Clobbered by Camembert

“She calls him Tommy,” Clair taunted.

Amy blushed. “C’mon, Clair. Daddy’s waiting in the car.” She yanked her sister by the elbow.

“Hold it. Don’t forget your jackets and your dinners.” I retrieved two brown paper sacks from the bench by the front door, each bag marked with a name.

“Grilled cheese like you promised?” Amy grabbed a blue jacket off the coat rack.

I nodded. “Yours has sliced cornichon pickles, Swiss, and prosciutto.” I focused on Clair, who was shrugging into her aqua green jacket. “And yours is made with salami, Redwood Hill goat cheese, and homemade gluten-free bread.” I had landed on a great gluten-free bread recipe that, once baked and sliced, lasted in the freezer. “I’ve wrapped them in foil so they should stay warm,” I added, though I didn’t think it would really matter. The girls liked cold pizza.

The pair whistled their thanks and whizzed out the door. Amy yelled, “Bye. Have fun at yoga class after your walk!”

“Let’s go, boy.” I picked up Rocket’s leash and gave a gentle yank.

Rags zipped into the foyer at a clip and yowled like an alley cat: Take me, me, me. Up until a few months ago, he had been an indoor cat because of an attack when he was younger, but his agoraphobia disappeared whenever he walked alongside Rocket. However misguided, I think he believed the dog would defend him against another assault.

“You don’t deserve a walk,” I teased, “but all right.” I slipped a jewel-studded leash around his furry neck, stroked his mismatched ears, and the three of us headed into the cold, moonless night.

Yesterday’s snow was now nothing more than a mixture of glistening ice and slush, highlighted by the glow of streetlamps. As we drew near to Lois’s Lavender and Lace, the bed-and-breakfast next to my house, I was surprised to see Barton Burrell, a local cattle farmer, on a ladder. Not only was the hour well beyond dusk, but Lois’s husband, whom I had dubbed The Cube due to his square shape, usually did the chores around the inn. Barton hammered nails into a wobbly flat of white lattice that abutted the wall. Sweat dripped off his oversized nose. I called out a hello, but he didn’t respond.

The screen door of the bed-and-breakfast squeaked open, and Lois, looking so frail that the wind might blow her over, shuffled out to the porch carrying a tray. Her fluffball of a Shih Tzu, Agatha, traipsed beside her and gave a yelp. Lois spotted me. “Hello, Charlotte. Have time for a cup of tea?” She set the tray on a wicker table.

“I don’t want to intrude,” I said. Most nights, Lois and her husband drank tea outside and watched passersby. Weather never thwarted the ritual.

“You’re not intruding, dear.” Lois beckoned me with spindly fingers. “Ainsley is at a hockey game, don’t you know. Got him the tickets myself.”

I headed up the path with my four-legged buddies, who were content to go wherever I did. As I neared, I smelled the lovely aroma of nutmeg-laced scones, and my mouth started to water. “Yum,” I said.

Lois beamed. She made heavenly scones in assorted flavors. She bent to greet my pals. “Hello, sweet things. I have home-baked treats for you, too.” She hustled inside and returned with a large bone-shaped dog biscuit and a handful of bite-sized tuna morsels. Rags and Rocket set to work.

“Mr. Burrell,” Lois called. “Time for a break, young man.”

Barton descended the ladder and tramped up the steps to the porch. He looked leaner and shaggier than when I’d seen him last, and he had grown a mustache, but he also appeared less sure of himself, as if something was bothering him. A pang of concern shot through me because Barton, who moonlighted as one of Providence’s local theater stars, was usually a ham and full of bravado. He had been known to stand on a street corner and spout poetry or lines from Shakespeare’s plays. Was he suffering a financial crisis? Was that why he was working for Lois? Perhaps Kaitlyn Clydesdale was in negotiations to buy his property. His cattle farm abutted Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm.

Lois poured Barton a cup of tea from a Haviland moss rose china teapot. She added a lump of sugar and offered it to him.

Barton blew on the tea, then drank two sips and whispered, “Thanks.”

“Aren’t you going to say hello to Charlotte?” Lois said.

“Nice to see you,” he muttered. Air no longer hissed through the gap in his front teeth; he’d had the gap fixed last year. But that wasn’t what disconcerted me. Something in his gaze made me think he was upset with me.

As he retreated to the ladder, I wondered if he was embarrassed to be seen taking on extra work.

Lois said, “Let’s go inside. It’s brisk. Do you think the puppy and cat can stay out here with Agatha?” She shuffled ahead of me and held the door open with her leg.

“It would be better if they could nestle in the foyer, just inside the doorway. Rocket is so young, he might bolt otherwise.”

“Sure, sure.”

I led Rocket and Rags into the entry and commanded them to sit. They did. Agatha marched in front of them like a sentry, daring them to make a move, which probably had something to do with their near-perfect behavior.

A warm wave of heat swirled around me as I followed Lois into the great room. The temperature was too hot for my taste, but the bed-and-breakfast was successful, so Lois probably knew what her guests enjoyed. The room reminded me of a hunting lodge, its walls packed with sports memorabilia as well as winter sports equipment. In the spring, the snowshoes, skis, hockey sticks, commemorative pucks, and slalom flags would come down and be replaced with garlands of flowers and glorious pictures of Holmes County. Lois prided herself on decorating according to the season. She said it made her guests’ stay that much more unique.

A fire crackled in the stone hearth. I settled in one of the many wingbacked chairs in the cozy room and inhaled deeply. Lois must have laced the wood with sticks of cinnamon, which burned like incense and imbued the room with a spicy scent.

Lois adjusted the eye patch over her weak eye—she had recently decided that handmade decorative patches were the rage—then she nestled into the chair opposite me and placed a lavender crocheted throw that matched her lavender warm-up suit over her knees. “Ainsley,” she said, referring to her husband as if we hadn’t had a break in conversation. “He adores his hockey, don’t you know. He was a player, back when. An ace shot. I’m thinking of having his game stick bronzed for his next birthday, but, hush, don’t tell him.” She pointed to a hockey stick with three red stripes on the handle that was hanging on the wall. “I love surprises.”

“So do I,” a man said from the hallway.

Not her husband. Chip.

He emerged in the archway, and I groaned. How did I not sense he was staying right next door to me? He swaggered into the room, his randy gaze drinking me in.

Why did it take all my mettle to look away? Dang.

“Ahhh,” he said, eyeing the display on the wall. “Remember the first hockey game you ever attended, Charlotte? Slap shot!” He mimed a powerful shot, raising his arms behind him and following through with flair.

How could I forget? The team had won because Chip had made three goals—a hat trick. The high school crowd went wild. Girls had thrown themselves at him, but he had sneaked off with me—his science lab partner—in his Mustang. Talk about chemistry! The next day we went for a hayride, with church bells clanging in the background. He said there was nothing more fun in life, and at the time, he had been right.

“Remember?” he repeated.

Oh, yeah, I remembered. He was my first kiss. We had necked for two hours. I wondered if Rebecca was enjoying her first kiss right about now.

“Time flies, doesn’t it?” Chip glanced at his watch. “Speaking of time, I’m off to the Village Green to watch the ice sculpting. Want to join me?”

“I’ll pass.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

But I do. I did. I had. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

He strutted out the front door and stopped in the foyer to give my pets a good nuzzle—the traitors yipped and purred their delight—then Chip exited and jogged down the steps laughing.

As his laughter faded, Lois said, “Have you heard about Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s plans to start a new honeybee farm?”