy O’Shea. Both looked vibrant and in love, yet both appeared nervous, too. Rebecca’s mouth looked tight. O’Shea seemed to have an itchy ear. He was rubbing it repeatedly. A friend back in high school did that whenever he was telling a tall tale. Did O’Shea feel he couldn’t be truthful with the material, or was it a nervous tic?
Over the course of the next two hours, I watched the auditions. Though I was no critic, I couldn’t help but assess the performances. I’d sat in on many auditions in the past at the behest of my grandmother. When auditions concluded, she would ask for my opinion, as if I knew what made one casting decision better than another. Sometimes it was all about honesty. Did I believe the actor?
For all auditions, Grandmère wanted variety, so, as in the past, she asked the actors to read different scenes from the play. In Love Letters, the initial correspondence between the two childhood friends is teasing and mocking. They do not acknowledge that they love each other until after two failed marriages. However, when they finally hook up, their eternal love, which is so obvious through their written correspondence, cannot survive the woes that life has thrown at them. Every bit of the play’s dialogue is read from their lifelong letters. Yes, the actors have to instill the reading of the letters with emotion, but there is no impetus to prance around the stage or to use one’s arms grandiosely.
In between auditions, Grandmère continued to remind the actors to take his or her time with the material. She urged them to feel it. She had paired Rebecca with Deputy O’Shea. Rebecca did a nice job; she didn’t overact. O’Shea seemed natural, too. He didn’t read overly loud; he didn’t force the lines; his itchy-ear syndrome vanished.
By the end of the night, because my grandmother had asked the actors to read nearly every piece of the material, I was weeping with regret. When Grandmère collected the last set of scripts, an overwhelming sense of doom enfolded me. I rested my head against the seatback and drew my arms across my chest.
Grandmère approached. “Chérie, are you unwell?”
I blinked back tears.
“Ah, you are crying,” she said. “It is the play. It is marvellieux, non? So rich with expression. It stirs the emotions.”
“Oui,” I lied. What was really coursing through my mind was my own personal drama. Watching the auditions had made me wonder again whether Jordan and I were destined to fail.
Oh, poor me. Buck up, I urged.
Pretending to be strong—I was in a theater, after all, so playacting was to be expected—I planted my feet on the ground and stood up.
“Ah, much better,” Grandmère said. “There is your smile.” She tweaked my cheek and returned to the stage.
Rags nudged my ankles.
I scooped him up. “Don’t worry, fella. I wouldn’t forget you.”
“Charlotte.” Rebecca ran toward Rags and me and threw her arms around us. “Wasn’t it wonderful?” she shouted over the hubbub of the other excited actors. “Oh, the thrill of acting. I love it. I get these goose bumps right in the pit of my stomach and I feel all heady. That’s good, right? Did you have a wonderful time? Wasn’t everyone fabulous?” She lowered her voice. “Well, everyone except that bleached blonde. She sort of overacted, don’t you think? And that guy with the comb-over. He’s so full of himself.”
Her enthusiasm was infectious. My woes melted away. “Yes, I had a great time. And you did a super job.”
“Devon did, too, right?”
“Yes, the deputy is a natural.”
“Sheesh! I almost forgot.” Rebecca fished in the pocket of her coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I meant to give this to you earlier. I found it taped to the back door of The Cheese Shop as I was coming in from gathering herbs from the hothouse.” The town had a communal garden in the alley behind the store. “But I was so nervous about auditions, I forgot all about it.” She thrust the paper into my hands.
I whipped it open; it was another love note from Jordan. He missed me. He wondered if I’d found his earlier note. He couldn’t wait to see my beautiful face. He ended it by writing: With love, ~J.
All the dread I’d felt earlier disappeared. I stowed the note in my purse and pulled out my cell phone to call Jordan. As I did, the phone rang.
CHAPTER
I recognized the cell phone number: Jordan. Talk about timing. I hurried to the foyer, the conversation in the theater making it too loud to hear, and I answered.
“Charlotte.” Jordan’s voice was brimming with concern. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier. Today has been, in a word, hectic.”
“Where are you? There’s a lot of static.”
“I’m at the theater. Grandmère was holding auditions for her new play. By the way, thank you for the notes. I didn’t get your latest until right now. Rebecca found it and forgot to give it to me before dragging me here.”
“How did she do?”
“Pretty well, I think. She had a catch in her throat and love in her eyes. There were a couple of actresses who gave wooden performances. Hers was honest and heartfelt. I don’t know which direction my grandmother will go, but Rebecca has nothing to be ashamed of.”
“That’s great. So”—he cleared his throat—“are you up for a date?”
“Absolutely.” It was past ten P.M., but I could find the energy to see the love of my life.
“Have you got your cross-country skis ready?”
“You want to go skiing now?” I glanced out the windows of the theater’s foyer. Most of the actors were heading for the parking lot. Lights illuminated their path. “Um, it’s dark, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“Very funny.” Jordan chuckled, which tickled me to my toes. I could listen to his robust laugh all day long. “I meant let’s go tomorrow. With all that’s been going on, you need a day off. You were going to take it anyway.”
I was. To prep for the wedding: get my hair done; hem the wedding dress; maybe have a massage.
“I’ll pick you up at your house at eight A.M.”
“That’s early.”
“You wake up with the rooster. C’mon, I’ll pack a picnic. In the afternoon, we’ll take in the Loveland Singers. They’re performing at the Bozzuto Winery tasting.”
“It sounds wonderful.” Maybe getting away from the center of town, I could refresh my critical thinking abilities so I could help out Urso. Perhaps Jordan and I could pin down another date to get married, too.
“I’ll see you in the morning.” He blew me a kiss and hung up. No I love you, but I tried not to read anything into that. We were going on a daylong date. Life was looking up.
***
At eight sharp, Jordan arrived on my doorstep with
a bouquet of daisies and a cellophane bag filled with Hershey’s Kisses, my one silly passion—silly, because customers often teased me that, given my palate for exquisite cheeses, I should crave a fine dark chocolate from, say, Brazil. But I don’t. My mother had loved Hershey’s Kisses; so do I.
After setting the flowers in water and the Kisses on the counter, I checked Rags’s food and water, and we set off. Bundled in my ski gear and secure in the passenger seat of Jordan’s Explorer, I hummed along with the jazzy CD Jordan had inserted, and I drank in the view of the countryside. The rolling hills shimmered with crystalline snow. None were scarred by snowmobile tracks. The towering oaks, cloaked beneath blankets of icy white powder, didn’t look nearly as fearsome as they usually did. I avoided glancing at the mud-splattered snow alongside the road that had been scraped aside by snowplows. Who needed to ruin the dreamy mood?
Over the course of the drive, Jordan and I only spoke a few words. How pretty it all was. Idyllic. Peaceful. No talk of Tim or his murder. We caught sight of a pair of deer sprinting across an open space and, at the same time, pointed, but that didn’t make us strike up more conversation. I felt tentative and shy and wondered what Jordan was feeling.
When we arrived a short while later at Nature’s Preserve, dozens of SUV-type vehicles were already parked in the parking lot. The hiking trails frequented in the summer and fall were now the cross-country skiing routes. As we were donning our skis along with others who were chattering about their hopes for a clear day with no new snowfall, I paused to scan the area. There were remnants of wet tire marks and boot prints everywhere, which reminded me of the few prints found near the crime scene on Jordan’s farm. Urso had complained that the prints were too generic; he would get no clues from them. If only one could reveal the killer’s identity. The murder would be solved. Life—ours, not Tim’s—could move ahead. But if only was not an option.