The Husband Maker Boxed Set

by White, Karey

  When we went to the dance floor, Keaton yelled over the music, “Sweet music,” and after the dance, as we drove to Shane Mullen’s house, he said, “Charlotte, you’ve got some sweet dance moves.” One of the guys snorted, and I suddenly knew he didn’t just have a thing for the word “sweet.” I was the butt of their sweet jokes. I didn’t say another word the rest of the night, and when Keaton walked me to my front door, he said, “You’re a sweet girl, Charlotte. But I don’t think you’re my type.”

  I didn’t tell anyone about what they’d done until after Keaton graduated and left for Stanford. I was afraid Will and Angus would end up fighting Keaton and his friends, and that would have been uncomfortable. I’d have probably kept the whole thing to myself forever, but our senior year, Will started saying, “Sweet,” when anything good would happen, and finally I lost it. “Don’t ever use that word again! Ever!” Of course, I couldn’t react like that without explaining why I hated the word. Ever since then, the word sweet had been an insult among the three of us.

  Until today, when I’d actually meant it.

  Oddly enough, Keaton had never married. Perhaps that’s because his jerkiness overrides my curse or my curse didn’t happen until after high school. I’m not sure.

  About the prom pictures. High school brings back such good memories.

  I only went on two dates in high school. It might have been because I was awkward and several inches taller than most of the boys. I was already five feet eleven inches by the time I turned sixteen, and I towered over most of the guys. I even had Will by a couple of inches, until he flew past me the summer before our senior year. When I stood beside most girls, I wanted to slouch down to minimize my loftiness, but every time I did, I ended up with a backache.

  Mom signed me up for a summer workshop called “Grace and Refinement: Becoming a True Lady.” Most of the workshop was silly—learning how to sit down properly, walking like a princess, and how to apply makeup to highlight your outer beauty. But one woman talked about being proud of who we are and our own unique traits. She told us our appearance was the product of thousands of years of genetics. Kate’s red hair had probably been passed down from a long line of Scottish redheads, Kesha’s full lips were a tribute to her African ancestors, and my height was something the Vikings would have found most pleasing. I have no idea if that’s true, but after she said it, I was less embarrassed to stand straight and tower above most of the guys I knew. I just pictured Vikings smiling at me.

  I longed for one of the tall boys on the basketball team to notice me, and when I got an anonymous phone call asking me if I’d been asked to prom and telling me someone was going to ask me, I hoped it was Todd. Todd Hancock was six feet five inches and gorgeous. He sat a few seats in front of me and to my right in Spanish. In spite of my best efforts to pay attention to the riveting teaching of Senora Vasquez, my eyes were drawn to Todd’s handsomeness over and over again. Unfortunately, he caught me gazing at him a few too many times, and I’m pretty sure he thought I was a stalker.

  Still, I hoped he’d be the one to ask me. And then I found out Todd had done what tall, attractive athletes have been doing for a million years. He asked out a five foot cheerleader. I know, because she squealed with delight as she told all the girls in P.E.

  Someone should pass a law requiring tall boys to date tall girls.

  I wouldn’t have minded my height so much if I’d been more athletic, but when the sporty genes were turned loose in the womb, Will had grabbed them all and left me empty-handed. Of course, he says I snatched up all the artistic genes. Too bad we were both so greedy.

  I was asked to prom by James, a boy who was four inches shorter than me. You’d think my most embarrassing high school experience would have been the “sweet” date, but you’d be wrong. My most embarrassing high school moment happened at prom with James.

  There were five couples in our prom group. When the photographer lined us up to take our picture, he put the boys in the back and the girls in front. After he’d arranged us, he stepped back and held his hands in front of him, creating a makeshift frame around the group. He tilted his head and closed one eye. “Hmm. I can’t see your date.” He pointed an accusing finger at me.

  Then he did something that may very well consign him to that awful place where he’ll weep and wail and gnash his teeth throughout all eternity. He put me in the back row with the boys and my date in the front row with the girls. AND THEN HE SNAPPED THE PICTURE. I was so humiliated I considered running away with the circus. Doesn’t the circus pay people who are freaks?

  I’m ashamed to admit it took seeing my date’s red-faced grimace in the picture, before I realized he was probably even more embarrassed than I was. After having the courage to ask a girl four inches taller than him to prom, the photographer had made him feel four feet smaller.

  I’d been so embarrassed by that picture, I came home from school and tossed it in the garbage. Angus and Will were microwaving leftover pizza, and when I left the room, Angus retrieved the blackmailable envelope of pictures and has held onto it to this day.

  “Are you ever going to give me those pictures back?” I asked as Wyatt stepped into the kitchen.

  “Maybe on your wedding day.” Angus dried his hands on a dish towel.

  “It sounds like I need to be invited to your wedding,” Wyatt said as she wrapped her arms around Angus’s waist. “Interesting pictures and Angus singing.”

  “Be sure I have your address,” I said to Wyatt.

  “Hey,” Angus said.

  I tugged on his sleeve as I walked past him. “If you won’t give me back the pictures, you deserve to be embarrassed in front of as many people as possible.”

  I prefer to know what we’ll be doing on a date, but Kyle said he wasn’t sure, so dress casual but nice. What did that mean to someone like Kyle? I wasn’t sure, but decided I’d be safe in slim, dark denim ankle pants and a striped, peter-pan collared blouse. I was relieved when I looked down at him from my window. He was in jeans and a blue and white checked shirt. My clothes would be fine.

  “Sorry to leave you in the dark about our plans,” Kyle said as we left my neighborhood. “I wasn’t sure I could get us in, so I had a couple of different options.”

  “Get us in where?”

  Kyle glanced at me. “Cheese school? Please tell me you like cheese.”

  “I love cheese.”

  “Good. Then I’m glad Plan A came through. I’ll have to save Plan B for another time.” I gave myself a mental high five that he was mentioning future dates.

  When I’d thought of Kyle the last few days, I’d remembered him as handsome, but he looked even better than my mind had rendered him. Maybe it was the barely-there scruff from a weekend without shaving, or the casual clothes, or the shirt that made his eyes look like sapphires. Whatever it was, the sight of him had my heart acting like I’d just finished a marathon.

  Kyle shifted gears and expertly drove through the Saturday morning traffic. What was it about guys and manual transmissions?

  “So we’re watching someone make cheese?” I asked.

  “No. We’re making cheese. Mozzarella. And then we’re eating the mozzarella we make.”

  “That sounds fun. Have you ever done this before?”

  “No. My brother told me about this. He and his wife have taken several classes here.”

  The sharp scent of cheese greeted us when we walked in the front door. Dark wood lined the walls, and a woman with a sleek, gray bob greeted us. “Are you here for the mozzarella class or to choose a cake?”

  “We’re here for the class,” Kyle said.

  “You make cakes?” I asked.

  “They’re cheese wheel cakes. Many couples opt for a cheese wheel cake instead of a traditional wedding cake. You can see some pictures in the hall on your way to the class, and you’ll also see some actual cakes on your tour. Go down that hall to the last door on the right. Giannino is already in there with some of the other students.”

 
; The pictures of the cheese wheel cakes were beautiful. If I didn’t love dessert so much, it would have been tempting to serve a cheese wheel cake when I get married. But alas, I must have chocolate, so although they were impressive, my future husband and I wouldn’t be cutting into a wheel of brie.

  “Welcome, welcome. Choose a table and put on your aprons.” Giannino could have been Santa Claus if he had white hair and a beard, but since he was bald and beardless, I guess the resemblance ended with his ruddy complexion and giant belly.

  We chose two stools at the second table while Giannino finished his conversation with two women at the front table. White canvas aprons hung over the back of our stools, and we put them on before we sat down.

  “I was worried you might not like cheese.” Kyle leaned toward me, his arm casually resting on the back of my stool.

  “As long as it’s not stinky or too sharp, I love it. Will, that’s my twin brother, likes super sharp cheddar cheese, but I’m not a fan. I like it milder. And mozzarella is great. I didn’t even know this place was here.”

  “Welcome.” Giannino stood in front of our table with his arms spread wide. “I’m Giannino. And you are?”

  “I’m Kyle.”

  “And I’m Charlotte.”

  “Thank you for joining us, Kyle and Charlotte. Are you novice cheese makers or experts?”

  “Definitely novice,” I said and Kyle nodded.

  “You won’t be after today.” He smiled wide, showing a chipped front tooth. “We’re waiting for a few more people, and then we’ll get started. He moved on to talk to an older couple at a table to our right. The man looked like Einstein with bushy white eyebrows and a mop of white hair that appeared to include some tufts from in his ears.

  “How was your birthday?” Kyle asked.

  “It was wonderful. I found out my twin brother and his wife are having a baby. Best present of the day. I can’t wait to be an aunt.”

  “This is their first?”

  “First one in the whole family. She’s due in December. A Christmas baby. Do you have any nieces or nephews?”

  Kyle smiled as he thought. “One of each. They both belong to the same brother. The rest of us are testing my mom’s patience.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “I’m the second of four boys. Shawn’s the oldest. He’s married to Bethany, and they have Rachel and Jett. Then there’s me. No wife or children yet. Then Pete. He’s married to Danielle. They’ve been married six years. I don’t know if she wants to have any kids. The youngest is Alex. Where do you fit into your family?”

  “Will and I are twins, but I’ve got him by ten minutes, and McKayla is four years younger than us. They’re both married—Will to Gina and McKayla to Connor.

  “Where do they—”

  “Good morning, cheese makers.” Giannino’s voice was as big as his grin. He stood with his hands clasped over his generous middle. “Today we’re making mozzarella.” He had no accent except on the word mozzarella, which was almost unrecognizable. According to Giannino, we were making “motezadayya.”

  “When I was a little boy in Oakland, I told my momma, ‘I can’t decide if I want to be a baseball player or a chef,’ and she said, ‘Son, I think you’ll be taken more seriously if you become a chef. There aren’t many baseball players with names like Giannino Annunziato. She was right, but to be fair, she could have said that about almost any profession, although it does sound better to say Giannino Annunziato, master motezadayya maker”—he kissed his right fingers and thumb and threw them in the air Italian style—“than it does to say ‘here with your traffic report is Giannino Annunziato.’”

  Everyone laughed except Mr. Einstein.

  Giannino explained what our stations were equipped with—a large pan of water heating on a hotplate, a bowl of tepid water in front of us, and another large bowl of brine. After we pulled on plastic gloves, we went to his demonstration table, and he handed each of us a plate of curd.

  “Slice your curd into cubes, and put it in your bath of tepid water.” When all the curd was sliced, we ladled out part of the water and replaced it with warmer water. The curds began to melt and stick together, making long, strings of cheese. “We’re cooking the curds, but we don’t want to raise the temperature too quickly or we’ll spoil the silky, luxurious texture, and you’ll end up with tough cheese. Keep working the cheese with the paddle. Good. Good. Now ladle out about half the water and we’ll replace it with the gradually warmer water.”

  “What am I doing wrong?” Kyle asked me. “My curds are still lumpy.”

  “Maybe your water isn’t hot enough.” I touched my finger to the water on his hotplate.

  “It’s not warm at all,” he said, putting his finger farther into the water. “What should I do?”

  I laughed. “I’d try turning on your hotplate.” Kyle looked closer, and I pointed. “It’s right here.” I turned the dial to a hotter setting. “Here. Use some of mine until yours heats up.” I poured a scoop of my warmer water into his and then transferred more water to mine.

  I lifted the cheese and let it slide over the paddle back into the water, trying to match Giannino’s method. Three times we replaced the cooling water with warmer water until finally, we poured it in boiling. I glanced over at Kyle’s. He was a step or two behind everyone else, but it was looking softer and smoother. “That’s looking better. You’re a cheese whiz after all.” I groaned at my own joke.

  “Please tell me you did not just compare me to a can of squirtable cheese.”

  I shrugged. “I did. I’m sorry.”

  Kyle shook his head, but he was smiling. “Good thing you’re an artist and not a comedian.”

  “Good thing you do something with computers and not with cheese.”

  Soon we both had shiny, smooth cheese that melted over the sides of the paddle. Giannino moved from table to table, checking the consistency of the cheese. When he was satisfied, he returned to the front of the room. “Excellent. Now you’ll start making it into balls. You can make it into larger balls like this.” He put his hands into the still-hot water and pulled out the cheese, working it through his hands like bread dough and twisting off a tennis ball sized piece. “After you pinch it off, you’ll place it over in your salt-water bath. Since it’s still hot, your mozzarella will soak up some of the flavor from the brine. Keep working the cheese until you’ve transferred it all. Any size is fine, and if you want to get fancy, you can stretch it out and make mozzarella knots.” He pulled out a golf-ball-sized piece of cheese and stretched it out several inches, then knotted it twice and put it in the salt water.

  “I want to make those,” I said and broke off a small piece.

  “I think I’ll stick with the basics,” Kyle said.

  I stretched out the warm cheese, but when I tied it, the knot weighed down the middle, until I was holding two long, skinny strands with a sad little knot in the center. “Wow, you’re good at this.” Kyle watched as I tried and failed at another knot.

  I laughed. “At least I’m trying the fancy little knots instead of wimping out like some people I know.”

  “Stick with what you’re good at is my motto.” At that moment, the ball of cheese he’d just squeezed off slipped out of his hand and plopped back into the bowl, sending warm, milky water splashing onto the front of his apron, the table, and even a little on his face.

  I snorted and then gasped in horror and embarrassment. Kyle laughed as he toweled himself off.

  “That didn’t go too well.”

  “We’re a disaster,” I said after I failed at several more knots.

  “Don’t feel bad if you struggle with the knots.” Giannino was watching me. “It takes lots of practice.” After a couple more attempts, I gave up and formed the silky cheese into one large ball and several smaller ones.

  “We’ll leave your cheese to soak for a little while, and I’ll take you on a tour.”

  We removed our gloves and threw them in the garbage by the door as w
e followed Giannino out into the hall. For the next twenty minutes, we learned the history of the school and interesting facts about cheese. I’ll bet you didn’t know the most expensive cheese in the world is made from donkey milk and costs over $2,000 per pound, did you?

  As we looked at a wall of cheese cakes (not cheesecake), Kyle put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. Einstein’s wife winked at us, and I liked that we looked like a couple.

  I sighed. Not only did his hand on my shoulder feel nice, but the more time I spent with Kyle, the more humble pie Jayne was going to make me eat. Kyle’s age didn’t make me feel uncomfortable. I barely even thought about the fact that he was nine years older than me, and if his loads of money meant fun dates like making cheese together, I could learn to accept that.

  When we returned to the classroom, we wrapped most of our cheese up to take home with us. The rest we were eating. Kyle sliced tomatoes while I chopped fresh basil. We mixed that with some of our smallest mozzarella balls. Then we drizzled it all with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. We gathered with the other students at two long tables in the back of the room. Giannino brought baskets of warm, garlicky bread that we ate with our caprese salads.

  It had been a perfect date, and I was sad for it to end.

  “Snort again for me,” Kyle said on the drive home.

  “I don’t snort on demand. You have to earn my snorts.”

  “That Einstein-looking guy wasn’t amused by your snort.”

  “I think he was more offended by your cheese-making abilities than he was by my snort.”

  “I don’t know how he didn’t at least crack a smile.”

  “Some people don’t appreciate a good snort,” I said.

  “I’m going to make it my mission to make you snort again. Any advice?”

  “I never know what’s going to bring on a snort, so you’re on your own.” I laughed. “Is the word ‘snort’ starting to sound weird to you, cause I swear it’s starting to sound wrong.”

  Kyle pulled up to the curb and took the car out of gear. “It’s a weird word.” He turned to look at me. “I wish I could spend the evening trying to make you snort.”