To Brie or Not to Brie (5 page)

William was the man who had given Jacky the courage to leave her husband. She had
been prepared to file for divorce, but then her husband found out about the affair
and hurt her. Sadly, William died in an unrelated car accident.

Jacky tucked Cecily into the stroller. “I’m sorry, Charlotte, I shouldn’t have dragged
you into this soap opera.” Pushing the stroller, she raced from the quilt shop.

Jordan seemed torn, his gaze darting from me to Jacky.

I said, “Go. She needs you.”

He pecked me on the cheek and hurried after his sister.

The instant he exited the shop, Edy rushed to my side. “Charlotte.” She mouthed:
Help
.

Prudence clung to her like an angry shadow. “Edy Delaney, I’m not done talking to
you yet.”

“I’m done listening,” Edy squawked. “I had every right to switch jobs.”

“But not to spread rumors about me.”

Iris joined our group. “Speaking of rumors, what was that about?” She pointed at the
doorway, indicating that she wanted to know what had sent Jacky running from the shop.

“Nothing,” I said, my tone carefree. “Hormones,” I added, a standard answer for women.

“Hormones, my foot,” Iris said. “I’ll bet she learned something about that new boyfriend
of hers.”

“Which new boyfriend?” Edy asked.

“She’s not dating anyone,” I said. Jacky and Urso had broken up months ago.

“She is, too.” Iris toyed with her shaggy hairdo, delaying the moment of revelation.
“Hugo Hunter.”

“The owner of the Igloo?” Edy sounded as surprised as I felt.

When had Jacky started dating the ice cream maker? I flashed back to my earlier conversation
with Rebecca, when she said Hugo was so mysterious he reminded her of Houdini. A shiver
of apprehension ran down my spine. Was Jacky having nightmares about her estranged
husband because of something Hugo had said to her? Did Hugo know about her past life?

“What do you think Jacky learned about Hugo?” Edy asked.

Iris lowered her voice. “He has a past. She should be warned.”

“You’re just bitter,” Edy said.

“I’m what? Why you…” Iris raised a fist.

I flinched. I didn’t like Edy much, but I didn’t want her to wind up with a bloody
nose. Not in Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe. I said, “Edy, come to the fitting room with
me.”

“Don’t you want to know why Iris is bitter?” Edy said.

No, I didn’t. Not really.

“Don’t say a word.” Iris waggled her fist. Her eyes flared with conviction.

Prudence snagged her friend’s arm. “Iris, don’t rise to the bait.” She pulled; Iris
resisted. “Iris, let’s leave.” After further struggle, Prudence, who was taller and
heavier, if that were possible for someone so thin, won the tug-of-war.

When they exited and the door closed, I said to Edy, “Are you nuts? Taking on not
only Prudence but her best buddy, too?”

“That woman makes me so mad.”

“Iris?”

“Heck, no. I mean Prudence. Iris is a pushover. Getting left at the altar didn’t do
her any favors. Didn’t you notice that silly slogan on her tote?
Growing Stronger.
” Edy snorted. “Wishful thinking.”

“Iris was left at the altar?” I said. Perhaps that was why Iris and Prudence were
such good pals. They had bonded over lost relationships. “Wait a sec. She has a teenage
daughter.”

“Adopted.”

“Really?”

“Maybe dating that sweet dog groomer will perk her up.”

I gaped. “Iris is dating the owner of Tailwaggers?” How had I missed so many secrets?
Usually Fromagerie Bessette was the place in town to gather the news.

Days passed before I was able to find enough time to experiment with ice cream flavors,
but it was well worth the wait. Mid-afternoon on Friday, while a couple of male tourists
wearing
Stomping the Grapes
T-shirts browsed the shelves, Rebecca and I stood at the cheese counter in Fromagerie
Bessette, spoons in hand, four china bowls of ice cream in front of us.

“Is it okay to taste right here while we have customers?” Rebecca asked.

“They’re not even looking our way. Go ahead,” I said, eager for her responses.

She dipped her spoon into one, savored the bite, and then moved on to the next. I
followed, relishing the flavors: Brie and blueberry as well as Brie with strawberry,
Cheddar apple, and simply cinnamon. For each, I had used a vanilla ice cream base
that Hugo Hunter had divined, substituting mascarpone cheese for part of the cream.

“I like the cinnamon,” Rebecca said. “It’s got a zip to it.”

“I do, too”—I took another taste of each—“but I think the Brie and blueberry is the
best.”

“You’re right.” Rebecca nodded. “The nutmeg blends perfectly with the tartness of
the berries and the richness of the Brie.”

The inspiration for adding nutmeg—a minor inspiration at best—had come to me in the
middle of the night.

“Charlotte.” Matthew, my handsome cousin who was not only the twins’ father but also
the groom-to-be, emerged from the wine annex that abutted The Cheese Shop, and loped
toward me. The cream color of his shirt set off his bronzed skin. He paused at the
door leading to the kitchen. “I’m going downstairs.” His eyes sparkled with zeal.
He was excited about the wedding—that was a given—but he was also keyed up about the
cheese and wine cellar beneath the shop. We had finished construction less than a
month ago. We wanted a storage site to age wines and cheeses to their proper maturity.
We intended to offer special, top-of-the-line tastings below. He said, “Need anything?”

“Yes, I want you to taste this.” I held out a spoonful of the Brie blueberry ice cream.

He downed the bite and licked his lips. “Delicious. Meredith will love it.” He turned
to go.

“Wait. You didn’t taste the others.”

“I don’t have time. I’ve got to make sure the cellar is prepared.” Matthew and Meredith
had decided to have their rehearsal dinner catered in the wine annex. After dessert,
Matthew would show all of the out-of-town wedding guests the cellar. The room was
so new that Matthew was still moving around bottles of wine and wheels of cheese to
get the right
look
—Old World European. “I’ve got a lot to do. The clock is ticking.” He scanned the
shop. “Not bursting with business, are we?”

“We were an hour ago,” I said. “It ebbs and flows.”

“Sometimes we only have browsers,” Rebecca said.

As if feeling our eyes on them, the pair of tourists slunk
out of the shop without buying anything. As they exited, the twins entered.

“Hi, Daddy. Hi, Rebecca. Hi, Aunt Charlotte,” they sang in unison.

Grandmère Bernadette, my seventy-plus grandmother who was a spitfire of a woman, entered
behind them. Her burgundy peasant blouse and matching corduroy skirt flounced as she
moved. “
Bonjour
.”

Rocket, the shaggy Briard that the twins’ mother had bestowed upon them—and therefore
me, seeing as they lived under my roof—barked from the sidewalk.

“Hush,” Grandmère said.

As the door swung closed, Rocket whimpered. He didn’t like being leashed to the parking
meter. He adored snippets of cheese and probably felt he deserved a romp in the shop,
not to mention that he knew my Ragdoll cat was enjoying a relaxing snooze in the office.

The twins scampered to the cheese counter.

Amy, who had Grandmère’s chugalug energy, spoke first. “We packed more of our clothes,
Aunt Charlotte. The foyer at the house is crowded.”

The week after the honeymoon, Matthew, Amy, and Clair were moving into Meredith’s
house. Though they would only be living a few blocks away, every time I heard someone
attach a strip of cellophane tape to a box, my heart wrenched. I was going to miss
hearing the twins’ cheery voices and seeing their bright smiles on a daily basis.

“Can you believe it?” Amy went on. “The wedding is almost here.”

“I heard your dresses are beautiful,” Rebecca said.

“They are,” I said. Mine was a work in progress. At the fitting, Tyanne hadn’t liked
the way it had fallen on my hips. However, we had agreed that the pale gold color
was a nice match with my skin tone and complemented the highlights in my blond hair.

“They’re pretty, I guess,” Amy said, not enthusiastically
but almost. I hinted that Tyanne’s son might like to see her in the dress. She pooh-poohed
that notion.

“Did you hear we’re going to get our hair styled at Tip to Toe?” Clair said with such
fervor it surprised me. I wouldn’t have thought she cared about a hairdo. Her stick-straight,
light-gold hair hung to her shoulders and fell forward like a curtain. More than once
I had needed to push strands behind her ears so I could see her adorable face.

“Actually, I’m going with you,” I said, then turned to my grandmother. “What have
you got in your hand?”

She flapped a ream of purple paper. “Flyers. We’re having a footrace to raise money
for the cause.”

“Which cause?”

“The animal rescue shelter.” My mouth must have fallen open because Grandmère said,
“Do not look so surprised.” In the past, she wasn’t necessarily the most pet-enthusiastic
person on the planet. Was she going through a shift? Granted, she had warmed to my
two pets. What wasn’t to love? Rocket nuzzled her whenever he had the chance, and
Rags was the most interactive cat in the world. “The Providence Cares Foundation saves
so many, but resources are low,” she went on.

I didn’t know how many animals the foundation had saved over the years, but it had
to number in the hundreds—perhaps thousands. Rags and Rocket were both rescued animals.

“Do you ever stop?” I asked. “Mayor, theater manager, and now rescued animals enthusiast?”

Grandmère patted the flyers. “We are calling the race
Stomping the Grapes.
”

“You’re sure getting the word out,” Rebecca said. “There were a couple of tourists
in here a bit ago wearing T-shirts with the logo.”

“Ah, yes, the T-shirts.” Grandmère beamed. “They have been a big hit.”

“Do you remember the guys, Charlotte?” Rebecca
twirled a hand as if conjuring up the image for me. “Mutt and Jeff. The short guy
with the icky skin reminded me of an evil actor. He had the same hooded eyes, don’t
you think? And the other guy, the tall guy, had saggy jowls.”

“Jowls?” I hadn’t noticed. Was my eyesight going? “I thought he was pretty handsome.”

“Nah, he had a wattle”—she tapped the underside of her chin—“like a turkey. Neither
of them bought a thing. If you’d served him at the cheese counter, you would have
spotted it.”

“So far we have over fifty entrants,” Grandmère went on as she handed everyone a flyer.
“The race will be held at the Bozzuto Winery.” The Bozzuto family, who owned the oldest
farmstead in Providence, made light and fruity wines as well as the most delectable
natural sodas. Matthew said their chenin blanc was one of the best he had ever tasted.
It was elegant and crisp—nothing like the old syrupy sweet chenin blancs that we used
to down in college.

“Can we join in?” Amy said. “I love to run.”

“Can I walk?” Clair asked.

I grinned. She would probably want to carry a book and read at the same time. “Yes,
of course you can participate.”

“Entrants are encouraged to get sponsors,” Grandmère said to the girls.

“How do we that?” Amy raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Grandmère pulled an entry form from her purse. “See the numbers by each line? Ask
someone to donate a dime or a quarter for every hundred yards you walk. Write their
names down. All the money will go to the rescue fund. Turn your form in to the Tourist
Information Center.”

“We can do that,” Amy said.

“Good girl.” Grandmère patted Amy’s cheek as if she were an obedient pup. “But homework
first.”

Amy groaned. She wasn’t the best of students.

“Can we take Rags with us?” Clair asked. She adored my Ragdoll.

“Fine.” Grandmère waved for them to hurry. “Now, get packing.”

Packing!
I eeked.

“What’s wrong?” Rebecca said.

“I nearly forgot that I had promised to help Octavia set up her bookstore.”

“Go,” she said. “I’ll manage here.”

* * *

Octavia Tibble—dedicated librarian, Realtor, and new ecstatic bookshop owner—had done
a fabulous makeover on All Booked Up. She had ripped out the carpet, laid hardwood
floors, and placed hand-woven rugs everywhere. She had covered all the wing-back chairs
in deep blue and had set Tiffany lamps beside each. She had converted a little nook
into a tea-and-scone café, and lastly, she had decorated each aisle according to its
reading genre. Pictures of fairies and Harry Potter floated above Fantasy. Cutouts
of Sherlockian hats and magnifying glasses adorned the shelves in Mystery. All she
had left to do was add inventory and remove items that belonged to Anabelle Rossi,
the previous owner, and she was set to open.

Stacks of unpacked boxes stood in front of the oak checkout counter. Anabelle’s boxes
nestled behind it. Bottled water sat beside the register.