reassurance than I did.
“You got home late last night,” I said. After paying the sitter, I had shuffled upstairs, checked on the girls, who were sound asleep, and then stumbled into bed. But I barely slept; I tossed until three A.M. Matthew had wandered in around two.
“I was out . . . talking.” He tied a chef’s apron at the back of his waist. “Trying to make sense of . . .” He shook his head.
I cuffed him on the chin with my knuckles and said, “Perk up. The lawyer tells me everything is going to be okay.” I wasn’t so sure he was right, but other than working out a contract for the transfer of The Cheese Shop from Grandpère to Matthew and myself, I had never had cause to deal with a lawyer. Jordan swore by him.
“But what if it isn’t okay?”
“It will be.”
Matthew shuffled into the wine annex. I followed. “Do the girls know?” I said.
“They heard something on the news this morning. I switched it off.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that.” He collected a few bottles of wine and set them out on the bar. Today’s selections for tasting would include three white wines. A sauvignon blanc from Healdsburg, a chardonnay from Napa, and a pinot grigio from Italy. Michael had decided that we would offer limited daily samples, either white or red. He wanted the town of Providence to become educated on the variety of wines from all over the world. Any more than three in a short time span, he said, and the palate couldn’t differentiate. We would offer more expansive tastings once a month and invite wine sellers from around the country to give lectures, staying within the limits of Ohio state laws, of course. “How’s Grandmère holding up?”
“She’s fine,” I lied. I planned to visit her at noon with a picnic of Crackerjack Chicken and Caprese salad on a skewer and see if I could bolster her spirit.
“What’s with all the reporters?” Matthew asked.
“Don’t worry. Rebecca has things under—”
“No way!” Rebecca shouted above the din. “Charlotte’s mother was not the love child of Ed Woodhouse and Bernadette Bessette! They were enemies. As a matter of fact, Ed Woodhouse threatened to evict the Bessettes from the shop.”
My mouth dropped open. So much for Rebecca having things under control.
The reporters reacted to the news like piranhas in a pond full of raw meat. They shoved their microphones toward Rebecca’s pretty face and shouted questions. She stumbled backward into a cheese display. Fifty-pound wheels of Morbier fell to the floor with a thud.
I smacked my forehead with my palm, then marched through the arch. “That’s it. Anybody who’s here for a story, get out of my shop.” I shooed them like a flock of geese until each and everyone exited to the sidewalk. I shut the door and spun around. Customers were gaping at me. I forced a smile and said, “Who wants a taste of Humboldt Fog? On special today.” Humboldt Fog was a gorgeous young goat cheese with a vein of vegetable ash, a white bloomy rind, and a clean lemony taste. “Half price,” I added. I never offered Humboldt Fog at half price. Never. But I was willing to do just about anything to get my customers’ minds off the fracas.
I replaced the Morbier wheels and headed for the cheese counter where Rebecca stood, red-faced, both hands covering her mouth like a spelling bee contestant afraid to speak. “It’s okay,” I whispered.
“I didn’t mean to . . . I wished I had . . .” She clapped her hands over her mouth again.
I patted her shoulder. “Relax. The truth will come out. Grandmère is innocent.”
But Rebecca simply shook her head and raced to the office.
Bozz came out seconds later, Rags dangling around his neck, and said, “What’s with her?”
“Loose lips,” I said as I handed out a tasting of Humboldt Fog to a regular customer. “What’re you doing here, anyway? Don’t you have school?”
“Teacher/parent conferences. All day, all night.” Bozz snatched a slice of
“You got home late last night,” I said. After paying the sitter, I had shuffled upstairs, checked on the girls, who were sound asleep, and then stumbled into bed. But I barely slept; I tossed until three A.M. Matthew had wandered in around two.
“I was out . . . talking.” He tied a chef’s apron at the back of his waist. “Trying to make sense of . . .” He shook his head.
I cuffed him on the chin with my knuckles and said, “Perk up. The lawyer tells me everything is going to be okay.” I wasn’t so sure he was right, but other than working out a contract for the transfer of The Cheese Shop from Grandpère to Matthew and myself, I had never had cause to deal with a lawyer. Jordan swore by him.
“But what if it isn’t okay?”
“It will be.”
Matthew shuffled into the wine annex. I followed. “Do the girls know?” I said.
“They heard something on the news this morning. I switched it off.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that.” He collected a few bottles of wine and set them out on the bar. Today’s selections for tasting would include three white wines. A sauvignon blanc from Healdsburg, a chardonnay from Napa, and a pinot grigio from Italy. Michael had decided that we would offer limited daily samples, either white or red. He wanted the town of Providence to become educated on the variety of wines from all over the world. Any more than three in a short time span, he said, and the palate couldn’t differentiate. We would offer more expansive tastings once a month and invite wine sellers from around the country to give lectures, staying within the limits of Ohio state laws, of course. “How’s Grandmère holding up?”
“She’s fine,” I lied. I planned to visit her at noon with a picnic of Crackerjack Chicken and Caprese salad on a skewer and see if I could bolster her spirit.
“What’s with all the reporters?” Matthew asked.
“Don’t worry. Rebecca has things under—”
“No way!” Rebecca shouted above the din. “Charlotte’s mother was not the love child of Ed Woodhouse and Bernadette Bessette! They were enemies. As a matter of fact, Ed Woodhouse threatened to evict the Bessettes from the shop.”
My mouth dropped open. So much for Rebecca having things under control.
The reporters reacted to the news like piranhas in a pond full of raw meat. They shoved their microphones toward Rebecca’s pretty face and shouted questions. She stumbled backward into a cheese display. Fifty-pound wheels of Morbier fell to the floor with a thud.
I smacked my forehead with my palm, then marched through the arch. “That’s it. Anybody who’s here for a story, get out of my shop.” I shooed them like a flock of geese until each and everyone exited to the sidewalk. I shut the door and spun around. Customers were gaping at me. I forced a smile and said, “Who wants a taste of Humboldt Fog? On special today.” Humboldt Fog was a gorgeous young goat cheese with a vein of vegetable ash, a white bloomy rind, and a clean lemony taste. “Half price,” I added. I never offered Humboldt Fog at half price. Never. But I was willing to do just about anything to get my customers’ minds off the fracas.
I replaced the Morbier wheels and headed for the cheese counter where Rebecca stood, red-faced, both hands covering her mouth like a spelling bee contestant afraid to speak. “It’s okay,” I whispered.
“I didn’t mean to . . . I wished I had . . .” She clapped her hands over her mouth again.
I patted her shoulder. “Relax. The truth will come out. Grandmère is innocent.”
But Rebecca simply shook her head and raced to the office.
Bozz came out seconds later, Rags dangling around his neck, and said, “What’s with her?”
“Loose lips,” I said as I handed out a tasting of Humboldt Fog to a regular customer. “What’re you doing here, anyway? Don’t you have school?”
“Teacher/parent conferences. All day, all night.” Bozz snatched a slice of
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