Fudging the Books

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  For the Street Scene, a lane on each of the four main streets of Providence that girded the Village Green would be closed. A volunteer construction crew was putting the finishing touches on portable stages, upon which would appear singers, fiddlers, actors, and more. To cap it off, my grandmother named Fromagerie Bessette the sponsor for the artisan cheese competition. There would be two rounds of tastings, ten artisanal cheese farmers in each round. At the end of each round, we would pick a winner. The two would vie for the grand prize. Grandmère hadn’t told me what the grand prize was yet. I was eager to find out.

  The front door flew open. Grandmère, looking colorful in a yellow sweater and red slacks, hurried to the tasting counter and perched on a ladder-back stool. Her face, though weathered, glowed with energy. “Charlotte, chérie! You will be so excited to hear.”

  “Hear what?”

  My grandfather followed her inside. “Our Charlotte has heard it all.”

  “Heard what?” I glanced from one to the other.

  Though Pépère was flushed and harrumphing like a disgruntled elephant, there was a twinkle in his eye. And why shouldn’t there be? He loved coming to the shop and sneaking pieces of cheese—sneaking, because Grandmère continually put him on a diet. Perhaps the latest regimen was working. His stomach did appear less paunchy, and his typically chubby cheeks looked almost lean.

  “Heard what?” I repeated.

  Pépère rounded the cheese counter, clutched me by the shoulders, and kissed me, la bise, on each cheek. Then he plucked a piece of cheese from the tasting platter.

  My grandmother tsked. “Etienne.”

  “What is wrong?” He took another and plopped it into his mouth daring her to chastise him.

  Grandmère frowned. What could she do? Pepérè was going to help out Rebecca for the next two days. She couldn’t eagle eye him every minute. He would either have self-control or not. Most likely, not. Grandmère turned her attention to me. “She has come.”

  “She, who?” I asked, intrigued.

  “That woman.” Grandmère waved a hand. “The cheese author. The one who writes about all the farms and cheese shops in America.”

  “Lara Berry?”

  “Oui.”

  A thrill of excitement rushed through me. In my world, Lara Berry was a star. In addition to being an author, she was a consultant who advised cheese makers how to market their product. “Where is she?”

  Grandmère said, “I saw her in La Chic Boutique buying a dress.” The boutique was one of two women’s dress shops in town. It offered classic styles at sky-high prices. “She is lean and tall, just like on the book cover.”

  “Why has she come?” I asked.

  Grandmère squinted. “Is she not here to attend the brain trust?”

  “She’s not on the list of attendees. I’ve got to meet her.”

  “You have read all her works, non?” Grandmère mimed opening a book. “Sont-ils de bons livres?”

  “Yes, they are very good books. C’est fantastique.” Occasionally my grandparents resorted to their native tongue. “She is very knowledgeable.” Lara Berry was the go-to cheese maven for American cheeses. “I’ve seen her on talk shows, too. She has quite a sharp sense of humor.”

  “Do you like her?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Bon. Then it will not matter that she is bossy.”

  “Bossy?”

  “Oui. Bossy. This is the correct word. She barks orders.” This coming from my grandmother, who could bark with the best of them. Some called her the little general.

  “Was Prudence being rude to her?” I asked. Prudence Hart, a woman with very strong opinions, was the owner of La Chic Boutique. She could rub people the wrong way.

  “Perhaps.” Grandmère chuckled. “Lara would not back down.”

  “Good for her.” I appreciated a woman who could stand her ground.

  The door to the shop flew open again. The chimes jangled. Matthew, my cousin, who reminded me of a Great Dane puppy mixed with a sheepdog, all arms and legs with a hank of hair invariably dangling down his forehead into his eyes, raced in. “Have you heard?”

  I nodded. “That Lara Berry is in town? Yes.” Lara not only knew her cheeses; she also knew wine. Her latest book, Educate Your Palate: A Connoisseur’s Guide to American Cheese and Wine, was a must-read for people like Matthew and me. Thanks to Lara’s research, I had discovered a wealth of new farms and creameries that put out excellent artisanal cheeses. Matthew had learned about a number of independent wineries, citing from Lara’s book that at the turn of the century there had been about two thousand wineries in America; now there were over eight thousand. “Grandmère saw her—”

  “No,” Matthew cut me off. “That’s not what I’m talking about. Have you heard about Meredith?” His wife and my best friend. “She’s pregnant!”

  “What? You’re kidding.” I did a happy jig. “How far along is she?”

  “Three months.”

  I stopped dancing. “Three months and neither of you said a word to me?”

  “She thought if she said something, she might jinx it. We’ve been trying. She lost one last year.”

  “She what?” I yelped. She hadn’t confided in me? What kind of friend was she? What kind of friend was I not to have sensed her pain?

  Matthew shrugged. “What can I say? Everyone’s got a secret.”

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