by Aames, Avery
Noelle said, “I absolutely love this French motif.” She caressed the floral scrolling. “If I recall, you said it was mid-nineteenth century, purchased from an old winery in Bordeaux.”
“Purchased is a nice term. I’m pretty sure I stole it.” Shelton laughed.
“The owner was desperate to sell,” Harold said. “The economy had hit him hard.”
Ticking off his fingertips, Shelton said, “If you look carefully beyond the gate, you’ll see a couple of 1966 Pétrus . . .”
“Pétrus is from the sub-appellation Pomerol,” Matthew whispered to me while rubbing his fingers together to mime pricey. Over the past few years, Matthew had taken great pride in educating me about wines while I tutored him about cheese. Pomerol, as an appellation, was as prestigious, if not more so than Pauillac. Basically, if Pauillac was Beverly Hills, then Pomerol would be the Bel Air of Bordeaux.
“. . . a 1978 Château Lafite Rothschild,” Shelton continued. “I have dozens more from Pauillac. In addition, I have Château d’Yquem and Château Haut-Brion Blanc.”
I said, “The latter is from the southwest region of France, isn’t it? That’s home to five first growth wines.” First growth, or Premier cru classé, referred to a classification of prestigious wines from the Bordeaux region that dated back to 1855.
“Actually,” Shelton said, “Château Haut-Brion is in Pessac Leognan, which was originally part of Graves. Pessac would be a sub-appellation of Graves like Pauillac is a sub-appellation of the Medoc. Haut-Brion is the only classified red not grown in the Medoc.”
Okay, so maybe I hadn’t learned every fact perfectly. Rats. I wished I hadn’t opened my big mouth. I hated sounding stupid. I could hear my grandmother’s admonition: If one is not certain of a fact, it is better to remain quiet and appear brilliant. When would I learn?
“The Blanc, which I have,” Shelton said, “is a dry white wine.”
“Excellent in virtually any year,” Liberty added.
“Noelle.” Shelton snapped his fingers. “Perhaps we’ll throw in a collection of six magnums of the Château d’Yquem for the auction. They’re worth a pretty penny. In addition to the wine, we’ll include a dinner at the winery. What do you think?”
“Magnanimous,” Noelle said.
He chuckled. “Magnanimous . . . magnum. You’re making fun.”
“I’m impressed, Shelton.” Noelle smiled. “There’s a difference.” She moved forward, strumming her fingers along the gate as if it were a harp. “How many bottles are in the cellar? Three thousand?”
“Good eye. Three thousand eighteen at last count, with room for up to five thousand.”
Noelle cleared her throat. “Do you keep a register of all of them?”
“I do. Care to hold the Pétrus?” Shelton removed a single brass key that had to be four inches long from the pocket of his trousers.
“What the heck is that?” Matthew said.
Shelton chuckled. “Don’t be intimidated, Matthew. I merely want people to gawk when I take it out to open the giant lock on these babies.”
I was definitely gawking. It resembled a jailer’s key from medieval days. Shelton slotted it into the gigantic keyhole. The gates groaned open.
“This way.” Shelton entered and we followed. He pulled a bottle of Pétrus from a cubbyhole and handed it to Noelle.
“I don’t see a speck of dust,” she said. “Do you polish the bottles on a daily basis?”
“We have a good ventilation system,” Shelton said.
Noelle cradled the Pétrus in her hands then handed it off to Matthew, who returned the bottle to its cubby.
“Notice the jeroboams of the finest champagne,” Shelton said.
According to my brief education, a jeroboam held the liquid equivalent of four bottles of wine. There had to be at least twenty.
“I also have a number of bottles of Opus One,” Shelton went on.
Matthew said, “Have you got any Schrader?”
“I do.”
“Fabulous, isn’t it? With rich, opulent notes of plum and spice.”
“I also have a single bottle of Screaming Eagle.”
“You don’t.” Matthew turned to me. “At an auction in 2008, a collection of six magnums of Screaming Eagle sold for five hundred thousand dollars. How did you get one, Shelton?”
“I have an influential friend in the Silicon Valley.”
Noelle faked a yawn and whispered in my ear, “It’s like watching boys on a playground saying, ‘Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.’”
I suppressed a smile.
“The Schraders’ divorce is a curious story,” Shelton said. “It resulted in two vineyards.”
“Mr. Schrader limits production so he can boost his price,” Harold said.
“That’s exactly what Daddy’s doing with our white Burgundies from Home Sweet Home.” Liberty raised a finger. “Because they’re as good as any from France.”
Shelton shrugged. “Pshaw. They’re not nearly as good as a Château d’Yquem.” At least he had an ounce of humility.
Matthew cupped his hand and whispered, “With proper care, a Chateau d’Yquem can keep for a century or more.”
“Wow,” I said.
Shelton clapped his hands once. “To wow you properly, come to the winery next Friday, and we’ll have a special dinner and tasting for twelve. You’ll arrange everything for that, too, won’t you, Noelle?”
“The dinner is on my agenda.”
“Work with Charlotte on a menu. I hear she’s a fabulous cook.”
I felt my cheeks warm.
“I insist there be a cheese plate for dessert.” Shelton pointed at me. “I’ll trust your judgment on that, young lady. Include that Tuscan Tartufo, would you?” He tapped Noelle. “If you haven’t tasted it, you absolutely must. Hints of mushroom. Almost heady when served with a glass of champagne.”
Noelle scanned the area. “Um, Shelton, I apologize, but I need to find the loo.”
“Let me show you the less clandestine route.” Shelton led Noelle to a wall of gilded books, pressed a handle, and the wall opened up to a secret passage. “Up the corridor, to the right of my office.”
“You dog.” She punched his arm. “There’s an inside entrance back to the main building?”
“It’s very hush-hush.” He nudged her to get a move on and then glimpsed his watch. “I’m sorry, everyone. We’ve got to wrap this up. I’ve got an appointment. I nearly forgot.”
Minutes later, we reentered the corridor by Shelton’s office. He gave us directions back to the visitors’ wing and bid us a hasty good-bye.
As we waited for Noelle to rejoin us, Liberty cornered her father. “Daddy, a word.” She herded him into his office. The door closed with a thud.
An instant later, Noelle appeared. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“No clue,” Matthew replied. “Let’s—”
“No,” Liberty shouted from behind the closed door. A fist pounded wood. Shelton’s or hers, I couldn’t be sure. “Daddy, you’re not getting it.”
He shushed her.
Though both lowered their voices, a few words filtered out.
Liberty said, “. . . lover . . . phony . . . financial mess.”
“Can you make out what they’re saying?” Noelle whispered.
“Sort of.” My grandmother said I had the ears of an elephant. I listened harder.
Shelton responded with a string of words and, “. . . charted for disaster.”
Somebody slammed something.
Shelton growled. “. . . always about money for you.”
Liberty: “. . . label would you put on it?”
Shelton: “. . . nose . . . your mother.”
Liberty: “. . . out of it.”
Shelton: “. . . my business, not yours.”
Liberty, loudly: “Yes, it is.”
“Only when I die.” They must have drawn near the door because the conversation started to link together.
Liberty said, “Noe
lle—”
“—is here to stay,” Shelton finished. “Live with it.”
“You’re blind, Daddy.”
Something ceramic crashed within the office. Seconds later, the door whipped open.
Liberty stomped past us without so much as a glance and strode down the hall. She disappeared in the direction of the tasting room.
Worried about Shelton, I peered into the office. He balanced on one knee as he picked up the pieces of the vase his ex-wife had commissioned.
Noelle covered her mouth with her fingertips. “They were arguing about me.”
“C’mon,” I tugged her elbow. “Handling family dramas is not in your job description.”
Moments later, as I climbed into Matthew’s Jeep, movement caught my eye.
Ashley Yeats was sneaking toward the secret entrance to Shelton’s hideout. How had he figured out where it was? Had he followed us even though Liberty had told him he wasn’t invited? Would he skip the interview with Shelton for a covert peek inside? I pitied the sap when Liberty caught him snooping. And she would. She was on the warpath. I was only sad that I couldn’t stick around and watch.
CHAPTER
3
For the remainder of the afternoon, I kept busy at The Cheese Shop. There was plenty to do on a daily basis: inventory, refacing cheeses, sweeping floors, cleaning up displays, Internet PR, and so much more. On certain unglamorous days, like today, I could barely breathe. I dreamed of returning home and tuning out work by tinkering on the secretary desk—maybe even taking a private moment to read more of my parents’ love letters. How I wished I had known my folks better. My grandparents had been wonderful caretakers, but what I wouldn’t have given to have special memories with my parents carved in my mind: vacations, games, stories that were repeated year after year.
At six P.M., Noelle and I tucked into the renovation project with a vengeance. We sanded the top of the secretary desk for an hour. As I had hoped, the original wood was stunning.
At seven, I rose from the tarp to stretch my legs and back, then turned up the sound on the radio that I had brought out to serenade us. The rock group O.A.R., whose initials stood for Of a Revolution, was singing its popular single, “Heaven.” While at Ohio State University, I became a fan of the emerging rock group. They played the frat and sorority parties and became a cult hit. I knew the words to all of their songs.
“Are you certain you don’t want to go to the theater with me?” I asked.
“I’m sure.” Balanced on her knees, Noelle examined the screw attachment on the legs, which were still unattached. “I want to get this baby on its feet.”
“I told you—”
“I know, I know. I don’t owe you a thing, but I want to do this, and the music is nice.” She sang along.
I joined her. When the song ended, I said, “Hungry?”
“Absolutely.” Noelle set aside the table leg and scrambled to her feet while wiping her fingers on her black jeans.
From a platter of cheese that I had brought to the garage, I slipped a morsel of Beaufort into my mouth, savoring the moist, sticky rind and flavors of alpine flowers. Noelle opted for a slice of No Woman cheese, which was made by Beecher’s Handmade Cheese in Seattle. The Cheddar-style goodness was a spicy tribute to the island of Jamaica and the Bob Marley song “No Woman, No Cry.”
“After I finish up,” Noelle said, “I think I’ll take a hike.”
“At night?”
“I like exploring in the dark. It’s peaceful. I’ve got a flashlight in the glove compartment of my BMW. I could use the break. My official job starts tomorrow. After that I’ll be so busy that I won’t have time to investigate.” She grinned. “Hey, wipe those worry lines off your forehead. I’ll be fine. Really. A girl raised in an orphanage knows how to navigate in the dark. It’ll be like I’m on a quest.”
Beside the cheese platter sat a couple of glasses of Mendoza Malbec, a red wine with violet aromas and raspberry and currant flavors. Noelle picked up a glass and swirled the wine while assessing it at an angle. “Great legs.”
“That’s what that journalist said about you earlier,” I teased.
“Ew, ick, bad memory.” Noelle wrinkled her nose. “That put me off taking another sip. Probably better to keep a clear head. Instead, if it’s okay with you, I’ll throw together a grilled cheese.” She took another bite of the No Woman cheese. “Mmm, how I love the aromas of allspice and cloves.”
“Have at it,” I said.
In less than five minutes, I showered and dressed in a sweater and comfy trousers. As I was exiting through the kitchen, I found Noelle crouched beside Rags in his wicker bed. She cooed a lullaby to him.
“You’re getting spoiled, Ragsie,” I said.
He gave me a look that said, I deserve it, and he was right. He did. He missed the twins and Rocket as much as I did.
• • •
When I arrived at the Providence Playhouse, the place was buzzing with energy. A dress rehearsal always generated excitement. While crewmen strung twinkling lights around the backdrop of the Mayflower and Plymouth Rock, my good pal Delilah—owner of the Country Kitchen Diner and current director of the Thanksgiving Extravaganza—was positioning twenty-plus children, each dressed in either a Pilgrim or a Wampanoag Indian costume, at specific places onstage.
When she was done, Delilah brushed her long, dark curls over her shoulders and planted her hands on her ample hips. “Perfect. Now, stand there and don’t move.” Her instructions came across loud and clear.
“Chérie. Bonsoir.” My grandfather beckoned me to the right wing of the stage where he had set up a buffet to feed the group. Savory aromas wafted from the fixings: turkey pizza, turkey-cranberry sliders, and turkey meatballs. My grandfather was a firm believer that turkey was not only for Thanksgiving dinner.
“You look superbe,” he said and kissed me, la bise—the French tradition of a peck to one cheek and then the other.
“So does your meal, Pépère. Vous étes un chef merveilleux.” I pinched his cheek. He enjoyed when I complimented him about being a good cook. “What have you put on the pizza?”
“Turkey, chèvre, shallots, and my special seasonings. Simple but tasty.” He patted his generous stomach, which protruded over a well-stocked tool belt. “I will eat only one slice.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, disbelieving. He loved to nibble and was forever trying to control his weight.
“I have promised your grandmère. Oh”—he tapped his head and gestured to the far end of the table—“I made a gluten-free Italian herb pizza for Clair, and Rebecca brought two pear and Roquefort quiches from the shop.”
I glanced around. “Where is Rebecca?”
“She left.”
“Left?”
“She has a date.”
“A date?” I repeated like a parrot.
“She and her boyfriend are no longer engaged.”
“What?” Did my voice do a glissando?
“They wish to make sure they are well suited, so I am told.” Pépère petted my arm.
“Whose choice was it to break up?”
“I would gather it was Rebecca’s decision. She seems fine with the arrangement. Young love, it is sweet, non?”
I nodded. “Sometimes it can be bittersweet.” Poor Ipo, the former fiancé. I would bet he was heartsick. He adored Rebecca.
“Speaking of love, your grandmère is in love with the new theater equipment.” He jutted a finger. “Look.”
On the left side of the stage, my irrepressible grandmother, dressed in black turtleneck, trousers, and tennis shoes, was slinging on a Peter Pan–style flying harness. A crewman tightened the straps.
“Attention.” Grandmère, who seemed more than frazzled—her spiky gray coif was a little hairy-scary—clapped her hands sharply. “Gather round, mes amis. We will have a demonstration.”
The children—which included my preteen nieces who weren’t really my nieces; they were cousins once removed—broke from their spots onstage,
all chattering with anticipation.
“Quiet, everyone.” Delilah formed a T for time-out with her hands. The children mimicked her. “Let’s pay attention to what Mrs. Bessette is going to show us.”
Grandmère, who was finally accepting that she, as mayor of our fair city as well as theater manager and full-time fund-raiser, wore too many hats, had ceded her director’s hat to Delilah.
“Where is the duck?” Grandmère asked.
“Thanksgiving duck, step forward,” Delilah said.
Pépère said, “Do you know turkey was not served for the original Thanksgiving dinner? The feast consisted of duck and venison and probably corn, onions, and squash.”
I adored how much he knew about our culture. When he and my grandmother migrated from France to the United States, they adopted everything American. The history as well as the idioms.
“Yoo-hoo, Mr. Duck,” Delilah called. “Where are you?”
“Here I am.” A preteen boy in a mallard costume with green head and black and white tail feathers emerged from the rear of the pack of children. Tentatively he raised his hand.
“Don’t look so scared. You’ll be safe in this getup,” Delilah said. “Did you see all the safety latches our talented crewman secured? Now, we’ll raise you up like this. Watch.” She gestured to a second crewman in the wings. The guy pulled on a rope that had a sizable sandbag attached to one end, and my grandmother rose slowly off the ground. “With a push, you’ll sweep to one side and return.” Delilah gave Grandmère a nudge.
“Whee-e-e-e!” Grandmère crooned.
All of the children cheered except the gawky boy, who looked pea green with fear and doubt.
My niece Amy, a spitfire of a tomboy, elbowed the kid. “If you don’t want to do it, I will.” She had been given the role of warrior counselor to the lead Indian, Massasoit. According to her, any role would be better than a warrior counselor—no lines. Like my grandmother, Amy was a ham at heart.
Delilah said, “All right, that’s all the time we have for the demonstration. Let’s take a dinner break so the crew can get back to work on the stage. Remove your costumes and wash your hands. We’ll rehearse in street clothes afterward.”