For Cheddar or Worse (4 page)

“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

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.

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 the 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.