Lost and Fondue

by Avery Aames

  Through the eyes of an artist, I mused. To most, the rain would seem grim.

  “I think it’s more like Dalí meets Van Gogh.” Winona winked at Harker. “Jewels melting on sidewalks.”

  He didn’t seem to appreciate the comparison.

  “That’s what’s great about art,” Freddy replied. “To each his own.”

  As the students eyed the cheese selections, Quinn skirted around the counter. She drummed my forearm with her fingertips, and whispered, “Sorry you had to see us, you know, goofing around. We aren’t smashed or anything.”

  “Not to worry,” I whispered. “I’ve had my share of romps.” In college, a group of us had decided hitchhiking to the big football game was a safe venture. Along the way, everyone backed out except for me, who stupidly showed her mettle by getting into a car with four men. Luckily, they were all businessmen with young daughters, each of whom lectured me about the dangers of the road. Throwing water balloons on a chilly spring morning was a minor infraction compared to that. “Now, what can I get you?”

  “How about that big pear-shaped cheese?” Quinn said.

  “San Simon, a cow’s milk from Spain. Nice choice. It’s from the Galician region and tastes creamy and smoky.”

  “Oh, rats. I can’t have that. I’m allergic. I can only eat goat’s cheese.”

  “We have lots of goat cheese selections,” Rebecca said. “Goat Camembert and goat Brie.” She leaned forward as if imparting a dire secret. “My personal favorite is Cypress Grove Purple Haze. Here, taste this.” She cut Quinn a slice from an opened round of cheese and handed it to her. “It’s got hints of lavender and fennel, and it’s fabulous melted on a grilled portobello mushroom.”

  Quinn slipped the morsel into her mouth. “Oh, that’s delish.”

  “Winona, what’ll you have?” Freddy said.

  “How about that sourdough roll?” She wiggled a fireengine-red fingernail at the shelf filled with baskets of freshbaked breads that we ordered from Providence Patisserie. “It looks crusty.”

  “Soft as cotton on the inside,” I said. “Which cheese?”

  “No cheese. It’ll make me fat.”

  “A piece of cheese won’t make you fat,” I said, eager to dispel the rumor. “Though eating too much of anything will.”

  “I’ll take that roll, too,” the zipper-thin young man with the hunched shoulders said. “And some of that white cheese.”

  “The Collier’s Welsh Cheddar.” I pulled out a wedge. “Good choice. Nutty with a hint of crystallization.”

  “Nutty,” Harker said. “That’s perfect for you, Edsel. Don’t forget to say please and thank you, man.”

  Harker poked Quinn. She snickered. Edsel shot Harker a stern look. Freddy shot Quinn one.

  “Hey, Harker, you gotta see this room.” The dark-haired young man stood in the archway of the annex. On the back of his T-shirt the word DANE was painted in huge letters. Was it a statement of origin, or a tribute to a dark and brooding Hamlet? He had the look—the somber eyes, the familiar chip on his shoulder. “It’s so retro,” he went on.

  Retro? I didn’t think the way we had decorated was retro at all. The annex was chic yet rustic. We’d lined the walls with mahogany, laid the floor with travertine tiles, brought in an antique wood bar and stools from an old Irish pub, and created cubby holes for each wine bottle.

  “Wait until we get into the winery, Dane,” Harker said.

  Aha. Dane was the young man’s name.

  “I hear it’s major retro,” Harker added.

  “Don’t make fun.” Quinn nudged Harker with her hip.

  If my romance radar was working properly, I’d say they had a little thing going, and moody Dane wasn’t too pleased with that scenario. Neither, it appeared, was Edsel.

  “Don’t mind them, Charlotte. I like what you’ve done to the place,” Freddy said. “Don’t you, Winona?”

  “How am I supposed to know, silly man?” She flicked her fingernail on his sleeve. “I’ve never been here before.”

  Freddy snapped his fingers. “Right.”

  “What cheese do you want to order, Dane?” Quinn asked.

  “Morbier,” Dane said, with the proper French pronunciation—a kid after my grandfather’s heart. Pépère loved the flavorful cheese with the layer of vegetable ash in the middle.

  “And what about you, oh glorious treasure hunter?” Quinn asked. “What are you going to get?” She bumped Harker again.

  He grunted. “I’m not a treasure hunter.”

  “Are, too,” Edsel jibed. “You’re the one who talked us into this little trek.”

  “Did not, dufus.”

  “Did so, bro. You’ve got cash on the brain. Ca-ching, ca-ching.”

  “Blame Quinn,” Harker said.

  “No way,” Quinn countered. “Dane showed me the story on the ’Net.”

  “Only after your aunt said she was turning the winery into a college,” Dane said.

  Freddy clapped his hands. “Okay, guys, that’s enough.”

  Dane’s cheeks turned ruddy and his cocoa-colored eyes smoldered with hostility. What was his problem? Was he wary, like me, about the winery and its iffy history? Or was he just plain angry at Harker for getting the girl? Quinn was gorgeous.

  “What does it matter who told who what?” Edsel said, an edge to his voice. “We’re here to paint. Remember, painting is our vocation. We’re all going to be famous.”

  “Oh, man.” Harker faked a sob. “I’m getting all choked up just thinking about how successful we’re going to be. Not!” He honked out a laugh. “Edsel, wise up! Our vocation? We’ll all starve.”

  “You’ll only starve if you keep losing poker hands to Dane,” Edsel said.

  “I don’t lose. You’re the one who’s a loser.” Harker’s gaze turned icy. “A little pirate’s booty could help take the sting out of poverty for both of us, don’t you think?”

  “I heard the treasure is jewels,” Winona cut in. Though older than the group of students, she looked eager to become part of the teasing. “Rubies and emeralds and diamonds.”

  “It’s not jewels,” Harker said, a bite to his tone.

  “Nah, it’s gold doubloons,” Edsel quipped.

  “Stowed by pirates in a skull-and-crossbones box,” Freddy said as he painted the air with his fingertips.

  “Pirates?” Winona sounded wonder-struck. “Are you serious?”

  Freddy nodded.

  “Pirates,” Dane said. “Yeah, that’s ripe. Yo ho ho.”

  When he smiled, I revised my estimation of him. He didn’t remind me so much of Hamlet as he did a clean-shaven Johnny Depp. Outline his eyes, add a scruffy beard, and give him some dreadlocks, and he’d look just like Captain Jack Sparrow.

  Rebecca drew close and said, “Were there really pirates in Providence?” The quaver in her voice made me turn. Her lower lip trembled.

  “No,” I said, though the chatter was unnerving me, too. As a girl, I’d heard the rumors. They had rattled me in the same way then, even though I knew they couldn’t be true. Kindred Creek wasn’t big enough for a houseboat, let alone a pirate ship.

  “All this talk is giving me a bad case of the creeps,” Rebecca whispered.

  I forced myself to be the model of calm and patted her arm. “Don’t worry. It’s only a rumor.”

  “But rumors are based on fact.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The next day, by the time we arrived at Ziegler Winery for Meredith’s celebration, the rain had ended and dusk draped the earth with a soft purple light. The entrance to the mock castle on the hill looked exactly as Meredith had promised. Handmade Chinese lanterns on poles lined the driveway. Multicolored crepe paper encircled the Corinthian columns flanking the porch. A half-moon of hand-stitched flags representing the counties of Ohio stood sentry by the stairs to the portico. The counties didn’t actually have flags, but Meredith believed imagination was the spice of life.

  Meredith met me as I pulled up the driveway. I rolled down
the driver’s side window.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she yelled over the music.

  Local actors, dressed like mariachis, strummed guitars by the front door. As planned, their music was being piped through rocklike speakers that had been hidden in the garden behind tulips and jonquils. I wondered if my grandmother had shared what worried her with Meredith but didn’t want to ask and spoil Meredith’s buoyant mood.

  “Isn’t it fun having a party on a Sunday evening?” Meredith said.

  She directed us to park at the far side of the broad gravel driveway. We had arrived as a caravan—I in my white Escort, Pépère and Grandmère in their Audi, and Rebecca and Bozz, my teenage Internet guru, in Rebecca’s MINI Cooper. She’d recently bought it and wanted to drive it everywhere. Matthew was supposed to trail the pack. Where was he?

  Meredith eyed the colorful pots in the back of my Escort. “Oooh, what kind of fondues did you make?”

  “As requested, one’s a Humboldt Fog goat cheese fondue made with whipping cream, pepper, and chives. The other’s a champagne fondue, with nutmeg and white pepper to give it a zing. I used a Black Label Gruyère de Comté.”

  “Yum!” Meredith adjusted her ruby red shawl over the thin straps of her matching red dress and hoisted a box of utensils from my trunk. She trotted across the driveway and up a set of stairs. How she could walk in her spiky high heels was beyond me, but she looked fabulous. Cold, but fabulous.

  I fetched a second box of utensils and followed. When I reached the porch, I turned and understood why Zachariah Ziegler had settled here and why Meredith wanted to turn the place into a college. The 360-degree view was incredible. Gently rolling hills, freshly green and hinting at the promise of a lusty spring, could be seen for miles. The lights of Providence twinkled below.

  A door squeaked open and I heard, “Wow!”

  Bozz popped from the MINI Cooper and halted in his tracks. He wasn’t taking in the same view I was. Quinn and the other art students had just arrived in an Explorer. Quinn, the first to climb out of the SUV, looked radiant in a pair of jeans, sky blue sweater, and multicolored knitted scarf. Bozz watched her, his mouth gaping open. I grinned. Who could blame the kid? Girls were on his radar. And he should be on theirs. He was growing handsomer by the month. High school wrestling had been good for him.

  Harker bolted from the car, slung his arm around Quinn, and sneered at Bozz. “What are you staring at, dufus? She’s mine.”

  Edsel clambered out and slung his thumbs through the loops of his jeans. “Bro, I’m not really up on today’s possessive lingo, but claiming a girl is yours before you’ve put a diamond ring on her finger is a little premature.”

  Harker cut him a nasty look.

  Dane slapped Harker on the back. “Hey, man, want to take a tour of the place? I hear the inside is pretty cool.”

  “Who did you hear that from?”

  “My folks. They’re Ohio history and architecture buffs.”

  “I thought you were from New York,” Quinn said.

  “I am, but my folks came from Ohio. Anyway, see, they knew I was coming to paint this place, and . . .”

  As the group continued its conversation and headed for the front steps, Matthew tore into the driveway. He screeched to a halt and scrambled out of his Jeep.

  “Bozz, give me some help. Now!” Matthew stomped to the rear of the Jeep and whipped open the hatchback door with such force I feared he’d tear it off.

  “What’s with Matthew?” Meredith whispered to me.

  I didn’t have a clue, but I intended to find out. Lugging the box of utensils, I hurried down the stairs and cornered him by the Jeep. “Are you okay? The shipment of pinots from Washington State arrived, and you got the Bozzutos’ wines, right?”

  He gave a curt nod.

  “They said they were supplying gewürztraminer and sauvignon blanc,” I went on. Ohio vintners do best with grapes that require a cool climate. “The Bozzutos are here.” All the local vintners were invited to the event. “Do you need to speak with them?”

  Matthew shook his head.

  “Then what’s with the attitude?”

  “Sylvie showed up at the shop right after you left and begged to take the twins for a night on the town. They already went horseback riding.” He ran a hand along his neck. “What was I supposed to say with the girls within earshot? ‘No, you can’t go’? They’d have blamed me for ruining their plans. Or their lives.” He muttered, “Can’t win for trying.” He blew a thatch of hair off his forehead, then handed a case of wine to Bozz, grabbed one for himself, slammed the hatchback shut, and strode toward the front porch.

  “What’s Sylvie’s game plan?” I adjusted the box in my arms and kept pace. “How long is she here for?”

  “Got me.”

  I adored my cousin. He truly loved his children. Seeing him this distraught tugged at my heartstrings. In the past few months, his relationship with Meredith had done him a world of good. The glow had returned to his cheeks, the humor to his life. He’d even put a little meat on his lanky bones. What would happen if Sylvie decided to move back to Providence? I wished I knew what her agenda was. Money, perhaps. Maybe Mumsie and Dad had cut her off.

  “Hey, babe.” Matthew met Meredith on the porch and, like a seasoned actor, forced a smile. He bussed her on the cheek. “You look great. So does the winery.”

  “Isn’t it fabulous?” Grinning from ear to ear, Meredith glided into the foyer and twirled on the parquet floor. “Did I tell you there are winepresses and vats downstairs in the cellar?”

  “You went down?” I said.

  “No, no, not I. I’m not that brave. The folks from Vintage Today told me. They’ve set candles in the old sconces. Très mystérieux.” She poked a finger upward. “Oooh, and there’s a ballroom that takes up the entire floor! I decided not to have any races and such, but won’t a scavenger hunt be fun?”

  Her enthusiasm was infectious. The creepy feeling I’d had yesterday dissipated. As I took in my surroundings, I realized that the Vintage Today crew had surprisingly gotten this makeover right. Oversized oil paintings as well as portraits hung on the refurbished oak paneling in the hallways. A gorgeous spray of irises sat on an antique side table. A winding staircase with a thick balustrade led from the first floor to the second. The domed ceiling sparkled like it was encrusted with gems.

  “Give me a quick verbal tour,” I said to Meredith. “Where’s the dining room?”

  “End of the hall.”

  “And the tasting rooms?”

  “Beyond the dining room. Untouched. The wood paneling was still in fabulous shape.”

  Matthew said, “Bozz and Rebecca, follow me.”

  “Bon soir, Meredith.” Pépère scuttled into the mansion, his sparse white hair flying out like wings, his cheeks ruddy with excitement. “Where do you want this, Charlotte?” In his arms he carried a box of breads and dipping sauces.

  Arms full, I gestured with my chin. Pépère took off. Grandmère bustled after him, raincoat cinched tightly. The lower half of her burgundy corduroy skirt swirled around her calves and dark brown boots. She paused by the staircase and peered at one of the portraits. Though she stood in profile, I could see her nose wrinkle with distaste. She caught my gaze and started again for the dining room.

  I dashed to her. “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head.

  “Grandmère, talk to me.”

  “It matters not, chérie. It is an old woman’s superstition. That is all.”

  She disappeared around the corner and the feeling of foreboding that had walloped me yesterday returned. I headed back to Meredith but stopped to glance at the portrait that had spooked my grandmother. A gold placard beneath it read: Zachariah Ziegler. The old man reminded me of Ebenezer Scrooge with his gaunt cheeks, deep-set dark eyes, and miserly mouth. A family portrait hung beside his. In it, the son’s face was as stoic as his father’s, his eyes as deep-set and solemn. Thinking about his tragic death made me shudder, and
I wondered again if the place should be razed and the land preserved. What kind of money would it take to erect a brand-new building without the tragic history attached to it? Could I talk Meredith and her fellow college committee members into the idea?

  “In addition to the dining room and living room”— Meredith moved to my side—“on the main level, we have an observatory, a study, and a music room. What do you think?”

  I giggled. For a second, I felt like I’d been plunked into the middle of a game of Clue. I said, “In the library with the candlestick, Ms. Scarlet.”

  “Stop. You’re awful.” Meredith swatted my arm. “Oh, speaking of the library, I’ve displayed the artists’ works there. Make sure you see what Quinn created. Her style is reminiscent of Matisse. And Harker . . .” She swirled her hand in the air. “Jackson Pollock meets Picasso with a bit of Shakespeare thrown in.”

  “He’s not only an artist, he’s a playwright?” I grinned at her.

  She tweaked me again. “You know what I mean—wild, unpredictable, yet whimsical. Brilliant.”

  High praise for a student around the age of twenty, I mused.

  “Let me show you the dining room,” she continued. “It’s incredible!”

  In keeping with the turn-of-the-century theme, Vintage Today had decorated the dining room with gold-filigree lighting fixtures and red and gold-flocked drapes. The dining table was massive, at least twenty feet long and ten feet wide, and draped with ecru linens. In the center of the table stood a spray of white iris, which was gracefully inserted into a burgundy crystal vase. French doors leading to the terraces that faced the vineyard’s slopes stood open. A cool breeze swept inside.

  For the next ten minutes my crew and I shuttled food into the grandiose room. Once our vehicles were emptied, I advised Rebecca and Bozz to set up the warming trays, the lazy Susans, the fondues, and the accompaniments toward the end of the table closest to the kitchen. Matthew chose the opposite end for his wine tasting. We left ample space for all the other potluck items to come.

  As if on cue, a group of townsfolk entered the dining room. Each carried a covered dish.