“Ipo doesn’t know where those pu’ili sticks disappeared to. He hasn’t seen them in years.”
“What pu’ili sticks?”
Rebecca yelped. “You tricked me.”
“I did nothing of the sort.” He switched off his tape recorder.
“I’ve been called worse. See ya.” Chuckling, Quigley sauntered from the tent like a cocky duck, tilting to and fro.
Rebecca grumbled. “I wouldn’t put it past him to have framed Ipo.”
“To gain what?” I asked. “You?”
“He’s a Lothario. That’s what your grandmother called him. He’s only interested in a woman if it benefits him. Good thing I never kissed him.”
She harrumphed and set back to work. In the ensuing calm, I started thinking about Kaitlyn’s Lothario. Had he been after more than sex? Property, perhaps? Or a return of property acquired by blackmail?
CHAPTER
The evening sped by so fast, I felt like I had purchased a ticket on a bullet train. I had hoped that Jordan would stop by the Le Petit Fromagerie tent, but he hadn’t. I’d also hoped Urso would seek me out, but he hadn’t either, the skunk.
As I strolled home, tighter than an over-wound yo-yo, I remembered I had set my cell phone to vibrate. I fetched it from my purse and saw that Jordan had called. He had left a message around ten thirty. He said he’d been busy helping Urso’s mother with a calamity at Two Plug Nickels Farm. In a charming put-on twang, he added that he was tuckered out and hitting the hay. Before signing off, he whispered that he adored me. Though I cherished hearing his voice, something about his words fell flat. I didn’t want to question him on the telephone; I needed to talk in person. But it was an inappropriate hour for me to show up on his doorstep. Our discussion would have to wait until morning.
When I arrived home, I spotted a light on in the bedroom next to mine. The twins must have fallen asleep reading and forgotten to turn off their bedstand lamp. I tiptoed into the house through the kitchen, flicked on the swagged chandelier over the kitchen dining table, and spotted Rags and Rocket nestled together in Rocket’s dark brown wicker bed. The vision tickled me. A few months ago, I never would have thought the two could resolve their differences, let alone be best pals.
As I crept up the stairs, a few treads creaked beneath my footsteps, which reminded me that I needed to accomplish something on my home improvement to-do list soon.
I reached the landing and heard Matthew speaking to the twins.
“No more questions,” he said.
“Please, Daddy, one,” Clair cried.
Questions about what? Egged on by a voice in my head that sounded curiously like Rebecca’s, I stole to the door and pressed my ear to it.
“Yes, sweetheart?” Matthew said, the exasperation in his voice palpable.
“Will we be wearing flowers in our hair?” Clair asked.
Aha. They were talking about the wedding. Had he given them a specific date? Something more concrete than Meredith’s nebulous
“Yes, if you want. Flowers, tiaras, you name it,” Matthew said. “Now, I know you’re keyed up from rehearsal, but it’s time for sleep.”
“Daddy, wait,” Amy said. I heard a thump and then bare feet padding across the area rug. “Mum said …” She went silent.
“It’s okay,” Matthew said. “You can tell me what she said. I can only imagine.”
Me, too.
“Mum said you and Miss Meredith don’t have a future together, and we shouldn’t count on a wedding. Please, Daddy, please,” Amy went on, her voice filled with passion. “Please have a future.”
Her words stung the pit of my soul. Tears sprang forth like a fountain. Not for Amy. Not for Clair, either. Matthew and Meredith were going to be together for life. Sylvie’s prediction would not come true. But I ached because of my own fears. Did I have a future with Jordan? Would we be able to resolve our differences? Without knowing the truth about him, I couldn’t even contemplate it.
* * *
When I woke the next morning, my pillow was still damp from my tears. I hustled into my cheery bathroom —one of my recent to-do projects that had turned out right. To the shower and the backsplash behind the sink, I had added a strip of white tiles, which had been hand-painted with sprigs of herbs. White lace curtains trimmed with pale green ribbon finished off the face-lift. Baby steps, Pepere said, were key to finishing home-makeover projects. If I made reasonable goals, I might finish the list, which numbered in the hundreds, in three years.
“Now to tackle you, Charlotte,” I whispered while assessing the damage that crying through the night had done to my face.
First, I applied warm tea bags to my swollen eyes. Next, I massaged in dollops of face cream and added a dab of blush to my cheeks. I finished off my personal makeover with a jewel-necked turquoise sweater, tan trousers, a silk matka tweed jacket that tied it all together, and my most comfortable loafers. The ensemble boosted my overall mood. After downing a sinful breakfast of sourdough toast tiered with raspberry jam, slivers of Bosc pears, and warm Brie, I took a brisk walk with Rocket and Rags, and by seven a.m., I felt almost normal. Almost.
Before heading to work, I left yet another message for Urso.
* * *
A couple of hours later, I was glad I had taken the effort to put myself together. I was standing in The Cheese Shop’s kitchen, setting baked apple slices on a set of pepperoni quiches, when Jordan entered through the rear door. No warning, no call. Granted, I probably had flour dust all over my face, but at least the rest of me looked decent enough.
“Morning,” he said, looking like a hero out of a romance novel—distressed leather jacket, white henley shirt tucked into jeans, tousled dark hair, smoldering eyes, and a denim knapsack slung over one shoulder. Something inside me went
“You bet.” I would never turn down a meal with him. I brushed off whatever flour might be clinging to my face and tucked my hair behind my ears, a tingling sensation of anticipation coursing through me.
Tyanne, who had arrived early to work and had turned out to be quite deft with pie shells, whispered, “You look great, sugar. Go on.” She shooed me to leave.
Jordan headed toward the rear exit, and I balked. “Where are you going?” I said. “It’s colder than a polar bear’s toenails outside.”
“I thought we’d have our meal in the hothouse.” He grinned. “Need a jacket?”
The moment I had arrived at the shop, I had removed my tweed jacket; it hung on the coat rack. But I shook my head. The co-op vegetable garden behind the shop was dormant and uninviting, but the town’s communal hothouse was a toasty seventy-two degrees. Tomatoes and herbs thrived in the steady warmth.
We slipped out the door and into the cold.
As we entered the hut, the scent of basil tickled my nose. But all my senses heightened when Jordan set the knapsack on a potting table, drew me into his arms, and kissed me like a romantic hero should—deeply and intimately. Heaven. Minutes passed before we came up for air.
When we did, he eyed his satchel. “I whipped up some fortification.” From the knapsack, he withdrew two brown restaurant to-go-style boxes. He popped the lid off one and beckoned the aromas to waft into the air.
I drew in the luscious aroma of brown sugar pancakes topped with melted Gouda and figs, and my stomach did a happy dance.
