For Cheddar or Worse Read online

  For the event, a lane on each of the four main streets of Providence that girded the Village Green would be closed to traffic, allowing pedestrians to roam freely. A volunteer construction crew was putting the finishing touches on portable stages, upon which would appear singers, fiddlers, actors, and more. To cap it off, my grandmother had chosen Fromagerie Bessette to be the sponsor for the artisan cheese competition. There would be two rounds of tastings, ten artisanal cheese farmers in each round. At the end of each round, we would pick a winner. The two winners would compete a week from tomorrow for the grand prize. Grandmère hadn’t told me what the grand prize was yet. I was eager to find out.

  “Let’s get hustling,” I said to Rebecca. “Lots to do.”

  We worked side by side throughout the morning. Customers came and went.

  Close to eleven A.M., the front door flew open. Grandmère, looking colorful in a yellow sweater and red slacks, hurried to the tasting counter and perched on a ladder-back stool. Her face, though weathered, glowed with energy. “Charlotte, chérie! You will be so excited to hear.”

  “Hear what?”

  My grandfather followed her inside. “Our Charlotte has heard it all.”

  “Heard what?” I glanced from one to the other.

  Though Pépère was flushed and harrumphing like a disgruntled elephant, there was a twinkle in his eye. And why shouldn’t there be? He loved coming to the shop and sneaking pieces of cheese—sneaking, because Grandmère continually put him on a diet. Perhaps the latest regimen was working. His stomach did appear less paunchy beneath his plaid shirt, and his typically chubby cheeks looked almost lean.

  “Heard what?” I repeated.

  Pépère rounded the cheese counter, clutched me by the shoulders, and kissed me, la bise, on each cheek. Then he plucked a piece of cheese from the tasting platter.

  My grandmother tsked. “Etienne.”

  “What is wrong?” He took another and plopped it into his mouth while daring her to chastise him.

  Grandmère frowned. What could she do? Pépère was going to help out Rebecca for the next two days. She couldn’t eagle-eye him every minute. He would either have self-control or not. Most likely not. Grandmère turned her attention to me. “She has come.”

  “She, who?” I asked, intrigued.

  “That woman.” Grandmère waved a hand. “The cheese author. The one who writes about all the farms and cheese shops in America.”

  “Lara Berry?”

  “Oui.”

  A thrill of excitement rushed through me. In my world, Lara Berry was a star. Years ago, she had started out as a simple cheese monger, like me, but now, in addition to being an author, she was a consultant who advised cheese makers on how to market their product, and she reviewed up-and-coming farmsteads. “Where is she?”

  Grandmère said, “I saw her in La Chic Boutique buying a dress.” The boutique was one of two women’s dress shops in town. It offered classic styles at sky-high prices. “She is lean and tall, just like on the book cover.”

  “Why has she come?” I asked.

  Grandmère squinted. “Is she not here to attend the brain trust?”

  “She’s not on the list of attendees. I’ve got to meet her.”

  “You have read all her works, non?” Grandmère mimed opening a book. “Sont-ils de bons livres?”

  “Yes, they are very good books. C’est fantastique.” Occasionally my grandparents resorted to their native tongue. They migrated from France after World War II. “She is very knowledgeable.” Lara Berry was the go-to cheese maven for American cheeses. “I’ve seen her on talk shows, too. She has quite a sharp sense of humor.”

  “Do you like her?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Bon. Then it will not matter that she is bossy.”

  “Bossy?”

  “Oui. Bossy. This is the correct word. She barks orders.” This coming from my grandmother, who could bark with the best of them. Some called her the little general.

  “Was Prudence being rude to her?” I asked. Prudence Hart was the owner of La Chic Boutique. A woman with very strong opinions, she could rub people the wrong way.

  “Perhaps.” Grandmère chuckled. “Lara would not back down.”

  “Good for her.” I appreciated a woman who could stand her ground.

  The door to the shop flew open again. The chimes jangled. Matthew, my cousin, who reminded me of a Great Dane puppy mixed with a Sheepdog, all arms and legs with a hank of hair invariably dangling down his forehead into his eyes, raced in. “Have you heard?”

  I nodded. “That Lara Berry is in town? Yes.” Lara not only knew her cheeses; she also knew wine. Her latest book, Educate Your Palate: a Connoisseur’s Guide to American Cheese and Wine, was a must-read for people like Matthew and me. Thanks to Lara’s research, I had discovered a wealth of new farms and creameries that put out excellent artisanal cheeses. Matthew had learned about a number of independent wineries, citing from Lara’s book that at the turn of the century there had been about two thousand wineries in America; now there were over eight thousand. “Grandmère saw her—”

  “No,” Matthew cut me off. “That’s not what I’m talking about. Have you heard about Meredith?” His wife and my best friend. “She’s pregnant!”

  “What? You’re kidding.” I did a happy jig. “How far along is she?”

  “Three months.”

  I stopped dancing. “Three months and neither of you said a word to me?”

  “She thought if she said something, she might jinx it. We’ve been trying. She lost one last year.”

  “She what?” I yelped. She lost a baby and hadn’t confided in me? What kind of friend was she? What kind of friend was I not to have sensed her pain?

  Matthew shrugged. “What can I say? Everyone’s got a secret.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  I sped to Meredith’s house and found her decorating the baby suite. Seeing her in her splattered smock, glowing with hope, made my peeve vanish. I congratulated her, and we shared a bite of lunch and talked for an hour. When she said she needed rest, I left and dashed home. Jordan arrived minutes after me, looking delicious as all get out—his hair windblown, his white shirt opened a couple of buttons to cool him off. After a luscious kiss, he grabbed our weekender suitcases, and we headed to Emerald Pastures Farm.

  The drive to the farm took Jordan and me a mere fifteen minutes. The inn, a white shingled traditional with a wraparound portico and modest columns, was located at the top of a bluff, far from any roads. It was so solitary that a visitor could easily hear the lowing of cows and the music of crickets in the fields.

  Erin Emerald, a teensy woman easily five inches shorter than I—and I was barely pushing five-feet-four—welcomed us in the foyer. “I think you’ll love your room. It’s on the second floor.” She skirted behind the check-in desk and nudged a register toward me. After I signed in, she told us to follow her. Her silky red hair swung to and fro as she moved ahead and flourished a hand toward the living room on our left. “This is where we’ll have the cocktail reception tonight.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, taking in the space.

  Two stately antique sofas faced each other in the middle of the room. There were clusters of comfortable reading chairs as well. An upright piano was tucked against the far wall. By the window stood a chess table with two darling hand-painted chairs. An antique grandfather clock with an astronomical moon phase dial also caught my eye. What I wouldn’t do to own something like that. It was more than just a timepiece. With its intricate woodworking, it was a work of art. My grandmother had given me a great appreciation for furniture and the handiwork and love that went into making antiques. I had recently refinished an old desk in my office. Although I wouldn’t be putting in those kinds of man-hours again anytime soon, I wouldn’t mind investing in more items at a future date
.

  “Over to your right is the evening dining room. Beyond that, the breakfast room.”

  I said, “I love what you’ve done with the place, Erin.”

  She sighed. “It’s a work in progress. You’re seeing the first stages of a facelift. We need to do a lot of updates that we can’t afford . . . yet. Although Emerald Finish, the farm’s latest output, won first place in the state cheese competition, a ribbon alone can’t pay for all the upkeep.”

  I had tasted the cheese. It was a creamy cow-sheep Cheddar with a tangy quality. Perfect with a glass of sauvignon blanc.

  “Soon,” Erin continued, “I’ll complete my parents’ vision for the inn, but the farm—the operation—comes first.”

  Jordan said, “The grounds look good. Well-tended.”

  “The structures have weathered well.” Erin knocked on the wooden frame of a doorway. “Can’t skimp on that.” Her family had owned the farm for generations. “And the livestock are healthy, so I must be doing something right.” Erin’s parents passed away eight years ago. Her father, only in his fifties, died of a stroke; her mother died a month later of a heart attack. The next day, Erin found herself swimming at the deep end of the farming pool. She hadn’t been groomed to run the operation. She was just now grasping how to do the job.

  “I’m certain the entire place will be up to snuff in no time,” Jordan said. He had relocated to Providence a number of years ago and, until recently, had owned and operated a thriving spread called Pace Hill Farm.

  “Thank you, Jordan. That means a lot coming from you. How is the restaurant business?”

  “Swell.” A few months ago, after one of our dear friends who owned an Irish pub was killed, Jordan purchased the place and handed over Pace Hill Farm to his sister. It wasn’t a rash decision. Prior to moving to town, Jordan had owned a restaurant in upstate New York. A deadly encounter with a couple of thugs ended that. He was placed in the WITSEC program, settled in Providence, and kept a low profile as a cheese maker until the case went to trial.

  “Jordan, I hear you’ve started offering cooking classes,” Erin said.

  “On Sunday evenings.” Once the trial was settled and the people who had it in for Jordan were locked away forever, Jordan was free to pursue the career he loved: being a chef.

  “The classes are a bunch of fun,” I said. “For each meal, the amateur chefs don chef coats and prepare a four-course meal. In between courses, they taste their wares, each paired with an appropriate wine selection. You should take a class.”

  Erin smiled. “I just might.”

  Jordan and I had met at a cooking class at a local Italian restaurant. I would never forget the first look we exchanged. His eyes had sparkled with danger as well as humor. I was toast after that.

  “Let’s head upstairs,” Erin suggested.

  I trailed behind her, noting the fray of the dark green staircase runner. The railing could use a good polish as well.

  Jordan must have noticed the wear and tear, too. He said, “Mind your step,” and placed his hand at the arch of my back. Warmth radiated through his touch.

  “The bags,” I murmured.

  “Got ’em.” Jordan returned to the foyer, hoisted both pieces of luggage, and climbed the stairs behind me.

  We passed a nook adorned with a vase of fresh spring flowers. I said, “The irises are gorgeous, Erin.”

  She peeked over her shoulder. “We have flowers in abundance on the farm. The rain has been good this season. I hope you like your room. It was my parents’ and has a beautiful view of the farm. It’s one of the few I’ve recently renovated.” Erin stopped in front of the room marked ~2~. “Here we are. You’ll be right next door to me. I’m in four. Kandice is in the room a few doors down; number eight.”

  Kandice Witt was the genius who had come up with the idea of the brain trust. I had met her a couple of times. She used to run the dairy department at a college in the southeast, but according to her, the shift in the economy a few years back had made her eager to seek a new challenge. She wanted to be her own boss, roam the world, and meet new people. She currently helps regions throughout the United States put together cheese conferences.

  “Kandice hasn’t arrived yet,” Erin added. “You’ll see her at the cocktail reception.”

  I said, “I heard Lara Berry is in town.”

  “Lara?” Erin’s eyes widened.

  “Is she coming to the brain trust?”

  “I suppose so.” Erin didn’t sound certain.

  Apparently Jordan and I weren’t the only ones in the dark. “Didn’t Kandice mention anything?” I asked.

  Erin shook her head.

  Odd that Kandice would keep something that big a secret. “Have you met Lara?”

  “Once. She—” Erin hesitated as if she wanted to say more.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you have enough space to house Lara if Kandice hasn’t arranged for her to stay elsewhere?”

  “I’ve got one room left, on the third floor. Years ago, my parents changed the attic into three rooms. I haven’t renovated them yet, but they’re nice. All have pretty views. I’ll text Kandice at once. Lara,” Erin muttered under her breath. “Hmm.”

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “Oh, sure.” Erin waved a hand as if to brush aside negative thoughts. “Everyone will be delighted to meet her. Everyone except Shayna, that is.”

  I turned to Jordan. “She’s talking about Shayna Underhill, the cheese maker who owns Underhill Farm and Creamery in Wisconsin. Lara and she used to be partners.”

  “How do you know that?” He asked.

  “I met Shayna at a cheese festival a few years ago.”

  “Prior to marrying Steven Underhill,” Erin said, “Shayna was a big wheel in the corporate world, but a year after she said I do, her husband urged her to move to a farm and start making cheese. Unfortunately, he died a year later, leaving her to raise their girls and manage the farm all alone.”

  “That’s when she took on Lara as a partner,” I said. “Underhill won lots of blue ribbons for its Cheddar cheeses.”

  “However, in the mid-1990s, the winning streak stopped.”

  “When Lara and she parted ways.” I eyed Erin. “I don’t know why Lara left. Do you?”

  “Not really. I—”

  Something pounded the floor down the hall.

  Erin gazed in that direction; her mouth turned down. “Sorry about that. My brother.”

  She was talking about Andrew. He was a good ten years younger than Erin and I. “He’s autistic,” Erin explained to Jordan.

  Erin had been engaged once, but the guy backed out of the wedding when he realized Erin was never going to abandon her brother to someone else’s care. Andrew lived in his own world, showing little interest in others. From kindergarten through high school, a special ed teacher had helped him cope with daily activities.

  “He likes to count,” Erin said. “Sometimes he counts minutes. By the second. Using a drumstick that was our father’s. Daddy had a great sense of rhythm.” She removed an old-fashioned key from her pocket. “Don’t worry. Andrew only counts during the day. He won’t be any problem at night. That’s when he writes.”

  “What does he write?” I asked.

  “Music. For the piano. It’s quite good.” She inserted the key into the lock for room two, twisted the handle, and pushed back the door.

  A fluffy white cat darted toward us along the hallway. Before it could sneak into the room, Erin scooped it up. “Uh-uh, Snowball, bad boy. You know you’re not allowed in any of the rooms by yourself.” The cat squirmed but she wouldn’t release him. “Isn’t this room wonderful?”

  We stepped inside. The window was ajar, its shutters folded open. Pretty green-themed floral drapes flapped in the breeze. The aroma of fresh-mown grass wafte
d inside. Two bottles of filtered water and a tray of sliced cheese covered in plastic wrap sat on a small dinette table. The duvet and pillows on the four-poster bed looked spanking new and comfy. A bookcase filled with books, magazines, and porcelain statues stood against the far wall. A forest green reading chair with floor lamp was situated near the bookcase. A hand-painted armoire with a beautiful rendering of the countryside abutted the far wall.

  “Erin, it’s charming,” I said. “I love the variety of antique pieces you have in the inn.”

  “My mother and father purchased them from around the world. They loved old stuff.” Erin handed me the key. “I’ll leave you two to get settled. There’s a bolt on the inside, too, for privacy.” She aimed a finger and winked. “The cocktail reception starts at six thirty. When it concludes, we’ll head to town to enjoy the Street Scene.”

  Erin closed the door, and Jordan set our suitcases at the foot of the bed.

  I sidled up to him. “Lucky us. We get a second honeymoon.”

  “Who said we ever ended the first?” He wrapped me in a hug and planted kisses along my neck.

  ***

  After Jordan and I unpacked, we took a walk around the grounds, talking the entire time about our lives, our concerns. Business—good. Our families—healthy. Meredith—pregnant. Jordan said his sister, Jacky, who moved to town a year after he relocated, was thriving on the farm. He was pleased that he had entrusted it to her.

  On the way back to the room, Jordan stopped me and took me by the shoulders. “During the walk we skated around a certain topic,” he said.

  “Which was?”

  “You.”

  Coquettishly, I raised an eyebrow. “What about me?”