by Avery Aames
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.”
Townspeople scuttled by on either side of us. The gentleman who owned the Igloo Ice Cream Parlor gave me a guarded look, as if to ask if I was all right. I offered a reassuring nod. He moved on.
“Kaitlyn said she had a hometown business she wanted to start.” Chip laced his fingers behind his neck.
Was he flexing his muscles to impress me? Oh, please.
My right foot started to tap, and I smiled to myself. My grandmother did the same thing when listening to a fish story. Liars never
prosper, she said.
“After a year running her business,” Chip continued, “Kaitlyn will back me so I can open my own restaurant.”
“Your own restaurant?”
“Yeah, you know, the one I’ve always dreamed of starting. Chip’s Creperie.” He swiped his hand in front of him as if painting the sky with neon. “Doesn’t it sound swell?”
Swellheaded, more likely. “Aren’t there enough creperies in France?”
“Here. She’ll back me here. In Providence. I’m moving home. For good. The restaurant won’t be on the main square, of course. Retail space is at a premium. But I’ll find a location on the north side. Someplace with lots of foot traffic.”
I stiffened. No, no, no. I needed a clean break. I needed to move forward with my life. I did not want my ex-fiancé hovering over my shoulder and judging my relationship with Jordan. My head started to throb. What horrible thing had I done to deserve such a lot in life?
“What the heck do you know about bees?” I demanded, sounding shrewish, but I couldn’t help myself. If the rumor was accurate and Kaitlyn Clydesdale intended to turn the cattle farm into a honeybee farm, then according to Chip, she expected him to run it. But that wasn’t possible. “You hate the sight of spiders and ants and all sorts of tiny creatures. How in the heck will you suit up in a beekeeper’s uniform and cultivate the buzzing horde?”
“I’ve been studying up on bees. They’re docile.”
“Are you kidding me?” My voice grew louder. “They’re not docile. What if you get stung?”
“I’m not allergic.”
“You’re impossible.”
“But adorable.” He traced a finger down my sleeve.
I recoiled. “Goodbye, Chip. Good luck.” With my insides quivering in confusion, I strode across the street. When I entered The Cheese Shop, I could feel him gazing at me, but I didn’t look over my shoulder. I gave myself a mental pat on the back for my keen resolve.
* * *
“Chérie.” My adorable grandfather, Pépère, stood behind the cheese counter, fiddling with the buttons of his navy blue jacket that appeared close to bursting. After a second, he gave up and ruffled his feathery white hair. “Bah. It is not cold enough to bother. Come here while there are no customers.” He beckoned me to the kitchen at the rear of the shop. “It is nearly three o’clock. Load me up.”
“Just a sec.” On my way through the store, I tweaked the displays. I turned out the labels of the jars of jams and the many gourmet vinegars on the shelves, and reassembled hatbox-style containers and waxed rounds of cheeses on the five weathered barrels that graced the floor. I nudged in the ladder-back chairs by the marble tasting counter and, using the elbow of my sweater, polished a smudge from the glass front of the cheese counter. I would never forget my grandfather telling me, when I had started working at Fromagerie Bessette, that everything in the shop should appear as appealing as a piece of art.
Before entering the kitchen, I took one last glance around, admiring how well the Tuscany gold walls went with the hardwood floors and how inviting the archway leading to the wine annex looked. Matthew and I had made a smart decision to redecorate. The only thing that was uninviting was the curtain of heavy plastic that covered the door to the basement, but it was a necessary evil. If someone accidentally left the basement door ajar while we were revamping the cellar, the plastic would prevent dust from seeping into the shop. Thankfully the dust was almost nonexistent since we had completed the framing and were waiting for workers to begin the next phase.
“Load me up.” Pépère removed the lid of a two-gallon cooler that sat on the floor. “What else do you want me to take? I don’t want to be late to Le Petit Fromagerie. You’ll give me what for.”
I tweaked his elbow. “Oh, yeah, like that has ever happened.”
His eyes crinkled with delight. “I have more of the Emerald Isles goat cheese, Zamorano, and Rouge et Noir.”
“Perfect.”
“Oh, and as you suggested, I set out a platter with the Two Plug Nickels’ cream cheese on the tasting counter.” Two Plug Nickels, another artisanal farm north of town, made the most fabulous lavender goat cheese and now a cream cheese that was silky smooth. “I put a bottle of the hot pepper pickle sauce beside it. The two are so tasty together, non?”
“Absolument.” At Fromagerie Bessette, we offered samples at the tasting counter daily. Because I was focused on educating our customers about cheese platters, I had decided the cream cheese–hot pepper creation was a study in simplicity. The cheese, smooshed on a cracker and drizzled with sauce, was melt-in-your-mouth scrumptious.
“Take along these knives to the tent, as well.” I handed him a few boxes of silver, braid-handled spreaders. They were a popular item to purchase. “While you’re there, will you make sure I have enough serrated knives?”
“Mais oui.”
Not wanting to haul a ton of cutting implements to the tent at the last minute, I had taken many over in batches.
I smoothed my grandfather’s collar and kissed him on both cheeks.
As he exited, Rebecca scuttled in. So did a handful of customers. While we served them, Rebecca plied me with questions about Chip—why he was in town and whether I still had feelings for him—until I grew so weary that I snapped at her to mind her own business.
A half hour later, as the shop emptied of customers, Rebecca joined me at the prep counter against the wall by the kitchen. She cleared her throat. I ignored her and continued dicing Liederkranz into half-inch cubes. It was a pungent cheese that had all but disappeared from the array of cheeses until its rebirth in Wisconsin. Same recipe, new cultures. I had devoted the month of February to creating exotic cheese trays for my customers. To start this particular display, I had adorned a broad blue-banded porcelain plate with a mound of rice noodles. Around the noodles I had scattered clusters of cashews.
“Charlotte,” Rebecca began.
“No,” I said instinctively and plopped a handful of dried apricots on top of the lacy mound.
“I’m not going to ask you about Chip.” She jutted a bony hip. “I got the hint when you snarled at me.”
“What, then?”
She started to giggle. The nervous laughter increased. She tapped her fingertips on her lips in an effort to stop from tittering, but the sound burbled out of her.
“Spill,” I ordered, “or you’ll burst.”
“Ipo is coming over tonight.” She danced a jig. The hem of her peasant blouse fluted around her hips. Her winter skirt swished side to side. “And we’re going to do it.”
I gulped.
“Not it, it,” she blurted. “We’re going to kiss.” Her fingers skirted to her neck, then her chest. A red flush decorated her pale skin. After a moment, a sob caught in her throat and she grabbed my wrist. “Charlotte, what if I don’t like it?”
She had never kissed a boy. Ever. Her Amish upbringing had kept her at arm’s length from all men. She had admitted to liking a lanky boy when she was thirteen, but the farthest they had ever gone in their relationship was holding hands—forbidden before marriage in some sects.
I squeezed her shoulder. “You will like it. Promise.”
“I hoped you’d say that.” She eyed the platter I was putting together. “That’s pretty. What cheeses are you adding to the Liederkranz?”
A few months ago, I had attended a cheese conference and had taken seminars to enhance my understanding of the art of plating. Cheese can be so varied in taste and texture, but many are pale. Adding fruits, nuts, olives, pickles, and meats, in a variety of colors, will brighten a tray and enhance the tasting experience.
“Yarg Cornish Cheese and Roaring Forties Blue,” I said.
“I love Yarg,” she gushed. “Did you know that Yarg is Gray spelled backward because Gray is the name of the couple who came up with the recipe for the cheese? Wait, of course, you did. You told me. The flavor of nettles is so unique,” she went on. “And I adore the Roaring Forties Blue. The nutty finish is divine
.”
The front door chimes jangled, and Arlo MacMillan skulked in, all one-hundred-and-forty pasty pounds of him. His overcoat looked two sizes too big.
“Morning, Arlo,” I called.
He gazed at Rebecca and me from beneath his hooded eyelids and gave a hint of a nod. Then he shuffled toward the barrel that was stacked with jars of homemade raspberry jam. Every week Arlo graced the shop with his gloomy presence, but in all the years I had known him, I couldn’t remember him purchasing cheese more than three times—and then it was only Provolone cheese. I had tried to talk him into other selections, but he wouldn’t budge.
Two tourists and a bevy of children, each dressed in a heavy winter coat, trooped in behind Arlo, all chattering at once. They bustled toward the counter, and the man who I assumed was the father scanned the chalkboard menu behind me. At the insistence of a few tour guides, we had added a limited array of pre-made sandwiches to the other foods that we offered. When we sold out, we sold out.
“That Collier’s Welsh Cheddar, turkey, and cranberry croissant looks good to me,” the woman said to the man. “American cheese and salami on wheat for the kids, and include a wedge of that blue cheese.” She pointed at the Roaring Forties Blue. “We’ll add it to tonight’s salad.”
As I was wrapping their purchase in our special cheese paper—waxy on the outside, plastic on the inside—the front door flew open.
“Charlotte!” Tyanne Taylor swept inside. She stamped her tennis shoes on the carpet to clear them of debris, darted around the family, and scooted behind the counter. Runny black mascara streaked her pretty cheeks. Smidgens of it had dripped onto her snug cinnamon-colored jogging suit. Tyanne had worked hard to get rid of unwanted weight, and now she had what health magazines would call a super-toned body. “Sugar, he’s leaving me,” she drawled. “My Theo is leaving me and the children.”
“Why?” I asked in a gentle voice, hoping she would follow my lead. I didn’t want to scare off customers with talk of divorce, but I also wouldn’t turn away a friend in need. I finished off all the sandwich packages with our gold seals, slipped the sandwiches and the wedge of Roaring Forties Blue cheese into a handled bag, and gave the bag to Rebecca. “Ring them up, thanks.”