To Brie or Not to Brie (6 page)

“Did you think I’d forgotten?” I said as I entered the shop and made a beeline toward
Octavia, who stood bending over a box.

“You? Not for a second. You’re like an elephant. You never forget.”

Without waiting for instruction, I dipped into a box of books, devouring titles and
making a mental list of which books I wanted on my bedside table. With the preparations
for the wedding and packing up the twins’ things, I hadn’t found much time to read
lately, but I couldn’t go without a good read for too long.

“Whewie.” Octavia rose to her full height, brushed her beaded cornrows over her shoulder,
and dusted off her jeans and holey T-shirt. “This is backbreaking. And dirty.”

I had to laugh. I couldn’t remember seeing my friend in anything other than a business
suit or a costume—the latter because she loved to dress up to read to the kids at
the library. A head taller than I, she held herself like a queen and usually moved
with effortless grace. Not now.

“Is anybody else coming to help?” I asked.

“Just you and little old me.”

“You’re not old.”

“I’ve got years on you. Years.”

“And don’t forget me.” Anabelle popped up from behind the counter. With her saucer-shaped
eyes, timid smile, and dark ponytail that trailed down her back, she reminded me of
a lemur. The caramel-colored knit cap and fluffy sweater she wore enhanced the furry
image. “I’m here to help.”

Octavia chuckled. “You? You’re no help at all. You’ve been packing your own stuff
for hours. What do you have crammed in that cupboard anyway?” She peeked over the
counter. “Are those dolls in that box?”

Anabelle blushed. “I’m a collector.”

“Honey, you are a hoarder.”

“They’re my babies, and they’re antiques. I’ve picked them up everywhere I’ve lived.”

Octavia eyed me. “Six states in her twenty-plus years. She’s rootless.”

“I’m a world traveler,” Anabelle said.

“I repeat, rootless.” Octavia snatched a bottle of water and cracked open the top.
She swigged down half of it and set the bottle on the counter.

Anabelle toyed with the scalloped collar of her sweater. “How did I accumulate so
much stuff?”

“We all do,” I said, thinking of the twins’ things. How many toys and craft projects
had I packed over the past few weeks?

“Anabelle has nearly as many boyfriends as dolls,” Octavia went on. “What was the
last count, twenty, thirty?”

“Ten.” Anabelle sniffed. “Don’t make fun simply because I was making eyes at some
guy before Charlotte came in.”

“Making eyes?” Octavia did a side-to-side Egyptian goddess move with her head, something
that, when I was a teen, I had tried numerous times in front of the mirror to master
but couldn’t. Attitude was not always a God-given talent. “Honey, you were waving
your finger at that man just begging for an engagement ring.”

Anabelle sputtered. “I did no such thing. I just met the man. He and his brother are
new in town, or did you miss that tidbit?” She reached over the counter and flicked
Octavia’s arm. “Don’t listen to her, Charlotte. I was totally professional. I told
him we weren’t open for business yet, and to come back.”

We returned to emptying or packing boxes.

After a moment, Anabelle appeared from behind the counter again and said, “He was
hunky, though, wasn’t he, girlfriend?”

“‘Girlfriend’? Who are you calling ‘girlfriend’?” Octavia offered a mocking grin,
and then a small frown creased her forehead. I recognized the look. She was going
to be sorry when Anabelle left town. She delighted in having someone her daughter’s
age to watch over.

“C’mon, he was hunky. Chiseled face.” Anabelle drew an image with her fingertips.
“Did you hear him say he was an investor?”

Instinctively, I cringed. Investors with dishonorable motives had recently come and
gone in Providence. I wasn’t eager for more to appear.

“He also said he was checking out the college.”

Providence Liberal Arts College—or PLAC, a project Meredith had championed—had just
started its first year of education with a full freshman class.

Octavia jutted a finger at Anabelle. “That means he’s too old for you. He probably
has kids near your age.”

Anabelle clucked her tongue, dismissing Octavia, and then turned to me. “Hey, Charlotte,
he wants to see your grandmother’s production of
Hamlet
. Isn’t that cool? He’s a Shakespeare buff.” Clearly smitten, Anabelle flipped her
hair in a flirty way. “I’d like to date an educated man at least once in my life.”

Octavia huffed. “Do I need to remind you that you are scheduled to move in a week?”

“So it would be a fling. Big deal.” Anabelle had owned All Booked Up for three years,
and as far as I knew had planned to remain forever, but when she learned that her
father, who lived in Chicago, was ailing, she put the store up for sale. “Ooh, what
if Mr. Hunky visits me in Chicago? He said he travels. A lot.”

“Anabelle Rossi,” Octavia said, gripping the young woman’s shoulders. “You have got
to keep your head on straight. Pack your dolls, put away your girlish fantasies, and
keep your eye on the target. Your daddy needs you. Not this man, one in a string of
how many? Forty?”

“Ten.”

“Humph. Now, do us a favor and fetch a couple more bottles of water from the storage
room.”

Anabelle left on the errand.

“That girl.” Octavia heaved a sigh and continued unpacking books.

“What’s got you so bugged?” I asked.

“I’m worried, that’s all. Anabelle is young and impressionable. She collects dolls,
for heaven’s sake. She’s not ready to date some…some”—she waved a hand—“lothario.”

“And that’s what this guy seemed like to you?”

“He didn’t look nice. And his brother, the one with the bad skin? I’ve seen the likes
of him in a few horror movies. The guy could use a year of facials, if you ask me.
And
nobody that walks into a shop and leaves empty-handed without buying a thing is okay
in my book.”

“They sound like the same guys who were in Fromagerie Bessette a while ago.”

“Cheapskates.”

“But Octavia, you’re not open for business yet.”

“A minor detail.” She swatted the air, and then returned to her chore. She opened
another box and winked. “At last. I finally found the mysteries.” With glee, she withdrew
not just any mysteries but collectors’ copies by Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie,
and more—a semi-dusty taste of bibliophile heaven.

* * *

An hour later, I returned to Fromagerie Bessette. I found Rebecca preparing an order
for Jordan’s sister, Jacky, who was cooing to Cecily and setting her into a stroller.

“Mmm,” I said as I joined Rebecca behind the counter. “How I love the aroma of Bayley
Hazen Blue.” The Jasper Hill Farm cheese resonated with flavors of nuts and licorice.
I glanced into the wine annex, which was empty. “Where’s Matthew?”

“Around.” Rebecca twirled her hand. “Walking on air. Humming. That man is happier
than I’ve ever seen him. It’s so sweet.”

“Yes, it is.”

Jacky rose to her willowy height. “Hi, Charlotte.”

“Hi. Don’t you look great, and isn’t Cecily growing fast?” I wiggled my fingers at
the baby and blew a strawberry at her. She mimicked me. “You’re going to love the
Bayley Hazen Blue.”

“I buy it whenever I can.”

“One of my favorite quickie snacks is putting a wedge of the blue cheese on a cracker
with a sliver of fresh fruit.”

“Sounds tasty.”

Cecily gurgled, and Jacky immediately bent over to see if something was wrong, ending
our conversation.

Rebecca hitched her chin. “Look who else is here.”

Hugo Hunter, the owner of the Igloo Ice Cream Parlor, stood by the mustard remoulade
display. He anchored back his unruly dark curls as he studied the labels.

“I’m telling you, he looks like Houdini,” Rebecca continued, sotto voce.

As if sensing we were discussing him, Hugo swiveled his head. On other occasions,
I had thought he resembled Elvis, with that swoop of hair and devil-may-care grin,
but maybe Rebecca was right. He had Houdini’s haunting eyes.

“He and Jacky are having dinner together,” Rebecca added. “At Jacky’s place.”

“Is there any gossip you don’t glean?” I teased.

“He’s good with the baby. He was holding her earlier and tickling her chin.”

A guy that was good with infants was worth his weight in gold, right?

“Speaking of gossip, did you pick up any at the bookstore?” Rebecca asked.

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

I propped my hand against my hip. “Rebecca Zook, are you bored because your lover
man is out of town? Don’t you have enough to keep your overly active mind busy?”

“No, I don’t. C’mon, a nugget. Feed me.” She wrapped the deeply veined blue cheese
in our special paper, affixed a cheese information label, and set the purchase into
one of our gold bags.

“I learned that Anabelle is hot for a tourist,” I said.

“Which one?”

“I think it’s one of the men that were in here earlier. Mutt and Jeff. The ones that
didn’t buy any cheese.”

“The bad-skin guy?”

“No, the other one who appeared to have lost all the weight. They’re brothers.”

Jacky snapped her head up and gazed at me, her eyes tense and alert.

I was about to ask what was wrong when Hugo approached the counter.

“Charlotte, how did the Brie ice cream turn out?” he said. With his rich baritone
voice, I could imagine him addressing an audience, and I wondered if he had done some
kind of acting or orating prior to settling in Providence. Perhaps he had been a magician.
With his muscular body, I could see him trying to escape from a water torture cell.

“Great, delicious,” I said. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to give you this.” I fetched
a copy of the Brie blueberry ice cream recipe that I had tucked beside the register
and handed it to Hugo. “You should offer it on your menu.”

“Am I allowed to make it before the big day?” He winked.

“I don’t see why not.”

“In that case, let me buy five pounds of Brie.”

As he paid for his purchase, Rebecca whispered, “Back to Anabelle. Tell me about the
tourist she’s interested in.”

At the mention of the tourist again, I searched for Jacky. She had turned the stroller
around and was heading toward the exit. Anxiety swept through me. Why had she reacted
so strongly when I had mentioned the tourists before, and why wasn’t she sticking
around to fill me in?

Later that night, I stood at the sink in my grandparents’ kitchen washing pots and
pans, my mouth watering even though I had finished a big meal. The lingering aromas
would make the most dedicated dieter hungry. Remnants of the feast of roast beef,
Yorkshire pudding, and the most delectable string beans known to man, brined in salt
and drenched in butter, sat on the counter. Clair, who had to follow a strict celiac
diet, had consumed the entire gluten-free Yorkshire pudding popover I had made for
her.

Jordan snuggled behind me and wrapped an arm around my waist. “I need some fresh air.
Care to join me?” He breathed a sigh on the back of my neck. “It’s beautiful out.
The temperature is unseasonably warm. The sky is a dusky, romantic orange.”

I swiveled to meet him, my chest brushing his ever so slightly. “I’m a little busy.”

He assessed the stacks of dishes. “I’ll help.” He rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a
dish towel, and began drying what I
washed. Each time his shoulder, his hip, or his arm touched mine, I hungered with
desire.

“Jacky was in the shop with Hugo Hunter today,” I said, doing my best to push aside
sexy thoughts and keep the conversation lighthearted. “How long have they been going
out?”

“Are you hoping for a little town gossip, sweetheart?” he joked.

“Gossip? Me?”

“Yes, you.” Jordan flicked the tail of the towel at my legs.

I laughed. “She hasn’t mentioned word one about their relationship at our girls’ night
out.” Once a week, a bunch of girlfriends and I got together for a yoga class or a
self-defense class or dinner.

“They’ve been dating for two or three weeks,” Jordan said.

“That long?”

“Some people can keep secrets.” Jordan had moved to Providence a few years back, and
until last year, his reason for moving had been a mystery to me, but once the puzzle
was solved to my satisfaction, he proposed and our romance soared.

“No, no, no.” Grandmère, carrying wine and water glasses, waltzed into the kitchen,
followed by my friend Delilah, owner of the local diner, former Broadway dancer, and
current director of
Hamlet.

“But we need them.” Delilah spanked the back of her hand against the palm of her other
hand.

“Gaslights are not in keeping with the times,” Grandmère countered.

“Then torches.” Delilah swooped her curly hair over her shoulders and planted her
hands on her hips. “If we don’t have lights, people will bump into each other.” After
her rousing success with the play she had written for Providence Playhouse a season
ago, Delilah was granted the opportunity
to direct again. My grandmother claimed she hired Delilah because she, Grandmère,
was losing her touch as a director, but I knew better. She wanted to foster Delilah’s
talent. Delilah had dreamed up the brilliant idea of making
Hamlet
an open-air production in the Village Square.