Days of Wine and Roquefort

by Avery Aames

  An hour later, Noelle, who was perched on a stool behind the cheese counter, yawned. Who could blame her? She had been observing Rebecca and me tending to dozens of customers at The Cheese Shop. We had sliced and wrapped more than fifty pounds of cheese. If she had been a gossip hound, she might have found the chatter interesting.

  “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll browse the stores,” she said. She added that she wanted to commemorate her big career decision by buying mementos.

  I mentioned the ex-boyfriend, but she assured me she knew Boyd well enough to know that he was gone for good.

  At the end of the day when I arrived home, I was surprised to find Noelle had arrived before me. For a tall woman, she looked petite sitting cross-legged on the bed, her back to the entrance, her right arm moving as if she were scribbling notes on something. Her computer sat propped on the bed in front of her. A shopping bag nestled beside the desk. Only the reading lamp on the desk was illuminated.

  I rapped on the opened door. “Hi. What are you writing?”

  “Oh, nothing. Journals, notes, the usual.” She closed the computer and, like a yoga pro, twisted at the waist as she set two leather-bound books and a pen on the bedspread. “Did you have a good day?”

  “Fruitful. Plenty of customers, lots of sales. I wasn’t expecting to see you until much later.” She had made plans to have dinner at Matthew’s house. “Have you eaten?”

  “Grilled pork chops smothered in onions, roasted potatoes topped with Roquefort, and a crisp autumn salad. Delicious. But the twins have exams tomorrow,” she explained, “so I left before dessert. They miss you by the way.”

  A lump formed in my throat. I missed them, too. I missed drilling them on multiplication tables and teaching them new recipes and reading in the attic and . . .

  Buck up, Charlotte.

  “That French Briard is something else,” Noelle said.

  “Isn’t he?” I adored the way Rocket begged for treats and how, on our walks, he would bop his head against my thigh so I would take his favored route. But life marched on, like troops to war. He was the twins’ dog; he belonged with them. I blinked back tears.

  “What are you going to eat?” she asked.

  “I’m skipping dinner and going right for dessert. I made a batch of Roquefort honey ice cream last week that will be perfect served with some honeyed pears and raisins. Add a glass of sauterne and I’ll be good to go. What did you buy at the shops?” I indicated the gift bag.

  “Oodles of goodies. Some hand-embroidered kitchen towels, decorative wine stoppers, and yarn. I was thinking of taking up crocheting.”

  “Good luck. I can’t figure it out for the life of me, though the shop owner next door to Fromagerie Bessette is a whiz.” I stepped a little closer. “Hey, have you been crying?” Streaks of mascara trailed down Noelle’s face. I hoped my tears weren’t catching. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine.” She swiped a forefinger across each cheek. “I’m a little overwhelmed.”

  “No more Boyd encounters?”

  “I told you. Don’t worry about him. He’s harmless.”

  Her innocent dismissal made me shudder. Boyfriends weren’t always harmless. I knew from personal experience. “Want to join me for ice cream?”

  “I’ll pass. I’ve got to hit the hay. Tomorrow’s the tour. The day after that, it’s down to business.” Noelle slid off the bed and toted the computer and journals to the desk. As she pulled a shiny blue thumb drive from the USB port of the computer and hit enter to trigger the screen saver, the topmost journal flipped opened.

  Inside the journal were glossy squares that she had pasted on the pages like scrapbook art. Intrigued, I moved closer. “What are those?”

  Noelle glanced from me to the opened book. “Wine labels. I’m a collecting fiend. Do you know how hard they are to remove from bottles? Labels from old bottles are the easiest; modern labels have better glue. I adore the intricacies.” She stretched her arms over her head, yawned, and then slapped the book closed. “You’re coming with Matthew and me to the winery, right? You promised.”

  I nodded. I hadn’t visited the Shelton Nelson Winery in ages. I looked forward to the tour.

  • • •

  “Welcome, ladies.” With his leathery skin and guy-who’s-sat-in-a-saddle-all-his-life gait, Shelton Nelson reminded me of old-time westerns. Happy trails, to you. He unbuttoned his sheepskin jacket, then removed his cowboy hat and ruffled his dirty blond hair. “This way.” He led Noelle, Matthew, and me around the rustic winery’s visitor room. Afternoon sun blazed through the west-facing windows. A few tourists tagged behind us, ears craned to glean some juicy tidbit of the vineyard’s history.

  “I started with a modest twelve acres,” Shelton said. He hitched a thumb toward the first of a series of chronological photographs—this one of a small, lush plot of land with a modest home at the top of the bluff. “I thought I only wanted a retreat from my law practice in Cleveland, but then my passion grew and so did my holdings.”

  If Noelle hadn’t divulged on the drive over that Shelton had been a litigation lawyer, I never would have guessed. He didn’t seem to have the flair or doggedness, though she claimed he had been very good at it. He had won a number of hefty environmental class action lawsuits and made millions from them.

  “Now, I own over five hundred acres,” he went on. The next photograph depicted the growth of the estate. “Half of the acres are planted. We grow four different grapes. Only the finest, mind you. And we take no shortcuts. Making fine wine takes time.”

  Like a good cheese, I mused.

  “I care more about the process of making wine and preserving the land than about how the wine tastes.”

  “Ha! Don’t let him fool you,” Noelle said. “His wines appear in many of the top restaurants in the U.S. He cares about taste.”

  “We make them without SO2,” Shelton said.

  “That means no sulfur dioxide,” Noelle translated. “They’re all natural.”

  “Shelton only uses horses to till the soil,” Matthew added. “He believes that tractors smother the roots.”

  “It’s all about the roots and how they search”—Shelton demonstrated by twisting his hand downward—“digging deep, as if they are on—”

  “A quest,” Noelle said.

  “Exactly, darlin’. A quest to drink in the earth’s flavor.” Shelton paused in front of a landscape oil painting that could have hung in the Louvre. Blue skies and fluffy white clouds set the backdrop for deep green rolling hills tinged with the first golds of autumn. “Home Sweet Home is my flagship vineyard.”

  The door to the visitors’ gallery swept open. A young woman, whom I recognized as Liberty Nelson, with heavily lined oval eyes and a catlike gait, strode in. Dust clung to her black denim outfit and riding boots. While removing her cowboy hat and shaking out her sleek black hair, she said, “Home Sweet Home produces our best grape.”

  A bookish-faced man with longish hair followed her inside while saying, “We have two other fine vineyards: Sweet Darlin’ and The Good Life.”

  “But Home Sweet Home is our best, Harold,” Liberty countered while shooting him a feral look that would have made the most stalwart man cringe. Harold didn’t appear very stalwart. In fact, he looked emaciated. His tweed jacket and slacks hung on him as if he had lost quite a bit of weight. “By the way, Daddy.” Liberty crossed to her father and pecked his cheek. “The workmen are doing a good job. I made the rounds.”

  “You mean, we made the rounds,” Harold said. “Liberty insisted on riding the mare.” His ropy neck muscles ticked with tension. It appeared he didn’t like Shelton Nelson’s daughter.

  Missing the clash or choosing to ignore it, Shelton looped an arm around his daughter’s back. “Noelle, you remember my daughter.”

  “Yes, we met on a previous visit. You’re getting married soon. Congratulations.” Noelle thrust a hand in Liberty’s direction first. A wise decision. I suspected Liberty had her father wrapped around her lit
tle finger.

  Liberty didn’t reciprocate. Instead, she assessed Noelle, who had dressed in a chic silk sweater and matching skirt, pearl stud earrings, and a simple pearl necklace. Self-consciously, Noelle’s hand moved to the collar of her sweater and then her throat.

  Shelton continued, “And this is Harold Warfield, the vineyard’s manager.”

  “Overseer,” Harold said.

  “I don’t pay more for the title,” Shelton joked.

  Harold grinned. I was pretty sure he liked his boss. “We met, too, Miss Adams.” He extended his hand to Noelle. His grasp appeared weak, not an I’ll-show-you-who-is-in-power grip. In fact, he didn’t seem to want to touch her. Was he a germaphobe? Perhaps an illness had caused the apparent weight loss. “Welcome,” he said, though his tone held an edge, whether for Liberty or Noelle, I wasn’t sure. “Matthew, good to see you. And you’re Charlotte.” He acknowledged me. “I’ve heard so much about Fromagerie Bessette. Sorry I haven’t stopped in. My wife keeps me on a strict diet.”

  Aha. That explained the weight loss. I had met his wife on a number of occasions. She was nice, although somewhat timid. I remembered her saying that her husband and his college buddies were real foodies. She adored double-cream cheeses. The men, as she called them, preferred hard cheeses like Parmigiano.

  “You shouldn’t pass up the opportunity for a visit, Harold,” Shelton said. “Charlotte and Matthew have done wonders with the place. There’s a fabulous cheese counter, all the trimmings, and a wine annex that will knock your socks off. When you go, see if Matthew will give you a tour of the cellar, although”—he winked—“his cellar doesn’t hold a candle to mine.”

  Matthew chuckled. “Not many can.”

  “Charlotte,” Shelton continued. “I swear that Golden Glen Creamery River Cheddar with the pineapple finish you offer is going to be the death of me. I buy a pound every time I stop in the shop and devour it inside of two days.”

  In my head I heard my grandmother’s voice whisper: Everything in moderation, but I kept mum. Shelton Nelson was probably stretching the truth. He didn’t look like a glutton, unless he overindulged by taking in too much sun and fun. “Now, how about that tour?” he said.

  “Mr. Nelson, wait.” A striking dark-haired man, with a prominent widow’s peak and a cocky swagger, burst into the room and jogged to Shelton. He pulled a tape recorder from the inside pocket of his natty plaid blazer and, in a British accent that bordered on Cockney, said, “Could you spare a moment? Ashley Yeats, The Brit Speaks.” He tapped the butt of his pen against his lapel. “I would like to do an article on the winery.” He paused. “That’s not entirely truthful. I want to do a piece on you, actually. From Sic ’em Lawyer to Kick ’em Winemaker.” He swept the air to display the imaginary title. “Catchy, don’t you think? But I haven’t been able to get through to you for approval. Your girl”—he paused—“your assistant is like the bloody Wall of Jericho. I think I need a trumpet.”

  Shelton cast an indulgent glance at his daughter. “My daughter can be stubborn.”

  “Oh, it’s you?” The journalist offered Liberty a smirk. “Beg our apologies.”

  I didn’t believe he was sorry in the least. Neither did Liberty, it appeared. She puckered her mouth like she had downed a handful of sour grapes.

  “What’s your name again, son?” Shelton said.

  “Yeats. Ashley Yeats. Call me Ashley. The Brit Speaks. I heard about your renowned wine collection. I thought I’d come to town to check you out.”

  “When did you arrive?”

  “Yesterday. I’m getting used to the time change.” Ashley pocketed the recorder and whipped out a leather business card holder. Like a deft card dealer, he offered a white linen card to Shelton and Harold but shunned Liberty, who arched her back and wrinkled her nose with displeasure. To Noelle he said, “You’re the new hire, aren’t you? Sommelier extraordinaire. What was that wine you touted a month or so ago in Bon Appétit?” He twirled the pen in his fingers. “Testa Winery Meritage, wasn’t that it? I believe you wrote, ‘It opens with notes of blackberry and anise. With a little more air, you’ll detect hints of crème brûlée.’” He added, “Great legs,” though I didn’t think he was referring to the wine. His eyes grazed Noelle from her calves to her face. “After interviewing Mr. Nelson, I would love to get your take on the health of the wine industry.”

  “We’ll see.” Noelle sounded tense.

  Ashley held out a business card. Noelle didn’t reach for it. Did she know the guy? I glanced at Matthew for corroboration. His forehead was pinched with tension.

  The journalist turned back to Shelton. “So what do you say, Mr. Nelson?”

  “I like you, son. You’ve got chutzpah. Sure, I’ll give you an interview right after I show these nice folks around the spread. And call me Shelton.”

  “Daddy, no,” Liberty said.

  “No secrets here, darlin’. If I’ve told you once . . .”

  “. . . we are an open book,” Liberty finished through tight teeth.

  “Can I come along?” Ashley said. Cheeky didn’t even begin to describe him.

  “No, you may not,” Liberty hissed. I was surprised she didn’t stamp her foot. A pampered girl like her could probably drum up megawatt tears at the drop of a hat.

  “In a while, son,” Shelton offered. “In a while.”

  • • •

  Single file, we followed Shelton out of the visitors’ gallery and into the primary winery structure. In less than ten minutes, I realized the Shelton Nelson Winery rivaled many of the U.S. wineries that Matthew and I had visited on one of our cheese-and-wine-tasting ventures. In a word, SNW, as the locals called it, was spectacular. The facility, with two cellars—one strictly for oak casks and the other fitted with state-of-the-art stainless steel vats—was enormous. The tasting room was set up with an L-shaped bar, the far side for sampling red wines and the nearer portion for sampling whites. Shelves along the walls were filled with beautiful stemware, each glass etched with the SNW logo. Rotating book stands crammed with literature about the vineyard, the history of the grape, and wine-related cookbooks stood in the center of the room.

  “This is Harold’s office,” Shelton said, indicating like a tour guide.

  Harold’s office was organized to perfection, with every file folder and earnings or growing chart in a tidy pile, and yet artwork that hung on the walls—a couple of Jackson Pollock–style oil paintings—hinted at a chaotic alter ego. Liberty’s office of beige-on-beige was elegant yet forced. Something about the young woman cried out for personal expression. Shelton’s offices were decorated with plush furniture and handsome antiques. His desk was super-neat with all the corners of the blotter, photographs, and boxed pen set squared. Beyond his desk stood a legal-length table that held plans for expanding the winery and printouts of inventory. On the walls hung photo ops of Shelton with Ohio’s famous and infamous. His grin was infectious.

  “What’s in there?” Noelle pointed to the room that lay beyond a glass wall.

  “A recording room. Daddy likes to do his own commercials.” Liberty intoned, à la Shelton: “Shelton Nelson Winery. The finest flavors this side of the Mississippi.”

  Whenever I made the rounds of farms, I often listened to the radio. I had heard the commercials.

  Shelton beamed like a proud papa. “Liberty had a hand in designing everything.”

  “If he doesn’t watch out,” Liberty teased, “I’ll take over, too.”

  “Look at this.” Shelton crossed to a mahogany credenza and picked up a vase painted with a depiction of the vineyard. He held it out for inspection. A date was scrawled at the bottom. “My ex-wife had this commissioned the day we signed the deed.”

  “It’s exquisite,” Noelle said.

  Shelton set the vase down and said, “Psst. Let’s have a little look-see, shall we?” Like a kid on a secret mission, he beckoned us with a finger and guided us outside the facility. Matthew and Noelle trailed him, then I followed. Liberty and Ha
rold took up the rear. We went around a corner, down a dirt path, and beneath an arbor of leafless grape vines.

  “Where are you taking us?” Noelle asked.

  “My hideout, darlin’. Careful, the path is a little slippery with the recent rain.”

  “I love hideouts,” Noelle said. “When I lived in the orphanage, I had all sorts of hiding places. I tried to keep the nuns on their toes.”

  Shelton chortled. “Were your hideouts well stocked with rare wine?”

  “Hardly. I’d have been lucky with a dried piece of toast wrapped in a napkin.”

  When we reached a pair of ironwork-studded oak doors, Shelton rapped once and waited. He appeared perplexed, but after a moment, he chuckled. “Heh-heh. I’m fooling around. We don’t need a secret knock to enter.” He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and slotted one into the lock on the door. After giving it a twist, he pressed the door open. It groaned with resistance. “Welcome to my lair. Drink in the scent as you enter.”

  Though double in size to the cellar beneath Fromagerie Bessette, Shelton’s cellar was similarly decorated. Paintings of the Providence countryside adorned the walls; alcoves were lit with warm amber sconces.

  As we passed beneath brick-and-mortar archways, Shelton said, “And now, the pièce de résistance. Voilà and welcome.”

  We entered a huge cave. My breath caught in my chest. It was spectacular. Massive hurricane candles decorated a long dining table. Rows and rows of wood-hewn cubbies holding bottles of wine filled me with awe.

  Matthew wandered away for a moment then raced back and squeezed my hand. “You’ve got to see this.”

  Shelton heard him. “My mini-fortune? Yes, come see.” He led us to an area protected by a heavy wrought iron gate with a latch handle and spear tops. The gate reminded me of something I had seen in an old church.

  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.”