by Robbi McCoy
“Don’t tell me you were just playing hard to get. Because that really isn’t nice. He’s a sweet guy.”
“I know he’s a sweet guy,” Sophie said indignantly. “I’ve known him for two years. And, no, I wasn’t playing hard to get. I’m not interested in him that way. Just as a friend.”
“Good. So he’s available.” Dena grinned with satisfaction, then her expression gradually turned suspicious. “Why aren’t you interested? Is there something weird about him?”
“No. He’s a real sweetheart. He’s bighearted, gentle and honest.”
Dena turned her questioning face to Olivia, who was licking frosting from the corner of her mouth.
“Yep,” she said, affirming Sophie’s description. “And he makes a hell of a cupcake. He’s a great guy. Just not Sophie’s type.”
“That’s what he said.”
“He said he wasn’t my type?” Sophie asked.
“Right.”
How discreet of him, she thought.
“I don’t really get that,” Dena said. “I’d guess he was your type. Another Norwegian.”
“Klaus isn’t Norwegian. He’s Danish.”
“Practically the same thing.”
Sophie laughed. “Dena, wars have been fought over—”
Dena pulled herself up stiffly. “Don’t start, Sophie.”
“What?”
“Showing off your college education.”
Sophie stuttered, starting to lose her composure. As usual, Dena was pitting them against each other based on a completely fabricated disagreement arising out of her own insecurities.
“It doesn’t matter,” Dena insisted. “Danish, Norwegian. Whatever. He’s a big, handsome blond Nordic hunk. And you’ve already had yours. Mom told me all about your Norwegian. He was Norwegian, right? Not Danish or Swedish? Jan what’s-his-name.”
Dena pronounced Jan’s name as Olivia did, as “Yahn.”
“Or was he Finnish?” asked Dena defiantly. “Or maybe he was from Iceland. See, I know a little bit about geography too.”
“No,” Olivia asserted, “he wasn’t from Iceland. He was Norwegian. Isn’t that right, Sophie, your Jan was Norwegian?”
Sophie stood, clenching her fist in frustration. “No!” she blurted. “He wasn’t Norwegian. It was Jan, Mom, Jan like Jan Donleavy over at the Save-Mart.”
Olivia’s eyes snapped open in an expression of wonder. “Ah! Well, then—” She nodded, looking totally delighted, and popped the last of her cupcake into her mouth. “I really like this lemon flavor. Really lemony, especially that glob of whatever that stuff is in the middle.” She put Poppy down gently on the porch. “I’m gonna try the others.”
Olivia rose from her chair and went into the house, leaving Sophie bewildered.
Dena frowned. “Why would your Jan pronounce his name like that and have everybody think he was a girl?”
“Because he was a girl!”
“He was a girl?” Dena looked irritated, as she always did when she didn’t understand something.
Sophie shook her head. “No, she was a girl. Jan was a girl. She was always a girl. She’s still a girl. Her name is Janet and she isn’t Norwegian.”
“Is she Danish?” Dena asked.
Sophie scowled at her sister, disapprovingly.
Their mother returned with a lavender cupcake and sat back in her rocker, seeming unconcerned about the conversation between her daughters.
“She isn’t Danish,” Sophie stated bluntly, “she’s from New England. But that’s completely beside the point.”
Dena narrowed her eyes defensively.
“I don’t think you understand what I’m saying,” Sophie added in exasperation.
Olivia peeled the paper off the sides of her cupcake. “What Sophie’s trying to tell you, in her own bungling way, is that she’s a lesbian.”
Both Sophie and Dena turned abruptly to face their mother, then Dena looked wide-eyed at Sophie, who confirmed Olivia’s statement with a nod.
“I never did know what you were doing with that Norwegian man,” Olivia said. “It was obvious to me you were a lesbian by sixth grade. Frankly, I’m glad to have that cleared up.”
Sophie gawked for a moment at her mother, who was intent on her cupcake, then she moved toward the door.
“If you’re going in, Sophie,” Olivia said, “can you bring me a glass of milk?”
Sophie pulled open the screen door and went into the house, pausing on the other side of the door, her heart pounding furiously.
That was nothing like the coming out speech she’d been rehearsing in her mind. She wasn’t much of a talker, generally speaking, but when she got agitated, things came gushing ungoverned out of her mouth and didn’t always make sense. Apparently, it didn’t matter. It never had. Her mother already knew.
On her way back to the porch with the milk, she heard a car door slam. Another visitor? she wondered, annoyed that the farm was so popular today. Coming out of the house, she was surprised to see Ellie running toward them, waving her arms frantically. Sophie handed the milk to her mother, trying to imagine what disaster had occurred. Ellie never came to visit and she looked completely hysterical.
“Sophie! Sophie!” she hollered, bounding up the steps and flinging herself at Sophie, grabbing her in an insistent hug.
“What’s happened?” Sophie asked, gently holding Ellie at arm’s length.
“I’m a lesbian!” Ellie shouted emphatically. “I’m a lesbian!” She threw both arms up to emphasize her announcement, like an actor prompting an audience for applause. She was beaming, smiling like a lunatic. “Max is a lesbian too!”
“Is this National Coming Out Day?” Dena asked.
“Everything makes sense now!” Ellie declared, oblivious to Dena and Olivia.
“Maybe to you,” muttered Dena.
“Last night,” Ellie continued, breathlessly, “when she took off her, you know, and I was expecting a…you know.” She held her hand near her belly and pointed out with her index finger. “But, oh, my God! Instead, she was this gorgeous girl!”
“Come inside,” Sophie suggested, taking Ellie by the arm. “You can tell me all about it.”
As she escorted Ellie into the living room, she heard Dena say, “This place is a lot more exciting than I remember. I can’t wait to see what’s going to happen tomorrow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
O, it is excellent
To have a giant’s strength; but it is tyrannous
To use it like a giant.
—Measure for Measure, Act II, Scene 2
The next morning the three of them had cupcakes and coffee for breakfast and nobody mentioned Sophie’s big revelation or Ellie’s dramatic transformation. But Dena was extra sweet to Sophie, giving her an affectionate good-morning squeeze and saying, “How’s my baby sister today?” She actually seemed happier with her. The only conclusion Sophie could draw was that Dena was thankful that in this one area at least, they were not in competition. Sophie never had felt she was in competition with Dena, but she had always had an inferiority complex and had overreacted whenever Sophie was praised for anything, for being smart, for being pretty, for knowing how to handle a horse or spell some obscure word. No matter what Sophie did, Dena always saw it as a reflection, a poor reflection, on herself.
If nothing else, she could now be the best straight daughter at everything and maybe that was enough for her. After breakfast, Dena and Sophie sat in the kitchen finishing their coffee while Olivia took Gambit out for a morning ride.
“Do you think he has a chance?” Dena asked, nodding toward the three half-eaten cupcakes on her plate, one yellow, one lavender and one pink. She looked more comfortable today, wearing tan pants and a lime green and white striped shirt, sneakers and no lipstick.
“I do,” Sophie said. “I think these are excellent. Of course, I haven’t seen the others. And the competition includes a display, a big construction that holds a thousand of these. That’s how they’ll be
served at the party.”
“I hope he wins.” Dena sighed. “You know, you never told me about his family.”
“He only has his mother. There was a boating accident when he was just a baby. His father and brother were drowned.”
“That’s so sad.”
“Yes, it is. But his mother lives in town and they’re close. A really nice woman.”
Would it be so bad, Sophie asked herself, if Dena and Klaus got together? For either of them? They might actually make each other happy. And it would make Sophie feel better if he moved on from his crush on her. Things would definitely be less awkward and she couldn’t imagine a finer choice for a brother-in-law.
After the breakfast dishes were done and the goats were milked, Sophie started a batch of cheese, reflecting on Ellie’s confession from the night before. She was completely beside herself with the discovery that she was a lesbian and had understandably wanted to share it with her lesbian friend. Sophie had never suspected it. It was funny to hear Ellie tell how it had come about. It had been touch and go there for a while, apparently, when Ellie realized she was making out with a woman and then when Max realized that was news to Ellie. But after a serious discussion, they concluded they were in love and that’s what mattered. By morning, Ellie had further concluded that her heart had taken her where her mind never could and this was what she was destined for. She was happy, Max was happy, and Sophie was happy for them.
Upon returning from her ride, Olivia came in through the kitchen where Sophie had just finished hanging new curds to drain. “Somebody’s coming up the drive,” she announced.
Sophie went out to meet a black four-door sedan in the driveway. A stout, middle-aged man with a ginger mustache and a perfectly round face stepped out of the car. He was partly bald with wisps of straight dark hair straggling across the top of his head. His mouth was set in a self-satisfied expression that turned into a practiced smile as he leaned in to shake her hand. He wore a sports jacket and neatly-pressed slacks.
“Hello, Miss Ward, is that right? I’m John Bâtarde.”
She shook his hand. “Hello.”
He seemed to expect her to recognize his name. His smile, which was emphatic but hinted at insincerity, persisted. There was a slight accent in his speech, which she guessed was French.
“You haven’t heard of me?” he asked.
“No, sorry.”
“No matter. I’m in the restaurant business.” He had a folded newspaper in his left hand, which he waved between them. “I’m here because of this. Threlkeld’s article. Wonderful, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is wonderful,” agreed Sophie. “We’re thrilled with it.”
“And you should be. A feature like this, well, that’s unusual for Threlkeld. He…or she must have been very impressed.” He tilted his head and peered expectantly at her before continuing. “If Threlkeld was impressed, then I’m sure I will be also. I own several restaurants, well-known, celebrated restaurants. My flagship is Josephine in San Francisco. Do you know it?”
“No. I haven’t spent much time in San Francisco.”
“Believe me, it’s top-notch. I’d love to find a reliable, high-quality source of chêvre suitable for my menu.” Bâtarde’s forced smile persisted. “Do you have a few minutes to show me around?”
“I suppose, but you must know, if you read that article, that this is a tiny operation. We can’t do much more than we do already.”
“But you’re going to expand, aren’t you? You must. Besides, as far as I’m concerned, the more exclusive the product, the better for us. I’d like to taste your cheese and then we can talk more about bigger dreams for you.”
This guy is full of himself, Sophie thought.
“Okay, I’ll give you a tour. This will be only the second tour we’ve ever given.”
Sophie walked toward the goat corral with her visitor following.
“The first would be Threlkeld, right?” he asked.
“Right.”
“What’d you think of Threlkeld?”
Sophie started to answer, then remembered that Wren’s identity was a secret. Eno Threlkeld was a faceless mystery to most people. She didn’t know what this man knew, if he knew her at all. One thing she did know was that he gave her the creeps.
“I don’t think I’m at liberty to talk about Threlkeld,” she said as they arrived at the fence surrounding the goat pen.
“Oh, right. But that’s for the amateurs. Threlkeld’s reviewed all my California restaurants and we’ve had a professional relationship for years. For instance—” He lowered his voice in confidence, though nobody but the goats could possibly hear them. “Everyone assumes he’s a man. But we know better, don’t we?”
Sophie put on her most neutral smile, wondering if he was fishing. “Do we? I’m not even sure I met Threlkeld. It’s very possible he sent a proxy.”
“You’re going to play coy with me. Okay, okay.” He looked amused. “Let’s continue.”
Sophie introduced him to all the goats. Little Poppy came up to the fence and pushed her head through the boards, nuzzling Bâtarde’s fingers. He jerked away and took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his hand.
“Poppy’s my mother’s pride and joy,” Sophie said. “The beginning of our second generation.”
They walked over to the shed where she showed him her herb drying operation.
“Just lavender and sage so far,” she said. “I grow those myself here on the farm. I’ve just planted some lemon thyme. I thought I’d give that a try next.”
“Good choices. I’d stay away from tarragon if I were you. And please no oregano. Too overpowering.”
In the house, she showed him bags of curds dripping milky whey into a bowl in the sink. “I just started this batch this morning.”
“Yes, this is a small operation,” he said, clucking joyfully. “You’re using your kitchen sink.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you. All of this publicity may have been premature.”
“Still, if you could supply just two restaurants, that could be worth it to me to begin with.” He fingered the edge of the plate containing Klaus’s cupcakes. “What’s this?”
“Those were made by a friend. He’s a finalist in the cupcake bake-off tomorrow.”
“Really? Then you’d better get them out of my sight. I’m judging that contest.”
“Oh!” Sophie snatched up the plate.
Bâtarde stood with his nose hovering over the cupcakes. “They look scrumptious. I guess it wouldn’t be ethical to taste them now, would it?”
“No, it wouldn’t.” Sophie whisked the plate off to the back porch.
“I’ve got a relentless sweet tooth,” Bâtarde said when she returned to the kitchen. “You haven’t considered making any sweet cheese, have you?”
“I’ve considered it. Adding honey. Something for the future.”
Bâtarde’s eyes lit up with the thought. “Excellent! Do you have any finished cheese around that I could taste?”
She gave him a chair at the kitchen table and laid out the three types of cheese, a cheese knife, and a glass of water.
She watched him taste, methodically, wordlessly, without expression. She couldn’t tell if he was enjoying himself or if it was simply work. She didn’t want it to ever just be work for herself. So far it was fun. It should stay fun. Otherwise, why do it?
This laborious tasting process took long enough that Sophie was getting impatient when at last he put down the knife and drank his last swallow of water.
“Very fine,” he said. “Surprisingly fine, considering what a short time you’ve been at it.”
“I work very hard at getting it right.”
“Threlkeld was right on the money. This is first-rate. Well done.” He wiped his mouth on a napkin and stood. “I’ve made some inquiries around town. I know what you charge your current customers. I can pay you twice that plus the cost of shipping. And I can take everything you produce. No more peddling door to door for
you.”
He opened his wallet and took out a card, which he handed to her. He sounded very authoritative and most likely thought he was intimidating and impressing her. She was a simple farm girl, after all. She at least must look like one with her worn jeans and dirty boots. He couldn’t know that two years ago she had spent her days schmoozing guys like him, bigger than him, as she moved their millions around like bubbles in bathwater.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I like dealing locally. It’s got a warm and friendly feeling to it. That’s the whole point of an organic microfarm, isn’t it? Eco-friendly, small footprint, connecting our simpler roots to a safer future?”
“You’re very sly, aren’t you?” He grinned, showing his rabbity front teeth. “Two and a half times what you currently charge. That’s as high as I go. You consider my offer and call me. I can tell you’re a smart woman. I don’t have to tell you all the ways this makes good business sense.”
Now he was trying another old tactic, making the farm girl think they were intellectually equal. Flattery. She realized she did not like this man. He reminded her too much of her old colleagues.
“I’m going to level with you, Sophie,” he said. “I need to figure out who Threlkeld is and you can help me. I’ll zero in eventually on my own, but with your help, I can get there a lot faster. I’m going to show you my short list. All you have to do is point to Threlkeld. You don’t have to say a word.”
He opened his portfolio to a laminated page of small photos. There were six of them, four men and two women. Sophie quickly noted Wren’s face among them, but didn’t linger on it, worried that she’d give her away. Obviously, this was the only reason he was here, to get her to finger Wren.
“Sorry,” she said. “I can’t help you.”
He bit his lower lip and closed the portfolio. “What I can’t figure out is why you’re being so protective of someone you’ve just met, why you’d give up my generous offer for something this trivial.”
“Because I’m not interested in your offer,” Sophie said matter-of-factly. “Besides, if identifying Threlkeld is so trivial, why are you going to so much trouble to do it?”