Pressing the Issue

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Darned raccoons,” my aunt muttered as she tossed in more junk. “Sorry if I woke you.”

  “I guess we should be glad we don’t have bears in these parts,” I quipped.

  “Scavengers are scavengers. They’re all after a free meal.” She set two bricks on top of the trash can and wrapped her arms across her chest.

  “Was that Deputy Appleby hightailing it away?” I asked, knowing full well that it was.

  “Mm-hm.”

  I petted her shoulder. “What’s really eating you?” Usually she was easygoing when it came to the raccoons.

  “Marlon wants to get married.”

  Geez. Is marriage in the air? I bit back a giggle. “And you don’t?”

  “Why get married at our age? It’s not like we’re going to have children. And his grown children don’t want him to get married, so why aggravate them?” She exhaled sharply. “Scavengers.”

  “Surely, you don’t think Marlon is a scavenger,” I teased. “Or his children.”

  “No, the raccoons.”

  “Why did the deputy tear out of here?”

  She growled. “He’s mad because I didn’t go all girlie on him and gush over his proposal last night.”

  “Honestly?”

  “No. He’s ticked because I didn’t say yes”—she snapped her fingers—“like that.”

  “But he stayed until the morning.”

  “Hoping I’d change my mind.”

  “Did you tell him you’d think about it?”

  “I told him no a second time. Then he blew his top and asked if there was someone else. Men.” She puffed out a pfft sound. “They can be so insecure and controlling.”

  “You reassured him that you loved him, didn’t you?”

  “I told him to get real.” She sniffed.

  No wonder he’d stormed off. At times my aunt could be thickheaded. I held my tongue.

  After a long moment, she said, “I do love him, Jenna.” A smile tugged at the corners of her downturned mouth. “For a large man, he sure can sprint fast.”

  I laughed; so did she.

  “Call him,” I said. “Mend his broken heart.”

  “He won’t answer his cell phone. He never does.”

  “Then text him and add a few kissy-lips emojis.”

  “As if.” She made another pfft sound. “He’ll simmer down. In the meantime”—she kicked the trash can—“I’m furious with the raccoons.” Giggling, she kissed my cheek. “See you at the shop. I’m looking forward to the magic show.”

  • • •

  At nine a.m., Bailey and I, both clad in our fair costumes, bustled around the shop moving everything to the side—chairs, bookshelves, and display tables. We were expecting a big crowd.

  Around eleven o’clock, Tito arrived in full Merlin the Magician regalia: white beard, black cone hat, and black robe lined with silver. I barely recognized him. Months ago, he’d stepped in as our magician when the one we’d hired had canceled on us, and we discovered what a whiz he was at pulling silk flowers out of thin air and lighting up his fingertips. That was the moment Bailey had started to fall in love with him.

  “Good morning, everyone,” he said as if on a huge stage. “I have arrived.” He kissed Bailey and murmured mi amor, then he set up his staging area near the vintage kitchen table. He asked us to move a few bookshelves, but he didn’t want us to set up chairs. Everyone, he said, should sit on the floor. It would make the event more intimate.

  And make you look a lot taller, I mused.

  Discreetly, Bailey and I positioned a few chairs at the rear of the room in case there were elderly people who couldn’t manage the floor.

  A half hour later, dozens of people flowed into the shop: grandparents, parents, and children. To interest the adults, I’d set out a number of cookbooks with magic in the titles, like The Magic of Mini Pies: Sweet and Savory Miniature Pies and Tarts and Candy is Magic: Real Ingredients, Modern Recipes. Both had luscious pictures. Someday I wanted to attempt making a pie. Katie assured me that even if the pie shell stuck to the plate, no one would mind as long as the flavor was good. Soon, I promised myself. Soon.

  For the children, rather than setting out magic-themed books, I’d purchased a number of magic sets and individually packaged magic tricks. Nearly all of them sold before Tito began.

  After introducing himself as Merlin and telling the tale of himself as a great and powerful wizard, he started his show with a card trick. Following that, he did a cut-and-restore-the-rope trick to the amazement of all.

  Bailey leaned toward me at one point and said, “Beneath his crusty exterior lives the soul of a kid.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “I can’t wait to be his wife.”

  “I know.” I gave her a squeeze.

  When the applause died down after a sleight-of-hand trick, Tito said, “Now I shall show you the magic of the rings. I need a helper.” He chose a bruiser of a little boy who was dressed for the fair in a chemise and pantaloons and a not-so-medieval pair of Crocs. “Are you strong, young squire?”

  “Aye,” the boy replied.

  Tito held up two eight-inch rings. He clanged them together. The sound was melodious. “Examine the rings, young squire. Are there any holes? Any gaps?”

  The boy carefully examined the rings, his nose and eyes pressed so closely to them that he was staring cross-eyed. “No, sir.”

  “Watch carefully.” Tito spanked the rings together and they interconnected. The crowd gasped in awe. Tito yanked his rings and they came apart. “Want to give it a try?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Tito rummaged in his kit and produced a second pair of rings. He handed them to the boy. “Do as I do.”

  He held his two rings apart. The boy mimicked him. Tito clanged his rings together; they connected. The boy copied the motion, but his rings didn’t interlock. He tried again and again but to no avail. Clang, clang, clang. Children in the front row plugged their ears with their fingers.

  Tito removed the rings from his hands and said, “Sorry, son. Better luck next time. Magic doesn’t work for everyone.” Miraculously, he whisked a lollipop out of thin air and handed it to the boy. Then he thanked him for his service and directed him to retake his seat on the floor.

  When Tito introduced his last trick, the Magic Funnel, he owned the audience. Many were leaning forward, elbows anchored on their knees, trying to discern how Merlin was performing his wonders.

  Tito asked for another volunteer. All the children’s hands rose in the air. He selected a little girl wearing a garland of white flowers. “Step right up, young miss.” Her mother had to give her a little push. She stood shyly beside Tito. “Today, you and I are going to make water into wine.”

  “I don’t drink wine,” she said.

  The audience tittered.

  “Of course you don’t,” Tito said, “but you can make it for your mother.” He waved to the girl’s mother.

  “She doesn’t drink it, either,” the girl said. “She’s allergic.”

  Bailey nudged me. “Uh-oh. Tito is losing his patience. Look at him rubbing the underside of his nose. That’s a tell.”

  “Let him be. It’s good practice for him before becoming a dad.”

  She blanched. “Who said anything about us having children?”

  Oddly enough, she and I had never discussed the matter. “Um, gee.”

  “I don’t want kids. I would be a horrible mother.”

  “You’re great with the little ones when we have children’s projects.”

  “Sure I am—here—knowing I can send them home.”

  “Let’s table this discussion for now.” I pointed to Tito. “Watch your future husband perform a miracle.”

  Tito forced a big grin. “Okay, we’ll make water into Hawaiian Punch. Is that better?”

  The girl nodded.

  He gave her a measuring cup filled with water and asked her to hold it. He then lifted the magic funnel. He held it by the handle and sho
wed the audience the top and bottom of it. Then he set it mouth-side down on his table and spread his hands, front and back, for the audience—empty. He picked up the funnel, placed a clear glass beneath it, and said to the girl, “Ready?”

  She nodded.

  Waving his hand over the magic funnel, Tito said, “Eye of newt and teeth of boar, turn this water into punch forevermore. Pour the water, lass.”

  As she obeyed, Tito discreetly pressed on the topmost part of the funnel’s handle. The water that poured from the bottom of the spout came out red. The audience applauded. The little girl squealed with delight. I imagined there was a hidden compartment in the funnel, and when Tito pushed the magic button, he dispensed dye from the compartment. Clever.

  When all the liquid emptied into the glass, Tito picked it up and took a sip. “Ahh. Delicious juice. Bravo, young miss!”

  “May I take a taste?” the girl said, hands extended.

  “Uh, no. Sorry. ’Tis only for my lips.” Tito’s mouth twitched nervously. Obviously, he didn’t want her drinking dye. If it had been wine, she wouldn’t have asked.

  I rushed forward, hands overhead. “Okay, that’s it, folks. The show is over. I hope you enjoyed meeting Merlin the Magician. Merlin, hand your assistant a lollipop, and thank you for a wonderful show! Everyone, may you have a magical day.”

  • • •

  The rest of the day flew by. A half hour from closing, I said to Tina, “I’ve got to run. I forgot that I have to buy a cheese platter for tonight’s family dinner before swinging by and picking up Rhett at his shop. His car gave out on him this morning.”

  “Go,” she said. “Have fun. I can deal with the stragglers.”

  Four female minstrels with lutes, who looked like jesters in their mismatched checker-patterned and diamond-patterned costumes, had entered fifteen minutes ago. One was diligently leafing through each Renaissance-themed book we had in stock hoping to find a rare one for her mother. I had recommended A Sip Through Time: A collection of old brewing recipes, which contained over four hundred documented historical recipes for ale, beer, and the like, but that hadn’t satisfied her. I then suggested Eating Right in the Renaissance, which took the reader through historical sources in a spicy narrative. She snubbed her nose at that, as well. Her companions, who I was pretty sure had imbibed a glass or two of mead before arriving, were occupying themselves by trying on aprons and checking out pepper shakers, which one exclaimed worked well as maracas.

  “Don’t worry,” Tina said. “I won’t let them break anything, and if they do”—she pointed to a sign above the register: You break it; you own it—“I’ll demand cash.” She pushed me gently. “Go.”

  “I’ll return for Tigger as I make the loop.”

  “No worries. He’s having the time of his life.”

  Indeed, Tigger was merrily playing with the ball affixed to the end of the sisal rope on his kitty condo.

  I left and darted along Buena Vista Boulevard until I reached Say Cheese Shoppe, a darling place situated near the center of town. When decorating, Charlene had really taken the store’s catchphrase to heart. The walls were plastered with images of cartoonish smiles and cameras, and mirrors hung everywhere to give the shopper the chance to test out a grin or two. Whenever I entered the place, I couldn’t help but smile. I sidled past a table set with a mountain of jam and jelly jars and another piled with boxes of gourmet crackers. I considered purchasing a petrified wood cheese platter—Charlene had dozens of gorgeous platters—but decided against it. My aunt had plenty of serving dishes.

  “Afternoon, Jenna,” Charlene said, dusting her hands on her cheese-themed apron.

  “Are you about to close?”

  “Heavens, no. I’m staying open an extra hour. Fair folks like to slip in on their way back to their hotels and such. Business is booming. What can I get you?”

  “Give me a sec.” I peered into the cheese case, sizing up the various choices. “How is your daughter? What is she now, a sophomore at OSU?”

  “Good memory.”

  “What’s her major?”

  “Goofing off.” Charlene laughed. “Actually, it’s botany. She’s always been into plants. She wants to return home and save every endangered species in California.”

  “My aunt will be thrilled to hear that.” Aunt Vera volunteers on the local coastal commission and various other ecological organizations.

  “Either that, or she wants to own a garden store.” Charlene wet a towel and wiped down the cutting counter. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to tell you, we have a mutual friend.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Charlotte Bessette, the adorable woman who runs Fromagerie Bessette in Providence, Ohio.”

  “How did you two meet?”

  “I was visiting my daughter and decided to go on an Amish Tour. When the tour concluded, the guide took us on a quick outing in Providence. What a charming town.” She threw the soiled towel into a deep sink by the rear wall. “You know me. How could I resist going into a shop with the word fromagerie in its name? Over the past ten years, I’ve visited over a hundred cheese shops. I giggled when I heard Charlotte’s name. Isn’t it a funny coincidence that we both sell cheese and both have names starting with CH? She said you used to converse with her online.”

  “I haven’t in a long while.” I had reached out to her when Crystal Cove was hosting the Grilled Cheese Competition and the shop was featuring cheese-themed cookbooks. She’d offered some wonderful suggestions.

  “Sadly, you won’t. She had twins and is taking time off.”

  “Twins. How nice.” I recalled Bailey panicking at the concept of having children and wondered whether she would reconsider. Granted, some people aren’t meant to raise kids, but I thought for sure she’d be eager to.

  “Speaking of Ohio, I met someone who hails from there. A lady named Melody. What was her last name?” She tapped her finger on the side of her face. “She came in the shop the other day.”

  “Melody Beaufort?”

  “That’s the one. Between you and me”—Charlene propped her elbows on top of the cheese case—“she sure doesn’t sound like she’s from Ohio. She has a California accent.”

  “Californians have accents?”

  “Lordy, yes. You say some words very oddly.”

  “Like what?”

  “You say Bowie knife with a long o instead of the oo sound, like moo. And you say cauliflower with a short i, as in sit. Most folks say it with a long e, like a collie dog.” She twirled a finger. “Say caramel.”

  I obeyed.

  She pointed. “See? You say it with three syllables. Most utter two syllables, like the middle a doesn’t exist.”

  “Ha! You have an ear.”

  “Before becoming a cheese monger, I was going to be a linguist.” She wagged a hand. “I know, I know. How does one relate to the other? It doesn’t, but I fell in love with cheese, and the rest was history.”

  “Do you think Melody is a native Californian?” I asked, wondering again whether she might have known Nick at a previous time.

  “Not necessarily. She’s lived here for a bit. That’s enough time to assimilate. Why, I’ve known people who have lived in England for less than a year, and they sound one hundred percent English. Like actors taking on a new role, they adapt and change their tone.” Charlene hoisted a carving knife and slid it through a sharpener. “Melody and I were chatting about how my daughter would love to learn pottery. Melody suggested she check out the classes at an art school in Columbus. What was the name of it?” She tugged on her earlobe. “I remember. Clearlight. Lovely name. She said it has undergone a management change, but it boasts a terrific art program.”

  The chime over the front door jingled. Mayor Zeller entered, the folds of her innkeeper’s skirt kicking up as she rushed toward us.

  “Hello, Mayor, I’ll be right with you,” Charlene said.

  “Actually, I’m here to see Jenna,” Z.Z. said. “Tina told me you were here.” She held out a clear
DVD jewel case with a silver disk inside. “This is a fair-speak instructional video for you—a thank-you for participating. I’m on a mission to deliver them all by sundown. If you wish to share with friends, they can watch it online at the fair’s website.” She rattled off the URL.

  “Wonderful,” I said. “I haven’t had time to see it yet. Did it turn out well?”

  “Everyone is loving it. You have a nice little encounter with an elderly woman. Gotta run!” She scurried out the door.

  Charlene clucked her tongue. “My, my, that woman never slows down, does she? She’s a marvel. Now”—she pointed to the cheese counter—“what can I get you for tonight, Jenna? Have you made up your mind yet?”

  I ordered a wedge of Brie, manchego, and Collier’s cheddar. The last time I was in, Charlene had given me the full rundown on the history of that particular cheddar.

  “No goat cheese?” she asked. “I’ve got your father’s favorite. River’s Edge Up in Smoke.”

  I frowned. “I don’t always have to buy my father a treat, do I?”

  “You don’t, but you know how happy it makes him. How can you pass it up?”

  True. How could I? The tiny ball of chèvre, which was wrapped in a maple leaf and spritzed with bourbon, was uniquely delicious. Maybe, by treating my father, he would make the second kitty condo sooner rather than later.

  “Sold.” I pointed to a colander filled with ugly tomatoes and various other fruits on the counter behind Charlene. “Are those tomatoes and apples for purchase?”

  “They are.”

  “I’ll take two of each. Do you grow them yourself?”

  “Ha! I don’t have a green thumb. These are from Pepper’s garden. She brings them in and I give her a pound of cheese. It’s a fair swap. So many people, like you, want fresh goodies with their cheese. Sliced tomatoes and apples are simply the best.” She set the tomatoes on top of the cheese case and pulled the Collier’s cheddar from the case. As she unwrapped it, she glanced at me. She circled the tip of her carving knife in front of my face. “What’s got your nose in a scrunch?”