by Avery Aames
Meredith joined me, brimming with good vibes. “Gretel brought her favorite chili,” she said. The Congregational Church pastor’s wife made chili that was triple-alarm good. “And Lois brought her yummy scones.” The owner of Lavender and Lace, a bed-and-breakfast inn located next to my Victorian home, was an incredible baker. Good scones, she said, were essential at high tea. Meredith leaned in. “And Tim supplied trays of his famous bacon-filled potato skins.” Timothy O’Shea, owner of our local pub, was a fine chef. He created appetizers that made me want to give up eating dinner altogether. For his potato skins—at my suggestion—he used old-fashioned Fior di Latte Mozzarella, a creamy, meltable cow’s milk cheese with a salty finish.
Meredith continued. “And Delilah brought—”
“Let me guess. Grilled cheese.”
Meredith tapped her nose. Delilah, our friend and owner of the Country Kitchen, had been testing grilled cheese combinations for weeks. Holmes County was vying to host a statewide competition. Delilah had invented a number of new recipes, including a potato-bacon grilled cheese, lobster grilled cheese, and a portobello vegetarian grilled cheese. She’d even used one of my cheesecake recipes to make a grilled cheese for dessert.
“Uh-oh, what’s she doing here?” Meredith’s mouth twisted into a knot.
“Who?”
“Cruella de Vil.”
Gripping the twins firmly by the hands, Sylvie strode into the dining room, her ocelot coat flogging her calves.
Matthew charged around me to block her entry.
“Why, Matthew, you look almost apoplectic.” Sylvie offered a sly grin. “What’s the problem, love?”
Matthew muttered something unintelligible.
Sylvie released Amy and Clair and posed, head cocked, hand on hip, trying to look nonchalant, but she didn’t. Her acid-white hair hung in straggly pieces around her face. Today’s horseback outing with the girls must have taken a nip out of her. C’est bon, I thought with wicked delight. On the other hand, the twins looked energized. Dark-haired little Amy glowed with vivacity, and Clair, a head taller than her sister and typically pale, had rosy cheeks.
I crossed to the girls and whispered, “Did you have a good time?”
Clair nodded, but she didn’t look me in the eye. Was she embarrassed that she had enjoyed being with her mother?
“Matthew, don’t make such a big deal of everything.” Sylvie pressed her palm to Matthew’s chest, right over his heart. He reeled as if he’d been scorched. To cover, Sylvie nodded greetings to the assembling crowd. A spat never failed to attract lookie-loos.
My grandmother and grandfather pushed to the front of the throng. Grandmère seemed to be holding her breath.
“This is an adult party, Sylvie,” Matthew hissed.
“Tosh!”
“It’s not a place for children. Amy, Clair, I’m sorry. Charlotte, would you—”
“Laissez-moi, chérie.” Grandmère warned me to stand pat. “I’ll take the girls. After we eat, we’re going straightaway to the theater.” She crouched and opened her arms. Looking sheepish, the twins scooted to her. She ushered them out of the room, and Pépère trundled after them.
An instant later, Matthew grabbed Sylvie by the arm and swept her toward the exit.
If looks could kill, Sylvie wasn’t long for this world.
I scurried after them, eager to watch Matthew put her in her place. However, before I had even reached the foyer, I heard the slam of a car door and the screech of tires in the driveway.
Matthew returned inside, his eyes smoldering, his mouth tight. He slipped an arm around me, whispered, “Fiasco avoided,” and guided me back to the dining room.
The banquet table looked resplendent, like something out of a medieval painting. In addition to cut vegetables, Rebecca had suggested serving sliced apples and cooked and cooled fingerling potatoes with the fondue. She’d piled them high onto huge platters. Providence Patisserie had supplied handwoven Amish baskets filled with crusty bread cubes.
Matthew squeezed my arm and left me to tend to the guests who were hankering for wine.
“Oooh, look who just popped in.” Rebecca danced to my side and nudged me with her bony hip.
My heart caught in my chest. Imaginary butterflies took flight in my stomach. Jordan Pace stood in the doorway. Golden light from the chandeliers highlighted his striking cheekbones. Could any man look better in a white shirt, jeans, and boots than he did? Call me crazy, but I swear I heard a jangle of spurs and horses neighing in the distance.
I twisted away and plucked at my hair. “How do I look?”
“Sporty,” Rebecca said.
Rats. I’d been going for Woman of Mystery. Or at least semi-sexy. I’d worn black jeans tucked into black boots, an emerald green turtleneck sweater, and for the first time in days, I’d applied eye shadow and blush. I’d even painted my fingernails and spritzed myself with Shalimar perfume. It didn’t matter how long I’d been dating Jordan, I still felt as if every meeting was our first. I wanted to make a good impression.
“Wave,” Rebecca said. “He’s staring.”
I spun around. Jordan gave me a two-fingered salute. We strolled along the edge of the dining table until we met halfway.
“Hello, gorgeous.” He pecked my cheek and laced his fingers around mine. The instant our flesh touched, something inside me went hippety-hop, right down to my toes. That was followed by a rush of desire, the kind that begged for a pot of cocoa for two.
Alone.
In front of a roaring fire.
“Got a second before the gala begins?” Jordan escorted me toward one of the open windows by a terrace. “I thought we might plan that romantic getaway we’ve been talking about.”
“Where are we going? Cleveland? Columbus?” Both cities were short driving distances from Holmes County.
“I was thinking someplace like Gruyères.”
I gasped. “Switzerland?” The quaint village of Gruyères, known for its cheese, had topped my travel list for years. “A weekend isn’t long enough.”
“Then a week. Better yet.” He winked. “We’ll go snowshoeing at night. Or we could take the funicular to Plan-Francey. I was thinking we’d aim for next week.”
“But it’s the beginning of our tourist season.”
“Uh-uh. That’s not until May. C’mon, be spontaneous. Say yes.” He ran a finger along my arm. I shivered with desire. “You form the word like this.” Teasingly he mouthed the word: Yes. “Remember what we’ve been talking about. Spontaneity is the spice of life.”
I wish I were impulsive. Really. Sometimes I was, like when Rebecca prodded me to snoop, but otherwise, I preferred a schedule. No surprises. Looking back over my life, I was pretty sure that my hitchhiking adventure had put me off being unstructured.
Jordan chuckled. “C’mon, you can do it. Repeat after me: Yes.” He kissed me behind the ear, the exact spot that made my knees weak.
Before I could answer, Winona Westerton, clad in a tight gold dress, snaked her way into our twosome. I was struck by the contrast between us—she with dark hair that swooped along her face like a 1940s vamp, and I with my short feathery blonde cut. She clung to a wisp of a man with translucent skin and hair the color of butter.
“Hello, Charlotte,” Winona said. “Remember me?”
As if I could forget. She looked like Venus de Milo with arms.
“May I introduce you to Wolford Langdon, a patron of the arts and a donor, like me,” Winona added.
“Possible donor.” The frail man offered a stiff nod as he nudged his thick-rimmed glasses back into place.
“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” Winona fondled her dangly earrings and gazed appreciatively at Jordan. “What’s your name, cowboy?”
“Jordan Pace.” He didn’t look moved by her charms, which endeared him to me even more.
“Jordan’s a farmer and cheese maker in Providence,” I said.
“But you didn’t grow up here, did you?” Winona assessed him with a shrewd eye
. “We don’t grow them this good in Ohio.”
“California,” Jordan said politely, not responding to her overt attempt to charm his socks off.
“I love California,” Winona gushed.
Since we’d started dating, I’d learned about Jordan’s past in snippets. He knew how to ski, liked the color blue, and adored Southwestern cuisine. His favorite author was Lee Child, his favorite movie The Godfather, followed closely by The Bourne Identity, and his favorite musical artist was Dave Brubeck. I craved to know more.
Winona turned her attention to the room. “Oh, my, with digs like these, I might reenroll in college. How about you, Wolford?”
Her slight companion stifled a yawn, peeled Winona’s fingers off his arm, and shuffled toward the buffet. Winona didn’t flinch at his rebuff.
“Hello-o-o-o, everybody!” Harker stumbled into the room. “Hey, Cheese Shop Lady, has anybody found the treasure yet?” He made a beeline for me.
“There is no treasure,” I said with a tinge of exasperation.
“Sure, there is.”
He reeked of beer. Was he drunk already?
“Isn’t that right, Dane?” Harker looked behind him. No Dane.
He hustled out of the room and returned with Quinn and Dane in tow. Quinn whispered something to Dane, then buffed him on the shoulder and laughed. Dane, dressed in black and looking even more like a brooding Hamlet than he had yesterday, scowled. Quinn tickled Dane’s chin with the ends of her multicolored scarf but he still didn’t smile. Out in the hallway I spotted their friend Edsel drawing in a sketchbook, his shoulders hunched, forehead pinched with concentration, oblivious to his friends’ exit.
Freddy appeared behind Edsel and prodded him toward the dining room. “Put it away, son,” he said in a commanding tone. “Let’s be sociable.”
Edsel slapped his notebook closed and stormed off.
Freddy gave him a concerned look, then spotted me and strolled over. “Hey, Charlotte, what a place.”
“Is Edsel okay?” I asked.
“Just a dedicated artist. The kid never misses an opportunity.” He gazed around the room. “My sis did good, didn’t she?” He offered his hand to Jordan. “Freddy Vance, Meredith’s brother.” He hitched his chin at me. “Charlotte and I go way back.”
“How way back?” Winona said, her eyelashes batting at supersonic speed. Was there a man with whom she wouldn’t flirt?
Freddy grinned. “Way, way back. I was crushing on Charlotte when I was ten.” He elbowed me. “Remember when we would lie beside Kindred Creek and tell each other our dreams?”
I did. It was long before he’d entered high school. Long before he’d crushed my childish heart.
“You still dream, don’t you?” he said.
Of course I did. Of cheeses and recipes and orders to fill. And Jordan. Perhaps a week away with him would spur me to abandon the other more mundane ones. I mouthed the word yes at Jordan, but he wasn’t looking my direction. He was assessing Freddy.
“Are you married, Freddy?” Jordan asked with an obvious edge to his voice that made me smile. He was a teensy bit jealous. Hooray for me.
“Used to be,” Freddy answered.
“Used to—” I gaped at his empty ring finger. Meredith hadn’t told me anything was wrong between Freddy and his wife.
“She left me for a nine-to-fiver with a big paycheck,” Freddy said. “Artists barely make enough to eat, and art teachers don’t make much more than that. I’m a Bohemian, short and simple. I’m dealing with it.”
Freddy sounded chipper, but I wasn’t so sure he was. A muscle was ticking in his cheek.
Winona slipped her hand around Freddy’s elbow. “I, for one, like Bohemians.”
Jordan cleared his throat. With his eyes, he encouraged me to leave the pack, but before we could break free, his sister Jacky burst into the room.
She looked like a sleek horse running from a fire, black mane cascading down her back, gaze frantic.
CHAPTER 4
Jordan raced across the dining room to his sister. She whispered in his ear. He gave a curt nod and guided her to the terrace overlooking the vineyards. I couldn’t catch a word of their ensuing conversation, but something in their need for privacy and the worry in Jordan’s eyes sent a frisson of fear through me.
Meredith moved to the center of the room, clapping her hands. “Hello, everyone. Welcome. Get a bite to eat. The scavenger hunt starts in ten minutes!”
“We’d better get a move on,” Freddy said. He nudged Winona and me toward the buffet, where another twenty stood in line.
As we arrived, I heard Rebecca, Grandmère, Pépère, and the twins arguing the finer points of Grandmère’s upcoming theater production. The twins called their great-grandparents Grandmère and Pépère, like Matthew and I did, for the same reason I called them the twins—the ease of it. Amy was still trying to understand why Grandmère wanted actors from another play to read Poe’s poems. Pépère didn’t think “The Raven” was the right poem to open the show. Rebecca suggested “The Bells.” Clair said she preferred “Lenore.” I didn’t question that she’d read the latter. Even at the young age of nine, she was a serious reader. Grandmère pooh-poohed them all. She said it was the playwright’s prerogative.
And who exactly was the playwright? I wanted to know. Grandmère was certainly being coy about the identity.
She turned to me. “What do you think, Charlotte?”
I knew better than to get into a debate with my grandmother. She hadn’t become the mayor of our fine city by being a lamb in an argument. I said, “I think you should sample more of my fine fondue.”
Grandmère chortled and patted her tummy. “I’ve done plenty of that.” She elbowed my grandfather. “Etienne, we must leave. Find Bozz. He’s agreed to help finish building the sets. Amy, Clair. Wash your hands and meet me at the car.” She shooed them away. When they were out of earshot, she said, “What is Sylvie doing back in Providence?”
All I could do was shrug. I hated feeling helpless. Apparently, so did Matthew. He and Meredith were huddled in a corner. She was stroking the back of his head while he talked nonstop.
“I don’t trust her,” my grandmother said. “She’s up to no good. Mark my words.”
She started to walk away, but I grabbed her elbow. “Wait. Tell me why this winery makes you anxious.”
“I told you. It is an old woman’s superstition. Let it be. Oh, look, there’s Chief Urso,” she said, deftly changing the subject. “How nice to see him out in a social setting. He is quite handsome in his brown suit, don’t you think? My, my, he does have eyes for you.”
I glimpsed over my shoulder. Our chief of police, Umberto Urso—or U-ey as he’d been dubbed in high school—was looking my way. I waved. He gave a nod.
“Throw him a bone,” Grandmère said.
Urso was a good man with a firm grip on how to keep the peace. Since the murder of a prominent citizen a few months ago, we hadn’t had as much as a jaywalker. It didn’t hurt that Urso was so big and tall that he looked like he could snap even the heartiest of men in two with his bare hands.
“I’m in a relationship,” I reminded her.
“But of course. I am forgetful.” My grandmother was never forgetful. At the sprightly age of seventy-three—she’d only admit to seventy—she could dance rings around everyone in the brains department. She said, “Is Jordan here?”
I glanced at the terrace. Jordan and Jacky had disappeared. “I think he left,” I said, unable to hide my disappointment.
“Ah, c’est la vie, chérie.”
Her tone caught me off guard. Didn’t she think Jordan and I were a good fit? She had never mentioned anything to the contrary before. I eyed her and waggled my finger. “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re just trying to get my mind off what’s bothering you about this place. C’mon, spill.”
Grandmère sighed. “When we moved to Providence, I met Ziegler’s daughter. Something wasn’t right about her. I worried that she might cause probl
ems, but then she left town. The last I heard, she joined some hippie commune.”
“Having music at the fund-raiser bothered you.”
“No, chérie, you got the wrong idea. It is the winery. This place. I must let it go. There has been nothing amiss since, and with this event, Meredith has set my mind to rest.” She brushed off her shoulders to rid herself of bad vibrations—a trick that a gypsy had taught her—then pecked my cheek and waltzed off.
“Charlotte.” Freddy tapped my shoulder. “Which fondue should I have? Champagne or Humboldt Fog?”
“Both. Taste test. That’s always the most fun.”
Freddy loaded a plate with pieces of bread and florets of broccoli, grabbed one of the bamboo skewers that we’d placed in crystal vases, and spooned some of each fondue onto his plate.
“I never eat fondue,” Winona said.
Oh, please. I bit my tongue. Not the cheese will make me fat thing again.
“You’re missing a treat,” Freddy said. “Communal eating is sexy.”
“Communal?”
“I give you a bite, you give me a bite.” He winked. “I love a good bite.”
She tittered.
Get a room, I thought, and then another notion whisked through my mind. Had Winona become a donor so she could put the moves on Freddy, or had Freddy wooed her into becoming a donor because of his sudden single status? Did it matter? She was here. He was loving the attention. And her friend Wolford, from what I could tell, had no apparent interest in her.
“How do I do it?” Winona eyed Freddy with damsel-indistress meekness, which, for an Amazonian-sized woman, was hard to do.
Freddy speared a piece of bread with a skewer, rolled it in the champagne fondue cheese, and fed the bite to Winona. All of the cheese didn’t make it into Winona’s mouth. Freddy used a knuckle to clean her chin and licked the cheese off his finger. Winona moaned with delight.
I reached for a plate, but paused when I heard Quinn yell, “Stop it!”
Dane had trapped her by one of the windows. With one hand, he held fast to the ends of her multicolor scarf. Using his free hand, he tried to feed her fondue. “C’mon, it’s Gruyère de Comté. You’ll like it.” Cheese dripped off the skewer and onto Quinn’s scarf.
