For Cheddar or Worse

by Avery Aames

  He released me. “You talked so glowingly about Meredith.”

  Sure I did, when I wasn’t carping about the fact that she had kept her secret from me.

  “Do you want to have children?” he asked.

  I gulped. In recent months, Jordan and I had skirted the notion but had never fully discussed the fine points. I was in my mid-thirties. Ticktock on the old fertility clock. Could I even bear a child? Jordan was older than I was by five years, not that men had to worry about that sort of thing. But did he want children now? We both had careers. His work at the restaurant often went well into the night. And we wanted to travel. Everywhere. Could we manage having children? Would it be wrong of us to have them if we couldn’t devote quality time to them?

  “Charlotte?” Jordan cupped my chin.

  CHAPTER

  3

  “Oh, look,” I said. “Guests have arrived.”

  An array of cars was parked in front of the inn: a Mercedes SL, a Mustang, and a Lincoln Town Car. A gentleman carrying two pieces of luggage was climbing the stairs to the porch.

  Jordan didn’t let go of my chin. “Charlotte, talk to me.”

  I rose on my tiptoes and kissed him on the lips. “We’ll discuss plans after the weekend, okay? I’m desperately in need of snacks and a glass of wine.”

  We returned to our room, changed in a jiffy, and hurried downstairs to the party.

  While we were taking our walk, Erin had set up the cocktail reception in the living room. She had brought in beautiful vases filled with spring flowers. Trays of appetizers plus platters holding a vast array of cheeses and fruits sat on a buffet table. A bartender, casually dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, stood behind a makeshift bar. He was pouring glasses of wine and other assorted beverages. A dozen people, including a couple of regional cheese makers and distributors whom I recognized, crowded his station.

  “There’s Shayna Underhill,” I whispered to Jordan. “I want you to meet her.”

  Even from the back, I would recognize Shayna. She was a fifty-something earth-mother type. At times I wondered if she had honed her fashion sense during the flower-child era. Her long curly mass of auburn hair was tied back with a blue velvet ribbon that matched her blue Bohemian-style silk purse and the wide, faux-sapphire-studded belt that cinched her white gauze dress.

  As if knowing my gaze was on her, Shayna swiveled. The hem of her dress billowed, revealing her bare calves and sandal-clad feet. I smiled. So did she.

  “Charlotte, darling.”

  Shayna sashayed toward us while sipping a clear bubbly beverage in a wineglass. We kissed each other on the cheek, then Shayna nudged me to do a pirouette and appraised me. I had donned a pastel knee-length dress and a pair of strappy heels. She smiled. “Marriage suits you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Shayna turned to Jordan and assessed him openly from head to toe. “So you’re Mr. Right.”

  “I am.”

  Shayna winked at me. “Good choice. He has kind eyes.”

  Jordan grinned and thumbed toward the bartender. “Charlotte, red or white?”

  “Chardonnay if they have it.”

  “This could take a while.”

  “Don’t hurry, Jordan.” Shayna touched my arm. “Charlotte and I will catch up.”

  Jordan sauntered off.

  “So, how did you meet your hunky man?” Shayna asked. “And does he have a younger or older brother? I’m not picky.”

  “Sorry, no.” He’d had a younger brother who died years ago.

  “Poor me. I love a man with an easy smile. I can see how much he adores you.” She took another sip of her drink. “Tell me all about him.”

  I quickly brought her up to date on Jordan’s life, how he had handed over his farm and bought the restaurant.

  “And he cooks?” she whispered. “How charming.”

  “Is there a man in your life?”

  “Sweetie, there hasn’t been for years. Oh, sure, a few since Steven, but no one . . . special. I don’t mind being single,” Shayna went on. “If I needed to pay attention to a man, I wouldn’t have time to manage my empire.”

  “How are your daughters?”

  Shayna laughed. “Between you and me, don’t have girls. Both have put me through the wringer these past few years. They battled me coming out of the womb, and now they’re fighting me tooth and nail, even though both have long since graduated college and have thriving careers.”

  “Are either married?”

  “Ha! Never. Don’t even talk to me about grandchildren.”

  “Neither of your daughters went into the cheese business?”

  “And get their hands dirty? Heaven forbid.” Shayna took another sip of her sparkling water. “How about you? Do you plan to have kids?”

  I felt my cheeks redden.

  Shayna tapped my forearm. “Don’t tell me. You’re pregnant!”

  “No, but Jordan and I—”

  “Are thinking about it?”

  “We just opened the discussion a few minutes ago.”

  “Marvelous! However, do you want my two cents? Talk and talk about it. Find out how both of you feel. Make plans. Agree. My husband and I didn’t, and it was rough. He wasn’t there for me. I’m not saying this because he died. From day one, he wasn’t . . . there. He loved the farm. That was his baby. All of us”—Shayna gestured to include everyone in the room—“rarely make vows in our lives. I had taken Steven’s and mine seriously. He . . .” She rolled her eyes. “You need a partner during the whole process.” She squeezed my arm. “Promise me you’ll talk.”

  I nodded. “Speaking of partners, you and Lara Berry were in business at one time.”

  Shayna winced. “Were is the operative word.”

  “Erin and I were talking earlier, and neither of us knew why the partnership ended. Care to reveal why?”

  Shayna’s mouth quirked up in a tense way. “Let’s just say Lara can be domineering. She has a lot of rules.”

  Based on the few times I had seen Lara Berry on television, I didn’t consider her heavy-handed. She shared openly with interviewers. She smiled easily. I often thought I’d like to have her as a friend.

  Shayna added under her breath, “A lot of rules. She is a perfectionist. I’m not. I couldn’t measure up. I always disappointed her. She—” Shayna drew in a deep breath. “What does it matter? What’s past is past. She took half of everything and went on her merry way. Water under the bridge.”

  “Half?”

  “That was our agreement.”

  “She did well after she left.”

  “Yes, she has made quite a name for herself. From humble cheese monger to successful cheese maker to superstar.” Shayna laughed, but it didn’t sound genuine. “Truth be known, she was consulting and writing long before she broke off from me. She became bored with our little operation. It was inevitable.”

  “Hey, babe!” a man speaking into a cell phone said loudly. He didn’t seem to notice that everyone around him went silent. “Yeah, it’s me!” he continued. In his forties with a thick head of dark hair, bushy eyebrows that weaved together above his dark eyes, and a store-bought tan, he swaggered past Shayna and me. “Yeah, heh-heh.” The guy reminded me of my ex-fiancé, not in coloring but with his bluster. All hat but no cattle, Jordan would say. “Yeah, I thought you’d want to hear from me.” The guy moseyed toward the window, pulled a toothpick from his pocket, and proceeded to clean his teeth. A real charmer.

  I turned to Shayna. “I gather he’s another person you’re not a fan of.”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  I giggled. “Yep. Your nostrils flared. Your eyes grew flinty. Who is he?”

  “Mr. Self-Important Victor Wolfman.”

  “I know that name. He owns Gourmet for the Masses, right?”

  “That’s the one.
”

  GFM, as it was known in the trade, was an Internet-based group that imported cheese, meats, chocolate, specialty foods, and more.

  “Keep your distance,” Shayna advised. “Slime oozes off of him. He hits on anything in a skirt, although you’re probably safe since you’re married. There’s nothing he likes less than a married woman. Unless, of course, you care to talk to him about French things.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “He’s a true blue Francophile.”

  “Aha! I wondered why so many items offered on the GMF site are French.”

  Shayna nodded. “Anything French, according to Victor, is better than anything American, except taxes and health care. So if you agree with him, he’ll talk your ear off and try to steal you from your man.”

  “He’d better not run into my grandparents,” I said. “They’re one hundred percent in favor of all things American.” To show their unflagging support of their adopted homeland, they use quaint Americanisms with fervor.

  Jordan slipped up beside me, carrying two glasses of white wine as well as a plate of sliced cheeses and skewered cheese-and-zucchini appetizers. He handed me a glass of wine and said, “Ladies, taste these Cheddars. The first is from The Farm House Natural Cheeses, in Canada.”

  “From one of the only Canadian cheese makers that binds its Cheddars in cloth,” I said.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Shayna plucked a piece of cheese and hummed her appreciation. “Almost as good as mine.” She winked. “It’s certainly flavorful.”

  “The second,” Jordan said, “is Yarg Cornish Cheddar.”

  “From Cornwall, England,” Shayna said. “I’ve tasted it. Made from the milk of Friesian cows. Any American choices?”

  “Actually, these morsels with the zucchini are made with Emerald Pastures’ latest Cheddar. The flavors of the herbs and lime really give it a kick.”

  Shayna nabbed one and grinned. “I love a man who knows food.”

  “There are more over there to taste.” Jordan gestured with his elbow. “I thought we’d pace ourselves.”

  “Good idea.” Shayna popped the appetizer into her mouth and nodded as she finished it. “Mm. Good. So, Jordan, I hear you do affinage for the local farms.”

  “Not any longer. My sister—”

  “Kandice!” Lara Berry, a leggy redhead about Shayna’s age, although she appeared years younger, stormed into the room. Perhaps her youthful look was due to the trendy leather jacket and short skirt that she was wearing. Maybe it was her perfectly toned body or chiseled bone structure. “Kandice!” Lara’s face was pinched with tension; her green eyes blazed with something that was a far cry from eager enthusiasm. She dropped her weekender suitcase on the floor with a thud and tugged her Prada tote higher on her shoulder while surveying the room. “Kandice Witt, show yourself!”

  Uh-oh.

  People exchanged glances and chattered in a whisper. I hadn’t seen Kandice yet, and she was hard to miss, as tall as she was with her pink-white hair. When I’d first met her, clad in a pink mid-calf sheath, pink stockings, and a white feather boa, she had reminded me of a plump, thick-winged cockatoo. She had been dressed for an evening on the town; the woman liked to party.

  “Kandice!” Lara yelled. “Are you hiding from me?”

  Snowball, Erin’s cat, scampered into the house and across Lara’s feet.

  “Back off, Furball!” Lara butted him with the toe of her shoe.

  Snowball didn’t need a second reminder; he tore off.

  So much for Miss Nice, I thought, taking on Shayna’s habit of labeling. Not my style, but what the heck? Lara’s sense of humor, which was evident when she was in the public eye, was definitely in absentia.

  “There wasn’t a car to pick me up at the airport, Kandice.” Lara’s voice was as brittle as crackling ice. “Not a taxi to be had, either.” She snaked through the crowd, assessing people as though one might be Kandice in disguise. “I had to rent a car. Without a reservation. Needless to say, standing in a line with minions was pleasant,” she said, her sarcasm hard to miss. “And I got lost along the road, to boot. There are no signs whatsoever, and GPS is nonexistent. Big-city girls appreciate those things, or did you forget, Kandice?”

  “Heavens,” Shayna muttered. “Must she always make a despicable entrance?”

  I had to agree. Lara had arrived in town hours ago, and Erin had contacted Kandice about the available room. Why wait until now, during the party, to arrive at the inn? Was this nasty display how Lara always acted? Was her cheery television persona fake?

  “I had to talk to the locals, Kandice,” Lara shouted. “The locals.”

  Erin, looking darling in a green knit dress that crisscrossed her abdomen, popped over to Lara and offered her right hand. In her other hand, she carried a copy of Lara’s latest book. “Miss Berry. Welcome.”

  Lara towered over her. She didn’t take Erin’s hand.

  Erin kept her arm extended. “I’m Erin Emerald, owner of Emerald Pastures Farm.” She offered a winning smile. I had to admire her pluck.

  Lara relented and mumbled something unintelligible.

  “What a pleasure to meet you.” Erin waggled Lara’s book, which featured a full-length, confident picture of Lara on the cover. “You’re even prettier in person.”

  Lara softened at the compliment. Aha. There was a nice side to her. I was certain I hadn’t imagined it. Phew.

  “Maybe you’ll autograph my book after I show you to your room,” Erin said. “Let me help you with your bag.” She didn’t wait for Lara to agree. She gripped the handle of the overnighter.

  Victor dashed to them. “Don’t bother, Erin. I’ll help.” He took the suitcase from Erin. “Hey, babe,” he said to Lara. “Bon soir.”

  “Victor.” Lara threw him a contemptuous look but didn’t say something rude. At least she had a tad of self-control. Good to know.

  “I’ve got the perfect room for you, Miss Berry.” Erin walked toward the staircase. “On the third floor. Number twelve. It’s got the best view at the inn. Is your boyfriend coming?”

  Lara sniggered. “Honey, he’s been gone at least five years.”

  Erin blushed. “My apologies. I read an article—”

  “In Esquire? Where he said he wanted me back? He doesn’t.”

  I had read the Esquire article, too. Lara’s ex-boyfriend was an advertising guy in New York. She had met him when she was working at a little hole-in-the-wall cheese shop on the Upper East Side. On a talk show, she had described their relationship as: Love at first sight, followed by hate with one bite.

  “Again, my apologies,” Erin said. “After you’ve unpacked and freshened up, we’ll get you some wine and cheese, and we’ll erase any memories of your travel woes.” Erin guided Lara toward the stairs. “I’m sorry you had to ask for directions, but you’re from the Midwest, aren’t you?”

  Lara said, “Rural does not mean you have to be a rube.”

  “Agreed.” Erin couldn’t have been more solicitous. “I’ve gotten lost once or twice around here. It seems I’m always directed toward the house with the white picket fence. Did you get that suggestion?”

  “That or the big oak, like there’s only one.”

  “Everyone means well.”

  Lara’s icy demeanor finally melted. She smiled and waved a hand. “C’est la vie, right, Shayna?” She swung around and leveled her gaze at her former partner. Shayna flinched but that didn’t stop Lara. “Une personne ne peut s’attendre à beaucoup de ceux qui sont sans education.”

  I blanched.

  Shayna muttered, “How dare she! Me? Without education? I’m the one who graduated magna cum laude, not her. I’m the one who learned everything there was to know about managing a creamery.”

  “Why did you partner up with her?” I whispered.

  “Because, as it turned out,
she had connections in the cheese world. She knew everyone who was anyone. She partied with the best of them. And she could market our wares like nobody’s business.”

  “Is that why—” I stopped myself.

  “Why the creamery floundered when she left? Why we didn’t win any more awards?”

  I felt my cheeks warm.

  “Yes, that’s why, but we’re back on our feet again, so good riddance to bad—” Shayna blew out a frustrated breath. “I need air.” She set down her glass and charged out of the inn.

  Jordan whistled. “What just happened? What did Lara say in French?”

  I translated for him. “Something like a person shouldn’t expect much from those without education. I’m not sure what the dig meant, but it was definitely an insult.”

  “Wow.” He clasped my hand. “I can hardly wait for the rest of the fireworks.”

  “Let’s cut Lara some slack. She probably needs rest.” I admired her work. I wanted her to be as genuine as she was on TV. “Traveling can be a strain.”

  My cell phone jangled in my purse, which, thanks to Lara’s outburst, made my insides whip into a frenzy. No one was supposed to call me during the brain trust unless it was an absolute emergency. I rummaged for my phone and exited to the porch to take the call.

  “Charlotte,” Matthew said before I could utter hello. “It’s Meredith. Come quick!”

  CHAPTER

  4

  Jordan drove like a bat out of you-know-where to get me to Meredith and Matthew’s house. When we arrived, I flew upstairs. Jordan stayed in the living room with Matthew.

  In a matter of minutes, I figured out the problem and realized why Matthew hadn’t joined me in the master bedroom. My pal wasn’t dying. She was livid. Her pretty, freckly face was hot pink with frustration.

  “Twenty-plus weeks of bed rest!” she complained for the tenth time. “Are you kidding me?” She was propped up in bed by two pillows, a sheet tucked under her arms. The floral comforter, which was tri-folded back, only reached to her knees.