For Cheddar or Worse

by Avery Aames

  I sat beside her on the bed and petted her hand. “You can do it.”

  “Argh.” She wrinkled her button nose. “This is going to send me to the loony bin.”

  “Nonsense.” I grinned. “You’ve been wanting to complete a boatload of projects.”

  “Oh yeah?” She flipped her tawny hair off her shoulders. “Like what?”

  “Updating your photo albums and organizing recipes, to name two.”

  “What will I do about the last couple weeks of school?” She moaned. “And what about heading up Providence Liberal Arts College?”

  For the past ten years, Meredith had worked as an elementary teacher. Children loved her, and she adored them. Over a year ago, however, she took on a bigger project and spearheaded the creation of our local junior college. After construction was completed, the board of trustees clamored for Meredith to replace the temporary administrator and serve as the dean. Her duties were to begin in a month.

  “You can do a lot of your prep from bed,” I said soothingly. “Also, didn’t the board plan to hire a temporary dean once they learned you were pregnant? They love you. They need you. They campaigned for you. No one is going to oust you because of this setback.”

  Meredith brightened. “You’re right.”

  “Hey, you’ve been promising yourself you’d learn to knit. Now’s the time! I’ll go to the knitting store and pick up some supplies. What color?”

  She made a face. “Not pink or baby blue.”

  “Yellow, then. To match the room. Perfect. I’ll get a pattern for a baby blanket. That’s easy to make.”

  Meredith threw an arm around my shoulders. “Charlotte, thank you. You always perk me up.”

  “What are pals for?”

  Relieved that Meredith hadn’t lost the baby and that she would survive as long as she didn’t go nuts lying in bed, I asked Jordan to take me to Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe so I could pick up supplies. We faced one setback of our own. Parking. Because of the Street Scene, finding a spot was impossible. In my haste to tend to Meredith, I had forgotten all about the event. It wouldn’t be a fun trek in my strappy sandals, but I could manage.

  Jordan parked on a side street and rounded the car to open my door. He offered a warm hand.

  “Such a gentleman,” I quipped. “How long will that last?”

  “Forever. My mother raised me right.”

  Dusk had come and gone while we had tended to Meredith. Stars glimmered in the sky. Streetlamps offered a warm glow. At the corner of Hope and Honeysuckle, we drew to a stop to admire the view. In every direction stood portable stages, each stage assigned with a two-foot-high number from one to twenty, the latter being the premier stage. Each stage was fitted with front- and side-valances as well as pull curtains. People were milling about the streets, peering into shop windows. Many carried programs with showtimes. No performances had started yet. Discreetly, a cleanup crew in black jumpsuits picked up wayward trash that didn’t make it into bins.

  In addition to the upcoming entertainment, city-authorized pushcart vendors—permits only granted to people who owned a shop in town—were selling ice cream, pretzels, and more. Having missed most of the goodies at the reception, I begged Jordan for a treat. He bought me a scoop of Cheddar-chocolate stracciatella ice cream from the pushcart representing the Igloo Ice Cream Shoppe. Divine. The cheese offered a nice tang; the chocolate added a tasty crunch.

  Jordan and I headed toward Sew Inspired, but I put a hand on his arm when I spied my grandmother, in a mid-calf-length dress and boots, marching in front of the premier stage, which stood in front of The Cheese Shop.

  “Look,” I said.

  Delilah, my best friend next to Meredith, trailed my grandmother, her tangle of curls knotted at the nape of her neck. Dressed in black leggings and clinging black sweater, she looked like part of the stage crew, not the assistant director.

  “Oui. That is correct,” Grandmère said. Even from where we stood we could hear her. After all these years managing and directing shows at the Providence Playhouse in addition to addressing meetings as mayor of our fair city, she had trained herself to be heard without a megaphone. “Delilah, do you agree?”

  “Oui! You”—Delilah called to a ropy woman who was holding a bolt of shiny gold material—“drape that fabric over the rack at the rear.” Delilah, formerly a Broadway dancer-slash-actress, usually ran The Country Kitchen diner, but occasionally she wrote plays and assisted my grandmother with direction. “Allow for gathering on each side,” Delilah suggested. Each stage sponsor could decorate according to its whim. “And let the material billow on the floor.”

  “Gotcha,” the woman shouted.

  Twang. Directly to our left on stage seventeen, a gray-haired man started warming up on an electric violin. The stage was decorated with ten-foot ficus trees in way-too-small ceramic pots. A number of performers crowded the space as well. A female singer started vocalizing, sounding like a lost cat crying me-ow-me-ow up and down the scale. I hoped for her sake that her songs would be more melodic. A guy with pewter-colored hair that was shaved along the sides of his head and thicker at top climbed onto the stage. Although his back was to me, I realized I had seen him for a brief moment at the reception at Emerald Pastures Inn. I had lost track of him when Lara made her boisterous entrance. I wondered what his name was and what he did in the cheese world. He picked up a preset electric guitar from a stand onstage and checked the amplifier. Performances weren’t supposed to begin until eight P.M. or after.

  Tap, tap, tap. On stage eighteen, which had been artfully draped with red fabric and set with a row of folding chairs, a lanky poet dressed in black and wearing a black chapeau, tested the microphone equipment. “Ahem! For the love of cheese, for the love of you, find your inner cheese.” He stopped deliberately. “Tart, poignant, gritty, textured.” He made another pause that you could drive a truck through. “To love cheese is to love yourself.”

  Folks watching the rehearsal offered polite applause.

  The poet bowed then turned to fellow artists occupying a few of the seats. “We’re good to go.”

  I prodded Jordan forward, in the direction of the premier stage. “Grandmère,” I yelled and waved.

  She hurried to us and we exchanged kisses. “Chérie,” she said. “Jordan. Isn’t it wonderful?” She swung an arm to include the entire town of Providence. “Everyone is so alive, so excited. We will have music. Poetry. We will even have a skit called The History of Cheese at nine P.M., right here.”

  Delilah joined us and buffed her nails on her chest. “I’m directing.”

  I faked a yawn.

  Delilah thwacked me. “It’ll be fun. We have dozens of ancient tools that your grandmother acquired for the show. Old churns and buckets. A butter and cheese cutter. A fabulous cheese slicer that looks like a horseshoe.”

  “A wooden wine/cheese press and sausage stuffer, too,” Grandmère said. “It’s quite unusual.”

  “Don’t forget the French cheese scale that looks like a pendulum,” Delilah added. “Very cool. Most are stowed behind the stage.”

  “Which reminds me, I have to fetch the last few.” Grandmère patted my arm. “If you and Jordan come by later, you’ll see.”

  I threw a goofy look at Jordan. He made a similarly silly face. We adored my grandmother, but at times she came up with the most oddball events. On the other hand, she was the main reason why Providence was a thriving community. She was convinced—and therefore had persuaded the city council—that locals as well as visitors would get involved, week after week, if they could experience something new and unique in town.

  “What’s going to appear on stage number one?” I asked. I indicated the stage past the premier stage.

  Grandmère beamed. “I have scheduled a reading of Who Moved My Cheese?”

  I knew the book. It wasn’t about cheese. Written around the turn of t
he twenty-first century, its aim was to teach people how to eliminate anxiety about the future, not only in their lives but also in their work environment. Both Matthew and I had read it when we decided to take on Fromagerie Bessette. Maybe I should give a copy to Meredith. Thinking of her sent a frisson of fear through me. I hoped she and the baby would be okay.

  Grandmère eyed me with concern. “Chérie, what is wrong? Your eyes . . .” She gently tapped my temples. “You are in pain.”

  “Not me. Meredith. She needs full bed rest until the baby comes.”

  “Mon dieu. That is terrible.”

  “I’m heading to the knitting shop to pick up some supplies for her,” I said. “She’s a novice.”

  “Perfect,” Delilah said. “I can teach her.”

  “You knit?”

  “My mother taught me as a girl. I used to make clothes for my dolls.”

  “Knock me over with a feather,” I teased. “Should I tell your intended you’re more domestic than you seem? Better watch out. He’ll taunt you mercilessly.”

  “Oh, no, he won’t.”

  “Yes, he will.”

  Delilah and our chief of police had reignited their on-again-off-again relationship a few months ago and were still wonderfully in the throes of love. I couldn’t be happier for them. They laughed more than any couple I knew, except for Jordan and me and possibly my grandparents.

  “No, he won’t,” Delilah repeated and poked me. “Not if he wants to live. Besides, he knows I knit, and he’s told me he adores that domestic side of me.”

  “He’s lying.”

  “I made him a winter scarf.”

  I twirled a finger near my neck. “The one with the orange popcorn stitches?”

  “He wore it until the weather warmed.”

  “He was being kind.”

  Delilah swatted me again. I howled, in fun.

  On stage seventeen, an emcee spoke into a microphone. “Folks, gather around. The show is about to begin. And a one and a—”

  A fiddler kicked into a rousing rendition of “Pretty Little Girl.” I squinted, surprised to see the fiddler was a redheaded female—Erin. The guitarist with the pewter-colored hair joined in, foot tapping, his oversized triceps bulging, his fingers plucking the strings at a furious pace.

  Nearby stood Kandice Witt, who was looking up at the performers and clapping in time. Once again, she reminded me of a plump exotic bird, dressed this time in a crimson, mid-calf-length dress, red stockings, and flats. Her hair was no longer pink-and-white but red-and-white to match her outfit. She had combed it into a dramatic peak at the top of her head.

  Victor Wolfman stood beside her. I didn’t see Lara Berry in the mix. Had she caught up with Kandice back at the inn? Kandice didn’t look upset in the least. In fact, she seemed blissful.

  Grasping Jordan’s hand, I said, “Grandmère, Delilah. We’ll see you later.” I tugged my husband toward Kandice and Victor. “They’re good, aren’t they?” I murmured to Kandice.

  She swiveled and smiled. “Charlotte. What a delightful surprise.” She was attractive, but not pretty, her nose a tad too long and her forehead a tad too high. She had aged since I had last seen her. What was she, forty-five or forty-six? Lines bracketed her alert eyes, probably from smiling too much. She had a wicked sense of humor. “I’m sorry I missed you at the inn earlier. My luggage didn’t make my plane. Then my rental car went on the fritz and—” She hooted. “Like I always say, if I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.” She thrust a hand at Jordan. “You must be Charlotte’s better half.”

  “Older maybe,” he joshed. “Not better.”

  Kandice winked at me. “I love a modest man.”

  “Like me?” Victor asked.

  “Victor, darling, no one would ever accuse you of being modest.” Kandice regarded all of us. “Have you met? Charlotte and Jordan . . . Victor Wolfman.”

  “Gourmet for the Masses.” Victor pulled a couple of business cards from the inside pocket of his jacket and dealt them to Jordan and me. They were glossy with frilly embossed letters. “At your service.”

  Kandice hooted out a laugh. “You are never at anyone’s service, Victor.”

  “Except a beautiful woman’s,” he countered.

  “Like Lara?”

  “All beautiful women.”

  “Including me?”

  “You, my dear—”

  Kandice put two fingers to Victor’s lips. “Don’t be mean.”

  Victor shifted feet. “I was going to say you’re too wonderful a catch for any man.”

  Kandice cackled. “Good recovery.”

  Without saying good-bye, Victor headed off toward a gathering of young women.

  Semi-rude, I thought, but I kept my opinion to myself. I addressed Kandice. “How did it go when you and Lara met up?”

  “Were you there when she made her grand entrance?”

  I nodded.

  “She chewed me out.” Kandice shrugged. “No big deal. She also called me incompetent and threatened to ruin all my future conferences, but she didn’t kill me, so I’ll live to breathe another day.” Kandice tootled out another laugh. “How could I not invite her to the brain trust with her credentials?”

  “About that. Why wasn’t she on the list you sent to everyone? Erin was quite surprised.”

  “It was last minute. Lara . . . Let’s just say, she loves to be spontaneous. She rang me up. I said yes. Give the woman an inch, and she thinks she’s a ruler.” Kandice chuckled. “Speaking of which, have you seen Lara around? She said she was coming to join in the fun.”

  I shook my head. The crowd had swelled. Victor and the gaggle of young women had already been swallowed up in the throng.

  Erin and the guitarist finished their set. The audience applauded with enthusiasm.

  “More!” one eager fan yelled.

  Erin saluted. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, folks, but we’re done.” She passed off her instrument to another musician and scrambled down the stairs at the side of the stage. The guitarist followed her. Erin saw our group and skipped to us. The skirt of her dress bounced with merry abandon. “Hi, everyone! So glad you could make it. Charlotte, is Meredith all right?”

  “She’s fine.” I explained that she needed bed rest.

  “Phew,” Erin said. “What a scare. I can’t imagine. I’ve never—” She balked. “Well, you know.”

  Been married, had children. I nodded in understanding.

  “You play a mean fiddle, Erin,” I said.

  “Thanks. We’re all sharing instruments tonight so we don’t have to switch out the amplifiers.” She shot a thumb toward the guitarist. “By the way, this is Ryan Harris. Have you met?”

  “Not yet.” I’d read his bio in the brochure that Kandice had sent out. He was a consultant who educated farmers on how to run their operations more efficiently. Seeing him up close was a lot different than from a distance. He was quite unique in the looks department. About the same age as Erin and me, maybe a year or two younger, he had thick arms and his torso was huge in comparison to his short legs. He wasn’t height-challenged, just oddly proportioned. He also had a farmer’s tan. An inch of pale skin showed beyond the short sleeves of his Mötley Crüe T-shirt.

  “Ryan,” Erin said, “meet Jordan Pace and Charlotte Bessette.”

  “Actually, I’m Charlotte Bessette Pace,” I said, enjoying saying my married name aloud. I still used Bessette for business purposes, but I loved being Mrs. Jordan Pace. “Nice to meet you, Ryan.”

  “You, too.” He grinned, revealing big teeth with a wide gap in the upper row, appealing in a good-natured way.

  “Ryan used to be a cheese maker in Wisconsin,” Erin said then blushed. “Of course, you know that already. You must have read his bio.”

  Kandice had asked each of us to deliver mini biographies
for the brochure. All of us, that is, except Lara.

  “Did you know Ryan lives in Texas?” Erin went on.

  “He moved from Wisconsin,” Kandice said. “That’s where three of his sisters live.” She smiled at Ryan coquettishly.

  “He has six of them,” Erin added.

  Her focus, like Kandice’s, was zeroed in on Ryan. Were the two of them vying for his attention? Sheesh, I was glad to be off the market . . . for good.

  Ryan grinned. “I’m the only boy and the oldest.”

  “What a responsibility,” I said. I had always wanted siblings, but I couldn’t imagine having that many. Extended family and friends filled the void. “Is it nice to be near family?”

  “Family is what it’s about.”

  Kandice said, “What Ryan didn’t include in his bio is he has also been featured in Culture magazine.” Culture is a must-read magazine about cheese. “It’s a wonderful article.”

  “I saw that one,” I said. “I wouldn’t have recognized you from the photo.”

  Ryan grinned. “It’s the hair. I used to wear it shoulder-length. I cut it like this on a whim. A guy’s got to change his look now and then, right?”

  I thought of Rebecca and how she had reshaped her hair. Women and men. We weren’t that different.

  “Aren’t you married to your high school sweetheart?” Jordan asked.

  “I was. We’re divorced now. My fault. I’m on the road too much.”

  I said, “How are your kids handling that?” According to the article, Ryan had three.

  “They’ve rebounded well. They’re easygoing, like their mom, and wicked smart.”

  “He moved them and his ex to Texas,” Erin said.

  Ryan jammed one hand in his pocket. “Tessie and I might have split up, but I wanted her and the kids to be near. She agreed. She didn’t like Wisconsin winters much. She has already met a great guy. They’re engaged.”

  Kandice shifted feet. “Did you know Ryan has written a book called Mastering the Art of Cheese Making: Cheddar is Better? And currently, he’s acting as a consultant to a struggling farm that is turning itself around by raising goats.”