Clobbered by Camembert

when I first met Jordan. He had come out of nowhere.

He released my hands and let his arms fall to his sides. Casual, and yet he looked primed. “You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to reveal.”

“If I do, you’ll have to kill me?”

“No.” He leveled me with a somber look. “Someone might kill me.”

My heart plunged like a cannonball. “I won’t tell a soul. Not Matthew or my grandparents or Rebecca.”

“Or Urso.” He waited for my nod. “Yes, I’m in the Witness Security Program.”

I gulped. I had read books about people in WITSEC. Not all of them had been upstanding citizens, but most were trying to reform their lives. Was that what Jordan was doing? I searched his eyes for the answer but found none.

“Do you have a handler?”

“A marshal to whom I report? Yes.”

“Is Jacky part of this?”

“In a roundabout way.”

Was that what had been bothering Urso? Jacky could be as tight-lipped as Jordan.

I said, “Can you at least tell me why you had to disappear?”

Jordan licked his lips. “I owned a restaurant in upstate New York. I saw something I shouldn’t have.”

“A murder.”

A quick nod. “The government moved me, gave me a cover. Because I had learned to make cheese—truly, I did learn to make cheese—the government decided that was as good a cover as any. I was told I could never have contact with my sister again. I agreed. She was happily married at the time, or so I thought. When her husband hurt her—he beat her and their story made it into the newspapers and onto the Internet—I was worried sick.”

“Was he your business partner?”

“No, nothing like that. These were two totally separate incidents. He’s a defense attorney with some very bad clients.” Jordan squeezed my hands. “I don’t want to tell you anything else, okay? The less you know, the better.”

I nodded.

“Jacky had no children, no ties to her community. Our parents were dead. I asked that she be able to join me in the program. WITSEC agreed.” He kissed my forehead and held me close. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you until now. I couldn’t be sure. Of anyone. The trial comes up in a year.”

“So you ran a restaurant,” I whispered. “That explains why you’re so good with a carving knife.”

“It also explains why I have such a healthy appetite. And I’m not talking about food.” He pulled me to him and kissed me firmly.

When we broke apart, I said, “One last question.”

“Anything.”

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

The silence was so thick I could have used one of those carving knives to cut it.

Finally Jordan said, “In self-defense.” His face turned darkly still. “Does that end it for us?”

CHAPTER

I stood, riveted in the middle of the hothouse, an imaginary vise trying to squeeze the breath out of my chest, but I fought it. After my recent altercation at the old Ziegler Winery, I understood having to make the decision to kill or be killed. I couldn’t fault Jordan for his actions. Not in the least.

“No,” I said finally. “It doesn’t end it for us. But I want to know everything.”

He enfolded me in his arms and whispered, “Can I tell you over a late dinner?”

“Not tonight. I’ve got the faire and the twins’ recital.”

“Then tomorrow when the faire closes.”

“My grandmother’s having her Founder’s Day celebration. I invited you, right?”

He nodded. “Monday night then, and you’d better say yes. I’m not waiting a week for this conversation, and I can’t have it now. I’ve got to swing by the faire, and then I’ve got meetings at the farm.”

I answered yes, and we kissed again.

“Trust me, Charlotte,” he said before parting.

I said I would.

By the time I returned to The Cheese Shop, a horde of teenagers had invaded the place. They chatted and gossiped while waiting to order sandwiches. On Saturdays, to draw a younger crowd, I made sure to offer spicier, less fussy sandwiches like pepperoni and Swiss or salami and a sharp Cheddar. No arugula mushrooms or gooey things, as the twins liked to call them, though they enjoyed all of those gooey things.

“Hi, Miss Bessette,” a couple of girls yelled.

I waved, then tossed the remains of our mid-morning picnic into the trash and ambled to the counter to help Tyanne.

“Charlotte, sugar, guess what?” Tyanne said as she wrapped up a sandwich for one of the teens. “Bozz says I have a facility for numbers and the Internet.”

“Is he here?” I had to admit I had missed seeing my Internet guru’s cute mug.

“He’s in the office updating our web page. He came in early to teach me how to do the newsletter and the books. Isn’t it great? When he starts college, I can be your maven!”

I loved her enthusiasm.

“Hey, Miss B.” Bozz sauntered from the office, hands jammed into his droopy jeans, a sheepish grin on his face. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “What’s that search you’ve got going? Who’s Jeremy Montgomery?”

A quiver of worry shimmied up my back. Had I left the computer on all night? Bozz was smarter than a whip. Could he figure out what I had been doing? Would he rat out Jordan? I needed to be more careful what I left open for view in the office.

“It’s nothing,” I lied.

“Yeah, okay.” He scratched his head.

I changed the subject. “Nice of you to show up once in a while, by the way.”

“It’s hard to make time on school days.”

I patted his shoulder. “I know.”

“Hey, did I tell you? Philby got into Providence Liberal Arts College, too.” Philby was his brainy girlfriend. “We’re hoping to study marketing and get our MBAs so we can manage the family business someday.” The Bozzuto family owned the Bozzuto Winery, which for generations had made delicious white wines and had recently branched out by adding natural sodas to their line.

“Big plans.”

“Yeah, and once I’m wealthy, I might even run for mayor. Watch out, Grandmere.”

Bozz was one of those kids who wanted to stay in Providence forever. Small towns needed young people like him.

Tyanne said, “Sugar, I have to get a move on.”

She was due at Le Petit Fromagerie for the first shift. Rebecca would join her at noon. Matthew and I would helm what I expected to be the busier traffic from late afternoon until dusk. Then we would leave to attend the recital, and Bozz and Philby would man the store until close.

“Can you handle the crowd here?” Tyanne asked.

“Not a problem, but where’s Rebecca?” I spotted Matthew at the bar in the annex, writing on a chalkboard.

“Got me.”

“I’ll take over for Mrs. T.” Bozz slung on an apron and addressed the teens by name as they ordered sandwiches.

Tyanne waved goodbye then trotted off. I followed her to the front door and peered out. It wasn’t like Rebecca not to call in if she was running late. And she was awfully late. Though I didn’t see any sign of her, I urged