The Long Quiche Goodbye

by Avery Aames

  “You mean you want them. You lobby for them.”

  Grandmère was right. The people of Providence had a vote in what productions were done each season, and many, other than Kristine, enjoyed the celebrity and praise that the avant garde shows engendered.

  “And that great-granddaughter of yours,” Kristine went on, undeterred.

  Grandmère’s hands drew into fists. No one insulted her family. She breathed in shallow spurts, doing her best to maintain her composure.

  “She is a wild child,” Kristine continued, unfettered.

  “She belongs—”

  “Don’t say it!” Grandmère raised her hands, fingernails primed.

  “Go ahead. Hit me. I would expect nothing less from the likes of you heathens.”

  “Heathens? Why, you—” Grandmère lunged.

  Pépère burst out the front door. He grabbed her in the nick of time.

  “I rest my case.” Kristine lifted her pointed chin, her lips twitching with smug satisfaction. “As for you, Charlotte.” She whirled on me and stabbed her finger at my face. “My husband will never sell this building to you and that cousin of yours. I’ll see to it! Do you hear me? If I have my way, Ed will evict you when the lease is up next year. Evict you!” With that, she turned on her high heels and strutted away, her friends chanting in her wake, rally signs raised.

  Grandmère spun around and gazed at Pépère, tears swelling in her eyes. “Oh, mon ami, it is finished. Kristine and her rich friends will pressure people. She will destroy everything our family has cultivated in this town.”

  Pépère drew her into his arms. “Nonsense. The shop makes lots of money. Ed is not going to kick out tenants who pay on time.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that.

  Pépère ushered Grandmère into the shop, and I eyed the crowd that had gathered, which included a busload of tourists on a wine tour from Cleveland. “Show’s over, folks. All over.”

  As they disbanded, I caught sight of Ed Woodhouse standing on the sidewalk by the Country Kitchen. The man never failed to send a shiver down my spine. He always wore a black suit. The skin on his face clung to his bones. Some people said he was a womanizer, but I couldn’t see it. The Grim Reaper held more appeal.

  With adrenaline pumping so hard through my veins that I could hear it in my ears, I reentered the shop, wondering how I could salvage my grandmother’s reputation and the future of Fromagerie Bessette. I was relieved to see that the local farmers, including Jordan Pace, had slipped away during the commotion. I wasn’t in the mood to discuss artisanal cheeses, and I certainly wasn’t in the mood to flirt. I would reschedule the appointment for Monday, that is, if they weren’t all convinced that Fromagerie Bessette was going to be out of business within the month.

  “Psssst, Miss B?” Bozz stood by the display window his narrow shoulders hunched, fingers surprisingly not tapping the buttons on his cell phone. He swept a thatch of blond hair out of his eyes. “Got a sec?” He beckoned me with a crooked finger.

  Oh, great, I thought. He’s going to quit.

  “Sure,” I said with a forced smile and drew near.

  “I know a way you can buy this building,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER 3

  The next day, using a website, Bozz set me up as a corporation which he called Q. Lorraine, Inc., the Q for Quiche, which I thought was pretty darned clever. Via the anonymity of the corporation, which he said his uncle Luigi did all the time, I put a bid on the building, anonymous as long as Ed Woodhouse didn’t look up the principals in the company. I crossed my fingers, but I didn’t dwell on the outcome of the offer because I had more pressing problems—picketers who, thanks to their loyalty to the lovely Kristine, were marching in front of Fromagerie Bessette, either boycotting the reopening or demanding that my grandmother step down as mayor. If I couldn’t stop the revolt, we might lose so much business that it wouldn’t matter if we owned the building or not.

  “What are you going to do?” Matthew asked me as I angrily swept the floor.

  I set my broom aside and gripped him by the shoulders. “We are going to go door to door and convince people to side with us.”

  “We?”

  “You and me. Who better to plead our cause as well as Grandmère’s?”

  Matthew removed his chocolate brown chef’s apron, slung it on a hook by the rear door, and clapped his hands once. “Let’s go.”

  I grinned. Matthew might vacillate as a father, but he was decisive when it came to business.

  Before beginning our quest, we visited the wishing well near the center of town, as we had the day we took over the shop. Matthew tossed in the first nickel.

  “Make a wish,” I said.

  “I hope Amy will come around.”

  I squeezed his forearm. “Don’t worry. She will.”

  “Your turn.”

  I tossed in my coin. “I pray I won’t pull an ‘Amy’ and punch Kristine Woodhouse in the nose.”

  Matthew chuckled.

  In less than three hours, we convinced the owners at Sew Inspired, Mystic Moon, and dozens of other shops to join forces with us and support Grandmère for mayor.

  On the morning of the reopening, revitalized with enthusiasm, I threw open the shop windows to let in fresh, crisp air, and I hummed while I refaced and rewrapped the cut wedges of cheese. Pépère always says that buying cheese is a visual experience. We eat with our eyes first. My good mood fizzled, however, when Grandmère shambled into The Cheese Shop draped in a gray dress the size of a tent. Where had she found the hideous thing? She looked like an engine that had run out of steam. Pépère gave me a wink as he closed the door. He was on the case.

  I hugged my grandmother and urged her to eat something. She refused. I didn’t chastise her when I saw her slip Pépère a morsel of Délice de Rougemont, a succulent buttery cheese from Switzerland. How could I? She was tending to the one she loved. At times like these, I wished my mother was still alive. Grandmère often told me how my mother’s singing made her forget everything that was bad in the world. I recalled a lullaby she used to sing to me.

  Around noon, after arranging the platters of cheese and adorning them with the beautifully printed title cards Bozz had designed, I poured a hot cup of vanilla latte and led Grandmère into the wine annex. I eased her into a chair, set the cup on the mosaic table, and as my pièce de résistance, I sang a verse of the lullaby. Grandmère sipped the latte and attempted a smile, but I could tell she wanted none of it. I didn’t have a bad voice; she just wasn’t interested in drink or song. I fetched Pépère and told him to let Grandmère stay home if she couldn’t handle the evening. He nodded, mouth quavering, sweet blue eyes unable to hide that her pain was breaking his heart.

  For the better part of the early afternoon, Rebecca, Matthew, and I lined up wineglasses, opened bottles of wine, and tweaked the display windows. My other niece, Clair, dropped by after school to help Amy polish cheese spreaders. Two hours before the event, Matthew, Amy, Clair, and I raced home.

  In the privacy of my master suite, I fluffed up my hair, applied fresh rouge and lipstick, and changed out of my sweater and trousers into a gold silk blouse, a pair of tapered black silk pants, and beaded flats. I checked myself in the antique oval mirror and liked what I saw. Confidence. I hurried down the mahogany staircase and met up with Matthew and the girls in the foyer. He had dressed the twins in matching white frocks and white ballet slippers, although they looked like complete opposites. Clair was light to Amy’s dark, and taller by a head. The light from the grape motif chandelier I had purchased at an estate sale in Pennsylvania cast a warm glow on their smiling faces.

  “You look beautiful,” I said.

  The girls curtsied then giggled.

  I gave a tweak to Matthew’s tie. “And you are the best business partner I could ever imagine.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself.” He cuffed me lightly on the chin.

  I made sure Rags had plenty of water, and then the four of us set off for the shop
.

  About a half hour before the event was to begin, Jordan Pace showed up, uncharacteristically dressed in a white button-down shirt open at the neck, and tan slacks and loafers. Handsome as all get-out. He carried a honey-colored basket full of brilliant gold sunflowers and velvet red roses fitted with fern fronds and baby’s breath.

  “Evening, Charlotte,” he said. “The place looks great, except, hmmm . . .” He rubbed his chin. “It seems to be missing one thing.” His mouth turned up in a lopsided grin as he offered the basket to me. The smile reached his eyes and his gaze hit me like Cupid’s arrow. “They’re from my greenhouse. I’d hoped to bring them over earlier. Time got away from me. There are two wrist corsages tucked in there for your nieces.”

  “Thank you.” Heat rushed up my neck. I willed it away but failed. A gorgeous man had brought me . . . us . . . flowers!

  “You look very . . .” He paused.

  I tried to ESP him a word to fill in the blank. Nice, pretty, downright sexy.

  “I like your hair like that,” he said.

  Good enough.

  “Listen,” he went on. “I thought if you had a moment, we could talk—”

  “Charlotte.” Rebecca gripped my elbow.

  “What?” I said, turning red-faced instantly, horrified that I had snapped at her, and in front of Jordan no less, but I was certain that she had just interrupted Jordan asking me out. On the other hand, he could have merely wanted to discuss payment arrangements.

  “Your grandmother’s here.”

  “Oh, of course, thank you.” I licked my lips and smiled. “Rebecca, would you please put these flowers in a vase and give the girls their corsages? And Jordan, why don’t you try a bite of that cheese over there?” I pointed to the Cabot Clothbound Cheddar, a delicacy from Vermont with just a hint of crystallization. Jordan was the kind of guy who would like a bold cheese. I would stake my reputation on it.

  “We’ll talk later?” He shot a finger at me.

  Bull’s-eye.

  “You bet.” I zeroed in on Grandmère and Pépère as they neared the center display of crystal cheese platters, copper fondue pots, and other accessories, and my jitterbugging heartbeat returned to normal. Grandmère looked reenergized. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks rosy. I felt confident she would have a tart comeback to anything Kristine Woodhouse might say.

  “Love the outfit,” I said.

  Grandmère twirled. Her layered black skirt fluted up around her aging dancer’s legs. She wore a lacy white peasant blouse over the skirt, stylishly cinched with a tooled silver belt. “Made the blouse myself,” she said. What couldn’t she do? She clutched my elbow and drew me near. “I heard you have been tilting at windmills on my behalf. Merci.”

  “Do not give up yet, Grandmère. People will vote for you.”

  “Ah, but we do not know what people do behind closed doors, do we?”

  I kissed her cheek then hitched a thumb at the wine annex. “Matthew and the girls are in there.” Before she could voice a concern, I added, “Don’t worry. I made fresh-squeezed lemonade for them, and the sitter is coming to get them in one hour.”

  Grandmère pinched my cheek. “You will be a fabulous mother one day.”

  One day. The clock was ticking.

  The grape-leaf-shaped chimes jingled.

  “Showtime,” Grandmère said.

  My stomach tightened as she hurried to the door and wedged it open with a stopper.

  The first to arrive were a handful of locals, all dressed in their finest.

  Vivian Williams sailed in behind them, looking as wind-blown as she had the other day. She wore a sea blue, long-sleeved silk dress that matched her eyes. “Lovely, simply lovely,” she said as she passed by me.

  I glowed. A compliment from her was a real treat.

  Close on her heels came Ed Woodhouse, alone. He trundled to the rear of the shop.

  Next to arrive was a group of elementary schoolteachers, Meredith among them. She looked radiant in a yellow sundress, her tawny hair brushed off her face, a pair of diamond studs in her ears. She scanned the room. When her gaze met mine, I waved. She raced to me, clutched my elbow, and tugged me to the corner of the room.

  “You’ll never guess,” she said, breathless and starry-eyed.

  “What?”

  “I’m seeing someone.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll tell you soon, when I figure it out.”

  “What’s to figure out?”

  “Timing. But he’s dreamy. He reads me poetry and he spoils me.”

  “Sounds perfect. C’mon, who? A teacher?”

  “No.”

  “The guy who owns the sport shop? The artist? The cabinet maker?” I knew every boy Meredith had ever had a crush on.

  She locked her lips and tossed away an imaginary key, just like we did when we had big secrets in fourth grade.

  “Okay, I won’t pry . . . for now.”

  She giggled. “How’re things with you-know-who?”

  I sighed. “He almost asked me out.”

  “Almost is only good in horseshoes, Charlotte. Get cracking! And good luck tonight.”

  She kissed my cheek and hurried to rejoin the other teachers. As they entered the wine room, a cluster of wine tour folks from Cleveland, all of whom were dressed in matching brown T-shirts, walked into the shop. The voluptuous tour guide, a bleached blonde whose name I couldn’t recall, wore strands of silver necklaces that she continuously twisted around her fingers. As the throng meandered toward the wine annex, uttering oohs and aahs about the vast selection of cheeses and accompaniments, the butterflies in my stomach subsided.

  Rebecca left her post behind the counter and scooted to my side, her face pinched with displeasure. “Hmph. That Mr. Woodhouse smells of whiskey. His palate will be ruined.”

  I grinned. Rebecca, the budding cheesemonger and wine expert.

  She swept her hair over her shoulders. “I put the flowers on the counter. Aren’t they pretty?”

  They looked beautiful, a perfect finishing touch. Perhaps tomorrow I would send Jordan a thank-you note on our personal stationery and hint—just hint—at a date.

  “Oh, I’ve got customers.” Rebecca hurried back to the wood counter and presented slices of Manchego one-year cheese to a few of the bus tour people. They murmured their appreciation.

  I looked around for Jordan but didn’t see him. What I did see made my pulse race. Grandmère had cornered Ed Woodhouse, or maybe vice versa, by the shelves holding honey and jam. They were arguing. In the center of the room, Pépère chatted with some of the townsfolk, ignorant of the quarrel.

  Grandmère poked her finger into Ed’s chest and said loudly, “You will not evict us, you old goat. Not if you want your secrets kept secret.”

  Ed pushed her away and marched into the wine annex without an apology.

  I ran to Grandmère, who recovered her balance on her own. I said, “What’s going on?”

  “Bah! Ed Woodhouse.” She gave an angry tug to her blouse and her belt. “He . . . he makes my blood boil.”

  Through the arch of the annex, I spied Ed cozying up to Meredith, who was chatting with friends at the wine bar. Ed slid an arm around her waist. She quickly stepped away. He sniggered, then moved on to the tour guide in the brown T-shirt and silver necklaces, and patted her ample rump. I ground my teeth together. Did the man have no shame?

  “We pay the rent,” Grandmère went on. “We have never missed a payment. He and Kristine . . . they are . . .” She flipped her hand in the air.” . . . impossible!” She hurried around the wood counter and disappeared into the office.

  I signaled Pépère, who shuffled after her as another dozen townsfolk wandered into the shop, among them people whom I had solicited for votes. As I thanked them for coming, Meredith sauntered to my side and winked.

  “Looks like you’ve got a hit on your hands, girlfriend.” She sidled over to the tasting platter, which held one of my special tortes, made of layers of Stilton and mascarpon
e cheese, decorated with pecans and cranberries. “Amy’s due back at school tomorrow. Is she up to it?”

  “She’ll be there.”

  Using a silver-handled cheese spreader, Meredith slathered the creamy torte onto a buttery cracker and popped it into her mouth. “Oh, my. Yum. What wine goes with this?”

  “A sauvignon blanc.” Matthew had educated me on our choices for the evening. He was brilliant at pairing wine with food. “We have one from the Bozzuto Winery.” Bozz’s family had been vintners for two generations. “It’s crisp with undertones of pineapple and melon.”

  “Sounds tasty. I’ll have to get some.”

  “C’mon, tell me, who you’re dating,” I said, still dying to know.

  “Say, isn’t that the reporter from Délicieux?” Meredith said, side-stepping the question. She gave me a thumbs-up. “Have fun.”

  She returned to the wine annex as Zinnia made a beeline for me, her floral T-shirt replaced with a severe suit that did nothing for her boxy shape, but far be it from me to tell her that. I wanted her to write a flattering article about the shop. She held a camera in one hand, a notepad with pen in the other. Before I could object, she snapped a picture. I winced. I do not usually look good in candid photos, but at least this wouldn’t be a picture of our family in turmoil.

  Zinnia leaned in close. “Guess what I heard at the diner?” Her voice sounded hoarse, as if she had been talking nonstop for hours. “Ed Woodhouse sold the building east of yours to a developer. I also heard that Lois’s Lavender and Lace, the B&B where I’m staying, is asking the town’s permission to turn her garage into a commercial space. What a charming house, by the way, with those lovely dormer windows and the white lattice fence.”

  My Victorian had similar features. I had chosen an eleven-paint scheme for the exterior in keeping with the original owner’s design. The tiles surrounding the dormer windows reminded me of a roll of Necco wafers.

  “And did you hear—?”

  “Well, well, well,” Kristine Woodhouse said, her shrill voice carrying over the crowd and cutting Zinnia’s gossip short. She strutted into Fromagerie Bessette with her clique of wealthy friends trailing behind, dressed like they were attending Easter Sunday at church, white gloves in hand. Did Kristine intend to bring gloves back into fashion?