Chapter 1
"I'm not dead, Charlotte," Grandpère Etienne said.
"But you are retired, Pépère." I tweaked his rosy cheek
and skirted around him to throw a drop cloth over the
rustic wooden table that usually held wheels of cheese,
like Abbaye de Belloc, Manchego, and Humboldt Fog, the
latter cheese a great pairing with chardonnay. Dust
billowed up as the edges of the drop cloth hit the shop
floor.
"A retired person may have an opinion."
"Yes, he can." I smiled. "But you put me in charge."
"You and Matthew."
My adorable cousin. If I had a brother, he would be just
like Matthew. Bright, funny, and invaluable as an ally
against my grandfather when he was being stubborn.
"What does Matthew say about all this?" Pépère folded
his arms around his bulging girth. The buttons on his blue-
striped shirt looked ready to pop. The doctor said Pépère
needed to watch his weight and cholesterol, and I had been
trying to get him to eat more of the hard cheeses that
contained a lower fat content than the creamy cheeses he
loved so much, but he had perfected the art of sneaking
little bites. What was I to do?
I gave my grandfather's shoulder a gentle
squeeze. "Pépère, I love this place. So does Matthew. We
only want the best for it. Trust us. That's why you made us
partners."
"Bah! So many changes. Why fix something that isn't
broken? The shop made a good profit last year."
"Because life is all about change. Man does not live by
cheese alone," I joked.
Pépère didn't smile.
Fromagerie Bessette, or as the locals in the little town
of Providence, Ohio, liked to call it, The Cheese Shop,
needed to expand and get with the times. Our proximity to
Amish country was driving more and more tourism in our
direction. The town was exploding with bed-and-breakfasts,
art galleries, candle and quilt shops, and fine
restaurants. To take advantage of the boom, Matthew and I
decided the shop needed a facelift. We had stowed all the
cheeses in the walk-in refrigerator until the renovation
was complete. The sign on the door of the shop read Closed.
"Pépère, why don't you take a walk in the vegetable
garden?" The town had a co-op vegetable garden in the alley
behind the shops on Hope Street. "Pluck me some basil.
Maybe some heirloom tomatoes." I intended to sell homemade
basil pesto in jars. For a simple treat, basil pesto ladled
over a scoop of locally made chévre and served with
flatbread and a slice of a juicy heirloom tomato is an
economical gourmet delight.
Pépère muttered something in French. I understood. "Give
the horse the reins and the rider is quickly thrown off."
For a little more than thirty years, I had heard
Pépère's witticisms and grown in the tutelage of his wisdom
about all things cheese. Today, I turned a deaf ear. I
needed to concentrate. Everything for the reopening of the
shop was going smoothly. So far. But if we were to finish
by next week, we had to maintain a strict schedule. The
decorator was due any minute with the updated kitchen
fixtures and lighting fixtures, none of which had been
switched out since 1957. Antiques were to be prized in a
home, but not in a thriving business concern. The painter
was scheduled to arrive at noon to paint the walls and
refinish the twelve-foot wood counter at the rear of the
store, hence the need to stow the cheese and cover the
display tables with drop cloths. The painter would stain
the wood a warm honey brown to match the ladder-back stools
by the Madura gold granite tasting counter, and then paint
the walls Tuscany gold. Yesterday we had installed extra
shelving that would soon be loaded with new additions like
patés, chutneys, homemade jams made without pectin or
preservatives, gourmet olives, crackers, and artisanal
breads. I would cluster cheese baskets, gifts, and
accessories on the five oak barrels stationed around the
shop. My favorite gifts—the olive-wood-handled knives
from France, the copper fondue pots from Italy, and the
crystal cheese trays from Ireland—would sit on the
largest barrel prominently stationed in the middle of the
room. Over the last year, thanks to the Internet, I
had "visited" many wonderful places and found one-of-a-kind
items.
"Where is Matthew?" Pépère said, ending my moment of
patting myself on the back for a job well done.
"Seeing to the wine annex."
Matthew used to be a sommelier in one of Cleveland's
finest restaurants, but a month ago, life struck him a hard
blow, and suddenly living in a big city didn't appeal to
him. His wife ditched him and his twin daughters and went
back to dear old Mumsie and dear old Dad to live in their
thatch-roofed vicarage in dear old England. My
grandparents, who never liked the woman in the first place,
had urged me to take in Matthew and the girls. How could I
say no? When Pépère offered us the partnership in The
Cheese Shop, Matthew jumped at the chance. He arrived
bursting with new ideas. A must-see place like Fromagerie
Bessette should also sell wine, he argued, and Providence
didn't have a wine shop yet. I had agreed wholeheartedly,
and we set to work.
For the annex, we leased the empty space next to The
Cheese Shop. We cut an archway between, laid travertine
tiles on the floor, paneled the wine annex with dark
mahogany, installed a bar and stools, and added rows and
rows of wine bottle nooks. Voilá. In a short time, we had
created an authentic-looking winery tasting room. When word
got out, local vintners had clamored to provide samples.
"Progress, bah." My sweet old grandfather uttered
another grumble of disapproval and fled through the rear
door of the shop.
I smiled. I had prepared myself for his resistance.
After World War II, he and Grandmère had migrated from
France and given their life's blood to The Cheese Shop.
Pépère did not like me bucking tradition, but I had such
dreams: cheese and wine tastings, a mail-order business
come the fall, cooking classes. I even planned to write a
cheese cookbook. It would be so popular that the Barefoot
Contessa would beg to write the foreword.
One thing at a time, I reminded myself and chuckled.
Like cheese, if I set too many slices of life on a plate,
the flavors would be indistinct.
The grape-leaf-shaped chimes hanging over the front door
tinkled.
"Charlotte, take a look at these beauties." Matthew
bounded across the natural pine floor like a long-limbed
Great Dane. He carried two mosaic bistro tables with S-
scrolled legs that I had ordered from Europa Antiques and
Collectibles, a quaint shop located in the building next to
ours. "Très hip," he said. "You did good."
The antique shop's proprietor, Vivian Williams, glided
in behind Matthew, carrying a pair of matching mosaic
chairs in black matte finish. She reminded me of a clipper
ship, aloof and elegant, sails unfurled, her chin-length
hair in a flip, the flaps of her Ann Taylor suit jacket
flying wide. She said, "Take these. I'll go get to the
other set of chairs."
I slipped the stools from her grasp, admiring for a
second time the way the round mosaic seats matched the
table. Definite conversation pieces. I traipsed after
Matthew into the annex.
Vivian returned in seconds with two more chairs. "By the
by, I saw the girls on their way to school. They're so
adorable."
Matthew's eight-year-old twins.
"Did they make their beds?" I asked Matthew.
His mouth quirked on the right side. "They pulled up the
covers."
I sighed. It was a start.
"The littlest one, Amy, is a handful." Vivian fussed
with the chairs, arranging them with an eye for
balance. "They're not identical, are they? Amy's like her
mother, I assume?"
"Nothing like her." Thank God. We didn't speak her name
in Matthew's presence.
"My great-granddaughter is just like me." Grandmère
Bernadette trundled into the annex like a locomotive with
no off switch, arms pumping, chest huffing, patchwork skirt
swirling around her calves. She was always in a hurry and
filled with boundless energy. I only hoped I could have
that much energy at seventy-two. I think I can. I think I
can. She finger-combed her short gray hair and tossed her
red macramé purse on the drop-cloth-covered bar.
"What are you doing here?" I asked. "I thought you had
rehearsal." I strode to her and bent slightly to give her a
hug. She was shrinking but would never admit it. She took
pains to stand erect. Once a dancer, always a dancer, she
told me.
"Later, chérie. Later." She smacked her gnarled hands
together. "Now, what can I do?"
I ushered her into The Cheese Shop. "The window
displays."
"Moi?" She tilted her head in that coquettish way she
had.
"Yes, toi," I teased.
"Oh, but I couldn't."
"Don't be modest. You know you love it." Not only was
Grandmère the mayor of our little village, but she managed
the Providence Players, a local theater that had won dozens
of regional theater awards. She had an eye for staging that
was beyond compare. Sure, she could wax dramatic and she
often dressed like a gypsy, but it was her ability to see
the big picture in regard to set design, costumes, and
crowd appeal that made her famous throughout the region.
"I'd help you, Bernadette," Vivian said, "but I've got
to run. Another appointment. Oh, that reminds me,
Charlotte. The decorator is on her way. She called me to
say she was sorry she was late. I guess she lost your cell
phone number. Ta!" She sailed out of the shop as if
launched on the crest of a wave.
As she exited, she dodged my clerk, Rebecca, who hurried
in, gangly arms and legs jutting from her frilly blouse and
capri pants. Luckily it was a cool day in May, so the air
conditioning didn't have to work overtime with all the
comings and goings.
"She's here!" Rebecca waved her hands like a singer at a
Baptist revival, which was unusual since she was Amish and
prone to quiet displays of excitement. Like the Fromagerie,
Rebecca was a work in progress. Last year, at the age of
twenty-one, she chose to leave the church and step into the
modern world. She hadn't lost her faith, just her desire to
be cloistered. At twenty-two, her latest discoveries were
the Internet and the wonders of Facebook and Victoria's
Secret.
"Who's here?" I said.
"Her!" She pointed toward the front of the shop.
I noticed she was wearing red nail polish. I suppressed
a smile.
"Her. Zoe, Zelda, Zebra. You know, that lady with the Z
name."
"The reporter from Délicieux?"
Perspiration broke out under my arms. The Gourmet-style
magazine with an ever-expanding readership offered to do a
feature on our family—how my grandparents, Matthew,
and I were keeping the old French tradition alive, with
modest changes like adding the annex and offering cheese
and wine tastings. Pépère was against the idea of speaking
to a reporter. He said for fifty years word-of-mouth had
been good enough for his sturdy business. But with all the
dreams that Matthew and I had for the future of the shop,
we craved a little media coverage.
I tugged the hem of my linen shirt over the waistband of
my Not-Your-Daughter's jeans. Casual chic, in my humble
opinion, was always best. "Do I look okay?" I whispered.
Grandmère toyed with the feathered-cut tresses around my
face, then cupped my chin. "You look radiant, as always.
Just be your delicious self." She winked. "Get it?
Delicious, Délicieux? I made a joke, no?"
I chuckled.
"She's not actually here here," Rebecca said, amending
her story as she gathered her long blonde hair into a
clip. "She's in the Country Kitchen having coffee. But
she'll be here when she's done. Some of the local farmers
are there, too. Don't you have a meeting with them at ten?"
"They rescheduled. It's now set for tomorrow at eight."
I glanced at my watch out of habit while ticking off
impending appointments and feeling my blood pressure soar.
Why did good things often happen all at once? For that
matter, why did bad things happen in threes? I looked
forward to the end of the day when I would curl up in my
Queen Anne chair with a glass of wine and a good Agatha
Christie mystery.
"That racaille . . ." Pépère stomped into the shop
through the rear entrance, his arms filled with tomatoes
and basil, and kicked the door shut.
I hurried to him. "What's wrong? Who's a rascal?"
"Ed Woodhouse." The town's biggest real estate holder.
Powerful beyond measure. Ruled by his snappish wife who
wanted to oust my grandmother from her position as mayor so
she could take over herself. Elections were next week, set
in June because our town founder, Ed's great-great-
grandfather, had wanted it to coincide with the birth of
his son. Ironically, the son chose that very same date,
sixteen years later, to dump a cartload of cow manure in
the Village Green to protest his father's stance on a youth
curfew.
"What's he done now?" I said.
"He's selling the building."
My heart leapt at the news. Pépère had been trying to
buy our building for years, but Ed was never willing to
sell. "That's wonderful," I said. "We'll purchase it and be
rid of him for good." The man was not a nice landlord. He
indiscriminately raised rents. We had to beg him to allow
us to make the archway to the annex. Once, he said he
wanted to put my grandparents out of business simply
because they were French.
"He refuses to entertain an offer from us," Pépère said.
"What?" I nearly screeched. "Can he do that?"
"Je ne sais pas," he said, then mumbled a few choice
snippets in French that would make a longshoreman blush.
Grandmère grasped him by the elbow and drew him into the
kitchen by the walk-in refrigerator. I couldn't hear what
she was saying to him, but she had a way of calming him
down with nothing more than a tender kiss. Their love was
magical, like something out of storybooks, love I longed
for but didn't think I could ever hope to find. A moment
later, they broke apart and Grandmère rejoined us.
"I must be gone," she announced. "The theater awaits."
"What are you putting on this summer, Mrs. Bessette?"
Rebecca asked as she laid out more drop cloths. Before
moving to Providence, she had never seen a play.
"A ballet of Hairspray."
Grandmère's events were quite unique and not to
everyone's liking. Last year, she had staged Jesus Christ
Superstar as a ballet.
Rebecca gasped. "Can you do that?"
"Dear girl, I can do anything I please as long as the
town votes yes."
"I mean, isn't that rock and roll?"
"If Billy Joel can do it, so can I. Adieu." Grandmère
did a curtsey, then jetéd toward the shop entrance, arms
spread wide. She ran headlong into my best friend, Meredith
Vance, who was entering. In a flash, Grandmère
recovered. "So sorry, chérie."
"My fault." Meredith, voted Providence Elementary's most
adored teacher, was lovely in a freckle-faced, natural way.
Sun didn't burn her; it kissed her. Sun didn't bake her
tawny hair; it glossed it with a shimmering sheen. She also
smiled more than anybody I knew. But she wasn't smiling
now, and she was visiting during school hours. She stood
half in, half out of the doorway, her lips a hard knot.
A peppery taste of anxiety flooded my mouth. "Is
something wrong?" I asked.
Meredith yanked her arm. In trotted my niece, Amy, her
cocoa bean eyes wide, her pixie face lowered. What had the
little imp done this time?
I hurried to them with Matthew and Pépère at my heels. I
steered Meredith and Amy away from the front door, to the
empty area by the display window. We huddled around the
duo as if circling the wagons.
"Tell them," Meredith ordered.
Amy's chin quavered. "I . . . I . . ." Gumdrop-sized
tears fell from her eyes. "I . . ."
"Ah, heck," Meredith cut in. "She hit the Woodhouses'
daughter in the nose."
A light sparked. I spun to my right. A boxy woman in a T-
shirt with a huge zinnia on it stood just inside the front
door. She held up her camera and took another picture.
I cringed. Z for Zinnia. The Délicieux reporter. She was
getting an eyeful.