Clobbered by Camembert csm-3

by Avery Aames

  “Can’t yet. I think the dad has hit it off with Arlo.” Rebecca hooked a thumb.

  Indeed, the father had joined Arlo by the barrel that held a display of rounds of Camembert, assorted goat cheeses, sourdough crackers, and jars of pesto, and they were chatting like old friends, which blew me away. Arlo didn’t like anyone. At least I hadn’t thought he did.

  “I’ll pay,” the woman said.

  I steered Tyanne toward the coat rack at the rear of the store.

  When we were out of earshot, Tyanne said, “It’s … another woman.” She rolled her shoulders back. Her jaw drew taut. “But I won’t let him get the better of me. I won’t. I don’t need him. We don’t need him. I saw you were hiring.” She paused, her bravado weakening, and tucked her lower lip under her teeth. “I thought I’d better come and ask. Can I … Will you? I did all the marketing and computer output for the fresh market grocery down in New Orleans before … before …” She started to shake, unable to finish her sentence. Before Hurricane Katrina had turned her life topsy-turvy. After trying to make a go of it in ravaged New Orleans, her husband gave up and purchased his uncle’s insurance business in Providence and had moved the family lock, stock, and barrel. No debate.

  I gave her a hug. “You’re hired.” I couldn’t think of anyone I would like more to work in the shop. She was a survivor. Salt of the earth.

  “Oh, sugar, that’s such a blessing. Thank you.” She sighed. “I feel like such a cliché. He’s leaving me for his assistant, for heaven’s sake.” She blew a strand of hair off her face. “What did I do wrong? I lost weight. I streaked my hair like he wanted.” She shook her glossy layered locks. “Did I let my mind go flabby or something?”

  I squeezed her elbow. “It’s not you. Sometimes we can’t fix things.”

  Exactly when had I started to believe that? After Chip ran out, I guessed. I had poured my all into our relationship. A therapist told me the breakup wasn’t my fault. Prior to Chip, I had thought I could fix anything.

  “When do I start?” Tyanne asked.

  “Now. Bozz is tied up with senioritis at school.”

  “It’s only February.”

  “All the seniors check out mentally once they’ve heard from the colleges of their choice.” At first, I’d only hired my teenage guru, Bozz, to help with Fromagerie Bessette’s website design, but over the course of the past two years, he had grown into an invaluable employee, knowledgeable about cheese, marketing, and so much more.

  “Where has Bozz been accepted?”

  “To Providence Liberal Arts College.”

  PLAC was the first college ever in Providence, and its debut freshman class would start in the fall. My pal Meredith was bubbling with excitement about the prospect. Her efforts to convert the old Ziegler Winery into a liberal arts college were coming to fruition. Bozz intended to work through college, but he had asked if he could cut his hours from sixteen to eight. I would miss seeing him as often.

  I turned to Rebecca. “Would you bring Tyanne up to speed at the cheese counter and in the kitchen? A while later, Tyanne, I’ll walk you through the website, the newsletter, et cetera. Around here, we all pitch in with everything.”

  “Might I freshen up, sugar?”

  “Of course. You know the way.”

  She headed toward the back of the shop.

  As she disappeared, Prudence Hart marched in, her dark mood matching her charcoal coat, her prunish face twisted into a knot as always. “This Founder’s Day celebration, or Winter Wonderland faire, or whatever we’re calling it this year, has got to stop.” At times, she reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the East. She shook her fist overhead as if blaming the gods.

  “The festival hasn’t started,” I reminded her.

  “It makes a mess. Trash flying everywhere. And the riffraff.” Riffraff was one of Prudence’s favorite words. Everyone not of her social status was riffraff. She stomped to Arlo, who was once again standing alone, and nudged him with her bony elbow. “Don’t you agree?”

  Like Prudence, Arlo’s ancestors were some of the first settlers in Providence, but that didn’t mean he had to be friends with Prudence. He muttered something, pulled his overcoat tight, and scuttled away from her. Prudence harrumphed. “And have you seen that woman prancing around in the cowboy hat, bragging that she’s going to change things around here? Who does she think she is?”

  I said, “Don’t you recognize her?”

  “No, why should I?”

  As if summoned by Prudence’s negative spirit, Kaitlyn Clydesdale swept into the store. “Why, Prudence, are you telling me you don’t remember me?” She smiled broadly. “It’s me, Kaitlyn. Katie C.”

  “No!” Prudence said, taking in Kaitlyn with narrowed, disbelieving eyes. “Can’t be.”

  “It is.” Kaitlyn ran a finger across the brim of her hat. “A few pounds thinner and wrinkles older. You dated my little brother, Kent.”

  Prudence’s face grew reflective. She wasn’t married and was known as a penny-pincher who would never share her wealth with a man. Did she actually have a soft spot for someone on this planet? This Kent guy? Prudence hurried to Kaitlyn and gripped her by both arms. “How is he?”

  “Married, four kids, living in California. He told me to look you up. I heard you’re in charge of the Providence Historical Museum.”

  “I am.”

  “I’m in charge of an organization that helps renovate such institutions.”

  Prudence’s eyes brightened, and if I hadn’t seen Kaitlyn Clydesdale in action earlier, snubbing Rebecca and practically taunting me with the memory of my parents’ deaths, I would have sworn she was a nice woman. But I knew differently. She dropped bombs with ease, like the Red Baron.

  “We’ll talk, Pru.” Kaitlyn broke free of Prudence and strode toward the counter.

  As she did, Arlo shuttled toward the exit. He bumped into Kaitlyn as he passed and grimaced as though the contact stung.

  Before the door closed behind him, my lively grandmother breezed inside, her purple crocheted poncho billowing up with vigor. She flipped off the hood of her homemade patchwork coat and plucked at her short hair. “Kaitlyn, there you are. I—” When Grandmère spotted me, she skidded to a stop, and a flush of embarrassment colored her aging crepe-paper-wrinkled skin. In my gaze, she must have detected that Kaitlyn had dropped the bombshell about my parents’ deaths. She held up a finger to me as if to say we’d talk later, and I blew her a kiss, letting her know that I wasn’t mad about the story. She knew best what I could handle at the time. I didn’t believe that, at the age of three, I would have devoured myself with guilt, but perhaps I would have, and that guilt could have altered my life’s journey.

  With a sigh of relief, Grandmère skated toward Kaitlyn and slipped her fingers around Kaitlyn’s elbow. “Charlotte, I see you’ve met my dear, dear friend Kaitlyn.”

  Dear, dear, I thought. Since when?

  “We have known each other for years,” Grandmère went on. “She was one of your mother’s first friends. What was it you both loved to do?”

  Kaitlyn said, “Climb trees.”

  “Oui.” Grandmère petted Kaitlyn’s arm. “And scrape your knees.”

  “Pfft,” Prudence sputtered and glowered at Grandmère. Was she jealous that Grandmère and Kaitlyn were best buds? Was Grandmère purposely fawning over Kaitlyn to irk Prudence?

  “By the way, Charlotte, did Kaitlyn tell you?” Grandmère said. “The Do-Gooders are going to invest in the Providence Playhouse.”

  “No!” Prudence gasped.

  Grandmère stood as tall as her five feet two inches could make her. “It is a historical building worth saving, Prudence Hart, no matter what you may think.” In addition to being the mayor of our fair city, my grandmother also ran the theater. Five years ago, she’d campaigned for a new set of loge chairs and had succeeded at raising the funds, but the structure was old beyond old. The walls had cracks. The bases of the walls were weathered. The wiring was faulty. “It is going to g
et a makeover,” she crowed. “We have found our saint.”

  “Angel,” I corrected her.

  “Whatever. Are we not lucky? Our first production in the newly refurbished building will be … Wait for it.” She held her finger up. “The musical, Chicago.”

  “But that’s so mainstream,” I said. My grandmother was known to do plays or musicals with a twist.

  “Nothing like shaking things up by keeping them normal.” Grandmère winked.

  Prudence sputtered. “But Kaitlyn just promised to help renovate the Providence Historical Museum.”

  “Don’t worry, ladies. I’ll be doing both.” Kaitlyn offered her megawatt smile. “I have every intention—” Her cell phone rang. “Excuse me.” She fished the phone from her purse and answered. As she listened, her smile turned taut and her gaze steely. Though she cupped her hand around her mouth and the phone’s mouthpiece, she could still be heard. “You listen to me. You’ll do nothing of the kind! Do you hear me? I’ll ruin you.” She flicked the cell phone shut and flung it into her bag. As fast as her smile had vanished, it returned. “Now, where were we? Do-Gooders to the rescue.”

  CHAPTER

  “Aunt Charlotte, I’m ready!” Amy hurtled down the stairs of my two-story Victorian, her eyes frisky with excitement.

  She and her sister, Clair, weren’t actually my nieces. Their father was my cousin, so the girls were first cousins once removed, but I could never bring myself to call them that. Matthew and I settled on using the terms niece and aunt the day the twins were born.

  “Oops.” Amy nearly missed the last step. She hit the floor and skated on one foot toward me, while I was struggling to put a leash on Rocket, the Briard pup that the twins’ mother, Sylvie, had so sweetly dumped on my doorstep … and on me. Looping the choke chain over the dog’s overly active head was always a challenge. The dog barked as a warning.

  “Sorry,” Amy said.

  “Keep your head steady, pup,” I added.

  Rags, my Ragdoll cat, scooted into the foyer, batting an empty box of Camembert like a hockey puck. He sailed it into the dog. Rocket leapt backward and barked again. Rags hissed. Rocket hunkered down and growled. I grinned. I had a house full of kids and none but the cat were mine.

  “Sit, Rocket!” I ordered, though I had to admit I didn’t sound very tough. Rocket didn’t mind me. I said, “Sit!” more sternly. Rags, the rascal, did a victory cha-cha then scooted away. “C’mon, Rocket. Sit or you don’t get your evening walk.” Begrudgingly he obeyed. I slipped on the leash.

  “How do I look?” Amy tugged the hem of her blue and yellow polka-dot sweater over the hips of her Capri pants then fluffed her blunt brown hair.

  “Cute.” I zipped up my parka and snugged my gold filigree scarf around my neck. “But why the fuss? It’s just rehearsal.”

  The twins and ten other girls their age had been selected to sing in this year’s Winter Wonderland chorale. A recital “hall” tent stood in the middle of the Village Green, near the town’s wishing well and clock tower. The songfest would be the highlight of Saturday evening’s festivities.

  Amy’s mouth quirked to a smile. “Because.”

  “She likes a boy,” Clair said from the landing. “He’s going to be at the Winter Wonderland faire.” She tucked a book under her arm and took the stairs cautiously as she always did, but once she hit the hardwood floor in the foyer, she became as animated as her sister. She poofed her bangs and plucked lint off her floral sweater.

  “Who is the boy?” I tilted my head.

  “Thomas Taylor,” Clair blurted.

  Amy thwacked her. “I told you not to tell.”

  “You said don’t tell Dad,” Clair said with pixielike glee then adjusted her mini ponytail. “You didn’t say I couldn’t tell Aunt Charlotte.”

  “Does Thomas know?” I asked, surprised that Amy was the one who liked him. He was a shy boy and seemed better suited to Clair.

  Amy shook her head. “Boys are dense.”

  “Why will he be at the faire?” I asked. “It’s not officially open yet.”

  “His father is carving one of the ice sculptures. It’s the one of a horse with a knight on it.”

  The sculpture I had admired, which shocked me. I didn’t think that Tyanne’s soon-to-be ex-husband had an ounce of creativity in his bones. “Well, you look very nice, and Thomas would be a dolt not to flirt with you.”

  “She calls him Tommy,” Clair taunted.

  Amy blushed. “C’mon, Clair. Daddy’s waiting in the car.” She yanked her sister by the elbow.

  “Hold it. Don’t forget your jackets and your dinners.” I retrieved two brown paper sacks from the bench by the front door, each bag marked with a name.

  “Grilled cheese like you promised?” Amy grabbed a blue jacket off the coat rack.

  I nodded. “Yours has sliced cornichon pickles, Swiss, and prosciutto.” I focused on Clair, who was shrugging into her aqua green jacket. “And yours is made with salami, Redwood Hill goat cheese, and homemade gluten-free bread.” I had landed on a great gluten-free bread recipe that, once baked and sliced, lasted in the freezer. “I’ve wrapped them in foil so they should stay warm,” I added, though I didn’t think it would really matter. The girls liked cold pizza.

  The pair whistled their thanks and whizzed out the door. Amy yelled, “Bye. Have fun at yoga class after your walk!”

  “Let’s go, boy.” I picked up Rocket’s leash and gave a gentle yank.

  Rags zipped into the foyer at a clip and yowled like an alley cat: Take me, me, me. Up until a few months ago, he had been an indoor cat because of an attack when he was younger, but his agoraphobia disappeared whenever he walked alongside Rocket. However misguided, I think he believed the dog would defend him against another assault.

  “You don’t deserve a walk,” I teased, “but all right.” I slipped a jewel-studded leash around his furry neck, stroked his mismatched ears, and the three of us headed into the cold, moonless night.

  Yesterday’s snow was now nothing more than a mixture of glistening ice and slush, highlighted by the glow of streetlamps. As we drew near to Lois’s Lavender and Lace, the bed-and-breakfast next to my house, I was surprised to see Barton Burrell, a local cattle farmer, on a ladder. Not only was the hour well beyond dusk, but Lois’s husband, whom I had dubbed The Cube due to his square shape, usually did the chores around the inn. Barton hammered nails into a wobbly flat of white lattice that abutted the wall. Sweat dripped off his oversized nose. I called out a hello, but he didn’t respond.

  The screen door of the bed-and-breakfast squeaked open, and Lois, looking so frail that the wind might blow her over, shuffled out to the porch carrying a tray. Her fluffball of a Shih Tzu, Agatha, traipsed beside her and gave a yelp. Lois spotted me. “Hello, Charlotte. Have time for a cup of tea?” She set the tray on a wicker table.

  “I don’t want to intrude,” I said. Most nights, Lois and her husband drank tea outside and watched passersby. Weather never thwarted the ritual.

  “You’re not intruding, dear.” Lois beckoned me with spindly fingers. “Ainsley is at a hockey game, don’t you know. Got him the tickets myself.”

  I headed up the path with my four-legged buddies, who were content to go wherever I did. As I neared, I smelled the lovely aroma of nutmeg-laced scones, and my mouth started to water. “Yum,” I said.

  Lois beamed. She made heavenly scones in assorted flavors. She bent to greet my pals. “Hello, sweet things. I have home-baked treats for you, too.” She hustled inside and returned with a large bone-shaped dog biscuit and a handful of bite-sized tuna morsels. Rags and Rocket set to work.

  “Mr. Burrell,” Lois called. “Time for a break, young man.”

  Barton descended the ladder and tramped up the steps to the porch. He looked leaner and shaggier than when I’d seen him last, and he had grown a mustache, but he also appeared less sure of himself, as if something was bothering him. A pang of concern shot through me because Barton, who moonlighted as one of Prov
idence’s local theater stars, was usually a ham and full of bravado. He had been known to stand on a street corner and spout poetry or lines from Shakespeare’s plays. Was he suffering a financial crisis? Was that why he was working for Lois? Perhaps Kaitlyn Clydesdale was in negotiations to buy his property. His cattle farm abutted Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm.

  Lois poured Barton a cup of tea from a Haviland moss rose china teapot. She added a lump of sugar and offered it to him.

  Barton blew on the tea, then drank two sips and whispered, “Thanks.”

  “Aren’t you going to say hello to Charlotte?” Lois said.

  “Nice to see you,” he muttered. Air no longer hissed through the gap in his front teeth; he’d had the gap fixed last year. But that wasn’t what disconcerted me. Something in his gaze made me think he was upset with me.

  As he retreated to the ladder, I wondered if he was embarrassed to be seen taking on extra work.

  Lois said, “Let’s go inside. It’s brisk. Do you think the puppy and cat can stay out here with Agatha?” She shuffled ahead of me and held the door open with her leg.

  “It would be better if they could nestle in the foyer, just inside the doorway. Rocket is so young, he might bolt otherwise.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  I led Rocket and Rags into the entry and commanded them to sit. They did. Agatha marched in front of them like a sentry, daring them to make a move, which probably had something to do with their near-perfect behavior.

  A warm wave of heat swirled around me as I followed Lois into the great room. The temperature was too hot for my taste, but the bed-and-breakfast was successful, so Lois probably knew what her guests enjoyed. The room reminded me of a hunting lodge, its walls packed with sports memorabilia as well as winter sports equipment. In the spring, the snowshoes, skis, hockey sticks, commemorative pucks, and slalom flags would come down and be replaced with garlands of flowers and glorious pictures of Holmes County. Lois prided herself on decorating according to the season. She said it made her guests’ stay that much more unique.