by Avery Aames
“Pépère—”
“No! Let me finish.” He released me but held my gaze. “Jordan is a man who knows how to love and love fully. I have seen much of life. I know these things. This man, this Chip—what kind of a name is that for a man? He is not for you. He is selfish and vain, but I am sorry if—”
I put my fingers to his lips. “Shhh. I know, Pépère. You can relax. You are watching out for me, and I appreciate it.” I kissed his cheek and shooed him to my grandmother.
As I watched them embrace, a frizzle of uneasiness ran through me. Was Jordan the man for me? Would he still be, once I learned his full story?
CHAPTER
Clair and Amy insisted on holding my hands and skipping to Winter Wonderland. My grandparents scuttled behind us, Pépère still muttering about Chip’s sudden appearance and Grandmère telling him to hush. I wished she could tell my mind to hush, as well. Seeing my ex-fiancé with flowers in his hand had thrown me off-kilter. What I wouldn’t give for a week of simple, carefree thoughts and a heart-to-heart chat with Jordan.
I tugged on the girls to pick up their pace. We had decided to walk as a family—they to their rehearsal and me to the opening of Le Petit Fromagerie.
Dusk was rapidly settling into darkness, but as we drew near to the faire, the sky grew brighter. A glow emanated from the twinkling lights outlining the white tents and the clock tower.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” Clair said.
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t catch my breath enough to speak. When, oh, when could I fit more aerobic exercise into my daily routine?
“Look at the crowd.” Amy gaped. “Yipes.”
People meandered between the tents like a river. Whenever someone stopped to peer inside a tent, the people-river dynamic shifted.
I grumbled, unable to scoot up the right side of the crowd with the twins in tow.
“Relax, chérie,” Pépère said. “Remember you have others who work with you. They will see to the opening.”
“Follow me. I will make a path.” Grandmère, who had added a star-studded patriotic sweater to her eclectic Do-Gooder ensemble, broke free of my grandfather and forged ahead. “Move everyone. The mayor is coming through. Move, please. Merci.” Give the woman a flag, and she could lead a parade—any parade.
Once we pushed ahead of the throng, Amy broke free of my hold and started to twirl. “I love the faire.” She spread her arms wide. The ends of her striped scarf eddied out of control.
“Whoa, twinkle toes.” I reined her in so she wouldn’t accost some unsuspecting soul.
“Aren’t the smells yummy?” she said. “Cloves and sugar and pine.”
“Where’s Le Petit Fromagerie?” Clair asked.
“Not far from your recital stage,” I said.
“Hello-o-o!” Meredith, wearing a canary yellow parka over a heather sweater and chic gray slacks, swooped between the girls. They latched onto her with glee.
“Glad you found us,” I said. She had offered to be the twins’ guardian for the evening. Their mother was seeing to business at her Under Wraps tent, and my grandparents had a brief faire-planning meeting to attend.
“Your parka is pretty,” Amy said.
“Thank you.” Meredith fingered the stand-up collar. “I thought the color would make it easy for you girls to spot me, should we get separated.” She assessed me. “Charlotte, you look stressed. What’s wrong?”
“I’m running behind.” I didn’t have time to tell her about Chip’s surprise visit.
Clair did a hop-skip. “Look, there’s a sign pointing to Le Petit Fromagerie. See it, Amy?”
Grandmère had come up with the brilliant idea of adding arrow directionals at the faire. They looked like old European signs, each stacked atop the other. The Igloo Ice Cream Parlor, ten paces. Sew Inspired Quilts, twenty paces. Nothing was farther than a hundred paces, though there were rows and rows of tents, and if someone wasn’t careful, he or she could get lost. I had gotten turned around a couple of times earlier in the week when bringing items to the tent.
“Oh, look! There’s Thomas and Tisha!” Amy released Meredith’s hand and tore ahead.
Clair scurried after her.
The two quickly blended into a group of adults and children who were admiring the nearly finished knight on a horse ice sculpture. If only I had thought to dress them in yellow jackets as well, I mused.
Apart from the crowd, I caught sight of the sculpture’s artist, Tyanne’s burly husband, Theo. He was standing beside a sizzling-hot young woman who was toying with the tails of her ruby red scarf. Was she the lover Theo was leaving Tyanne for? With no regard for privacy, Theo pulled the Lolita-esque woman to him and kissed her intimately.
“Remember when we were that age?” Meredith slipped her arm through mine. “We had so many secrets.”
“I never had a lover.”
“What are you talking about?”
I glanced at her and saw she wasn’t looking anywhere near Theo and his girlfriend. With dreamy eyes, Meredith was watching the twins, who stood among the crowd, whispering to each other.
I smiled. “Yes, we had secrets. And we were always getting into trouble. At your insistence.”
She poked me. “You mean your insistence, don’t you? ‘Let’s climb this tree, explore that barn, sneak into Mrs. Jones’s garden and steal some carrots.’”
I pulled on my earlobe. “Funny, I remember it the other way around.”
“Do you?” Meredith winked at me. “Hmm, I do love carrots.”
“You mean you enjoy bossing me around.”
“That, too. Catch you later.” She bussed my cheek and hurried to join the girls.
As I headed to work, I couldn’t help thinking about secrets and lovers, and wondering about Kaitlyn Clydesdale again. Would her paramour come forward now that Kaitlyn was dead, or was he content to remain anonymous? Was he remaining anonymous for a reason? Was the man married? What if Kaitlyn had wanted to proclaim her love to the world, but her lover had lashed out to keep her silent?
* * *
When I reached Le Petit Fromagerie, the crowd was curving out the door. Tyanne had beaten me to the opening, thanks to Chip’s untimely visit. She manned the cheese counter, her cheeks flushed the same pink as her sweater, her blonde hair scooped into a sparkly pink clip. Using a cheese slicer, she slivered off tastings of cheese to one customer at a time. Wine and cheese tasting selection lists and a dozen gold pencils perched on the counter alongside the stack of souvenir plates, which had already dwindled by half.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said as I joined her. “What a slew of people.”
“You’re telling me. Over thirty in our first fifteen minutes, sugar.”
“A good showing.”
“Matthew went outside to manage the line. Did you see him?”
I hadn’t.
“I’m sure he’ll be back in a flash.” Tyanne greeted our next customer by name and handed him a slice. “You’re going to adore this Zamorano. Don’t you just love the texture?”
As the man mumbled his agreement, a woman bellowed, “Out of my way.” Sylvie, wearing a zebra print fleece cocoon that looked like an ugly sleeping bag, hopped into the store, banging into customers with abandon as she headed to the front of the line. “Ciao, Charlotte.”
I struggled not to laugh. How did she expect to get around without feet? “What are you wearing?”
“A Snugglee-Bugg.” She jumped in a circle. “Isn’t it darling? Perfect for cool weather.”
“To be worn inside on a couch.”
“Tosh! I couldn’t very well invite everyone to my home to see it modeled, could I?” She plucked a souvenir plate from the pile and waved it. “Thought I’d slip in and grab mine before they’re all gone. Stop by my tent. You might win a garter.”
Just what I needed.
As she bounded toward the exit, I said, “Sylvie, wait.” I cut around the cheese counter and nudged her to a corner of the tent. “You’re always good for gossip.”
“I am, indeed.” She grinned like the Cheshire cat.
How it pained me to flatter her, but I continued. “Do you know who Kaitlyn Clydesdale was having an affair with?”
Her mouth dropped open. Her fleece paw flew to her chest. Had I stumped her?
“Georgia Plachette said Kaitlyn was in a relationship,” I explained.
“Ooh, that vixen is a blabbermouth!”
Black kettles calling each other names did a kick line in my mind. I said, “Georgia didn’t know the lover’s identity. Just that it was so.”
“I’ll do some digging and come up with answers.” Sylvie leaped once, then swiveled back. “By the way, Charlotte, that V-neck thing you’re wearing is not flattering.”
That thing was an ecru cashmere sweater that had cost me a pretty penny and looked perfect beneath my red blazer.
“You don’t have the bosoms for it,” she added. “In the future, try a Peter Pan collar. Ta-ta!”
As she bounced toward the exit, bumping into people on her way, I prayed she would do a face-plant. She didn’t. Life wasn’t always fair.
When I returned to my position behind the cheese counter, Tyanne sidled up to me. “Sugar, I forgot to tell you, the tasting at the shop was a hit. All because of me, don’t you think?” She blew on her fingernails and polished them on her sweater, then chuckled. “L-O-L. Just kidding, but Matthew did say it was a financial windfall. Why hasn’t he returned?”
“He’s probably buying a hot chocolate. He’s like a little kid when it comes to cocoa.” The Country Kitchen made the most luscious chocolaty goodness and topped it with a dollop of whipped cream that was infused with sugar crystals.
“Say, speaking of kids, did you see mine outside?”
“I did. They’re watching the ice sculpting.”
“You mean watching their snake of a father,” Tyanne said quietly so customers wouldn’t hear. “You saw her, didn’t you? Miss Ohio-in-her-dreams.”
“Gee, hmmm, I can’t recall,” I said, sounding like a reluctant witness.
Tyanne chuffed. “It’s okay to admit it. I’m so over him.” She sliced another tasting of cheese and offered it to our next customer. “Here you go, enjoy. By the way, Charlotte, so far, the Zamorano is the favorite. The Vacherin Fribourg comes in a close second. And the Mount Eden chardonnay seems to be the most popular wine, despite the cold weather.” She lowered her voice. “Though I tasted the zinfandel and loved it. That’s okay, isn’t it? It was only a sip. I don’t think I’ve had a whole glass of wine in over a year. We were trying to get pregnant again.” She bit her lip. “Maybe that’s what sent my Theo searching. A woman wanting to procreate on a time schedule is so not-sexy.”
“Tyanne, I’m sure—”
“Don’t, sugar.” She flicked the air with her hand. “Don’t try to make me feel better. I’m fine, really. We’ve decided to divorce.”
I observed the crowd of customers. None were listening to us, all of them too busy tasting and marking their lists or browsing the items in the tent.
“Our marriage was over years ago,” Tyanne went on. “I was just too hooked on the idea of marriage to admit it. Now, with a job and being good at something again—and I am; I love cheese!—I’m ready to soar. Thank you, thank you, thank you for believing in me.” She embraced me for a brief second, then pushed away with a teensy pat to my arm. “Sorry. No public display of affection. That’s what Theo always says.”
From what I had observed a moment ago, good old Theo had changed his tune, but far be it from me to zap Tyanne’s glow by mentioning that I had seen her husband canoodling with some lusty dame.
“By the way, mum’s the word about the d-i-v-o-r-c-e,” Tyanne went on. “We haven’t told the kids, yet. My sister Lizzie is moving to Providence to help out. You’ll like her a ton. She’s so funny and warm. My other sisters, Selby and Linda Jo, can’t make it, but you’d like them, too. They wish I’d out-and-out kill Theo for cheating and be done with it.” She laughed. “Can you imagine? Did you hear of that book: I’d Kill to be a Widow? Too funny.”
Tyanne turned away and offered a bright smile and a souvenir plate to the next customer, but I couldn’t let go of what she had said. Had Kaitlyn’s lover’s wife attacked Kaitlyn? How did the missing container of goat cheese at Rebecca’s cottage play into that scenario?
“Yoo-hoo, excuse me.” Rebecca waltzed into the tent, wheeling a cooler on a pull cart. Strands of hair straggled around her face and stuck to her lipstick. “Let me through, please. Yoo-hoo, Charlotte, I have more cheese.” She cut through the crowd, removed the cooler from the cart, and set it on the green grass carpet. As she unpacked wedges of cheese and plunked them on the staging table behind us, she said, “Did you have a clue we’d have so many people?”
I sidled to her and whispered, out of earshot of our guests, “Got a question.”
“Ipo’s fine. Except Urso’s starving him. He’s withering away to nothing.”
“I doubt that.” It would take weeks for brawny Ipo to wither away.
“Urso’s a pill,” Rebecca added.
“Forget him. There’s something off between Jacky and him, I think.” Maybe Jacky wanted another baby. Perhaps, like Tyanne said, a woman on a time clock wasn’t sexy. Urso could be letting his frustration spill over into his work, and that was why he hadn’t answered any of my earlier telephone calls. “Back to my question. The goat cheese.”
“What goat cheese?”
“The round of Emerald Isles goat cheese you took home for the evening with Ipo. The night Kaitlyn, um, died. I didn’t see it among the fixings you’d set on the pass-through counter. Where was it?”
“I don’t know. On the platter still wrapped? Maybe in the kitchen? I started putting the platter together, but then I got so flustered because”—Rebecca turned three shades of crimson—“because Ipo wanted to take our … um … walk. I didn’t even open the champagne. He clutched my hand all the way to the park. I remember thinking the moonless night was so dark but romantic. And then everything happened so fast. He kissed me. And I kissed him back and, oh—” She fluttered her fingers in front of her face. “I will not cry. I will not. Why does it matter?”
I explained.
“You mean the cheese is gone, as in someone stole it?” Rebecca sucked in a breath. “I’ll bet it was that Arlo. That puts him in my house. Do you think he’s the murderer?”
“Not so fast.”
“Do you remember that day Miss Clydesdale came into the shop? Arlo was standing by the Camembert and goat cheese display with that customer … you know the one.” She snapped her fingers. “Remember the dad with all the children in heavy winter coats? Big buttons on the coats. You made sandwiches. Urso came in and bought his usual. Oh, look, there he is.”
“The dad?”
“Urso, the pill.”
I caught sight of him through one of the tent windows, introducing the new deputy-hopeful to locals. Seeing the young man made me think again of Chip standing on my grandparents’ porch, hat and flowers in hand. I was a wimp to have allowed my grandfather to scare him off. I should have confronted Chip and told him to stop pursuing me. On the other hand, he had claimed he’d come to tell me something. If that were so, why had he brought flowers? Should I have given him the chance to explain?
“Tell Urso about the missing cheese,” Rebecca said.
“Now?”
“No time like the present.” She prodded me.
Before she had pushed me two steps, a jaunty guy with shaggy hair sauntered into the tent. “Hey, Rebecca! Got a sec?”
“Fiddlesticks.” Rebecca uttered a teensy growl. “When did he get back in town?”
“Who is he?” I asked. He looked familiar—charming, with spirited, aware eyes.
“Don’t you remember Quigley?” Her tone was as tart as a cheese that had gone bad.
The man zipped through the throng saying, “I’m not cutting in line, folks, promise.”
Rebecca met him at the end of
the counter and thrust a finger at his chest. “Stop right there! You’re mean. And spiteful. And manipulative.”
He smirked. “I am not.”
“You took advantage of me when my armor was off.”
“The phrase is ‘when your armor was down.’”
Rebecca sputtered. “Ooh, you make me so mad.”
“May I quote you?” he gibed.
When Quigley offered a lopsided grin, it all came back to me. He was the reporter. A year or so ago, Rebecca had fallen for him hard until she found out he was dating other women. Lots of them. With money.
“You’re so cute when you get angry.” Quigley smoothed the lapel of his plaid blazer. “Beautiful, in fact.”
“O-o-oh,” Rebecca repeated, longer and shriller. She raised her arm, palm flat. Tension vibrated through her muscles. I could tell she wanted to slap him, but she held back. I was proud of her for showing restraint. I wasn’t sure what our customers would do if a fracas broke out. “Leave before I clobber you.”
“Gimme a quote.” Quigley held up a tape recorder. “Just one.”
“Not on your life.”
“Not even to save your boyfriend?”
“He’s innocent.”
“The police have evidence,” Quigley said.
“Ipo doesn’t know where those pu’ili sticks disappeared to. He hasn’t seen them in years.”
“What pu’ili sticks?”
Rebecca yelped. “You tricked me.”
“I did nothing of the sort.” He switched off his tape recorder.
“Racaille,” Rebecca said, adopting one of Pépère’s favorite words—French for rascal.
“I’ve been called worse. See ya.” Chuckling, Quigley sauntered from the tent like a cocky duck, tilting to and fro.
Rebecca grumbled. “I wouldn’t put it past him to have framed Ipo.”
“To gain what?” I asked. “You?”
“He’s a Lothario. That’s what your grandmother called him. He’s only interested in a woman if it benefits him. Good thing I never kissed him.”
She harrumphed and set back to work. In the ensuing calm, I started thinking about Kaitlyn’s Lothario. Had he been after more than sex? Property, perhaps? Or a return of property acquired by blackmail?
