Clobbered by Camembert

shuttered rapidly like a camera lens on the blink. “Don’t you want to hear my plan? Why I became Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s partner?”

“Not really.”

“She ran into me at Le Creperie on Avenue Italie in Paris. She said I made the best crepes she’d ever tasted.”

He did make good crepes, as light as clouds. I would never forget the time, right after college, when he had brought me crepes in bed, on a tray decorated with a rose in a vase. But that was beside the point. He had walked out on me. In the middle of the night. A man doesn’t do that and return expecting instant forgiveness. Or any forgiveness, for that matter.

I squelched my emotions, found my spunk—sans the armor—and started across the street. Chip grabbed my arm. I wrenched free and glowered at him.

He threw his arms wide. “Hear me out, please.”

He gazed at me with imploring eyes, and something stirred. Mind you, I didn’t exactly melt, but I was curious. I said, “Thirty seconds.”

Townspeople scuttled by on either side of us. The gentleman who owned the Igloo Ice Cream Parlor gave me a guarded look, as if to ask if I was all right. I offered a reassuring nod. He moved on.

“Kaitlyn said she had a hometown business she wanted to start.” Chip laced his fingers behind his neck.

Was he flexing his muscles to impress me? Oh, please.

My right foot started to tap, and I smiled to myself. My grandmother did the same thing when listening to a fish story. Liars never prosper, she said.

“After a year running her business,” Chip continued, “Kaitlyn will back me so I can open my own restaurant.”

“Your own restaurant?”

“Yeah, you know, the one I’ve always dreamed of starting. Chip’s Creperie.” He swiped his hand in front of him as if painting the sky with neon. “Doesn’t it sound swell?”

Swellheaded, more likely. “Aren’t there enough creperies in France?”

“Here. She’ll back me here. In Providence. I’m moving home. For good. The restaurant won’t be on the main square, of course. Retail space is at a premium. But I’ll find a location on the north side. Someplace with lots of foot traffic.”

I stiffened. No, no, no. I needed a clean break. I needed to move forward with my life. I did not want my ex- fiance hovering over my shoulder and judging my relationship with Jordan. My head started to throb. What horrible thing had I done to deserve such a lot in life?

“What the heck do you know about bees?” I demanded, sounding shrewish, but I couldn’t help myself. If the rumor was accurate and Kaitlyn Clydesdale intended to turn the cattle farm into a honeybee farm, then according to Chip, she expected him to run it. But that wasn’t possible. “You hate the sight of spiders and ants and all sorts of tiny creatures. How in the heck will you suit up in a beekeeper’s uniform and cultivate the buzzing horde?”

“I’ve been studying up on bees. They’re docile.”

“Are you kidding me?” My voice grew louder. “They’re not docile. What if you get stung?”

“I’m not allergic.”

“You’re impossible.”

“But adorable.” He traced a finger down my sleeve.

I recoiled. “Goodbye, Chip. Good luck.” With my insides quivering in confusion, I strode across the street. When I entered The Cheese Shop, I could feel him gazing at me, but I didn’t look over my shoulder. I gave myself a mental pat on the back for my keen resolve.

* * *

“Cherie.” My adorable grandfather, Pepere, stood behind the cheese counter, fiddling with the buttons of his navy blue jacket that appeared close to bursting. After a second, he gave up and ruffled his feathery white hair. “Bah. It is not cold enough to bother. Come here while there are no customers.” He beckoned me to the kitchen at the rear of the shop. “It is nearly three o’clock. Load me up.”

“Just a sec.” On my way through the store, I tweaked the displays. I turned out the labels of the jars of jams and the many gourmet vinegars on the shelves, and reassembled hatbox-style containers and waxed rounds of cheeses on the five weathered barrels that graced the floor. I nudged in the ladder-back chairs by the marble tasting counter and, using the elbow of my sweater, polished a smudge from the glass front of the cheese counter. I would never forget my grandfather telling me, when I had started working at Fromagerie Bessette, that everything in the shop should appear as appealing as a piece of art.

Before entering the kitchen, I took one last glance around, admiring how well the Tuscany gold walls went with the hardwood floors and how inviting the archway leading to the wine annex looked. Matthew and I had made a smart decision to redecorate. The only thing that was uninviting was the curtain of heavy plastic that covered the door to the basement, but it was a necessary evil. If someone accidentally left the basement door ajar while we were revamping the cellar, the plastic would prevent dust from seeping into the shop. Thankfully the dust was almost nonexistent since we had completed the framing and were waiting for workers to begin the next phase.

“Load me up.” Pepere removed the lid of a two-gallon cooler that sat on the floor. “What else do you want me to take? I don’t want to be late to Le Petit Fromagerie. You’ll give me what for.”

I tweaked his elbow. “Oh, yeah, like that has ever happened.”

His eyes crinkled with delight. “I have more of the Emerald Isles goat cheese, Zamorano, and Rouge et Noir.”

“Perfect.”

“Oh, and as you suggested, I set out a platter with the Two Plug Nickels’ cream cheese on the tasting counter.” Two Plug Nickels, another artisanal farm north of town, made the most fabulous lavender goat cheese and now a cream cheese that was silky smooth. “I put a bottle of the hot pepper pickle sauce beside it. The two are so tasty together, non?”

“Absolument.” At Fromagerie Bessette, we offered samples at the tasting counter daily. Because I was focused on educating our customers about cheese platters, I had decided the cream cheese– hot pepper creation was a study in simplicity. The cheese, smooshed on a cracker and drizzled with sauce, was melt-in-your-mouth scrumptious.

“Take along these knives to the tent, as well.” I handed him a few boxes of silver, braid-handled spreaders. They were a popular item to purchase. “While you’re there, will you make sure I have enough serrated knives?”

“Mais oui.”

Not wanting to haul a ton of cutting implements to the tent at the last minute, I had taken many over in batches.

I smoothed my grandfather’s collar and kissed him on both cheeks.

As he exited, Rebecca scuttled in. So did a handful of customers. While we served them, Rebecca plied me with questions about Chip—why he was in town and whether I still had feelings for him—until I grew so weary that I snapped at her to mind her own business.

A half hour later, as the shop emptied of customers, Rebecca joined me at the prep counter against the wall by the kitchen. She cleared her throat. I ignored her and continued dicing Liederkranz into half-inch cubes. It was a pungent cheese that had all but disappeared from the array of cheeses until its rebirth in Wisconsin. Same recipe, new cultures. I had devoted the month of February to creating exotic cheese trays for my customers. To start this particular display, I had adorned a broad blue-banded porcelain plate with a mound of rice noodles. Around the noodles I had scattered clusters of cashews.

“Charlotte,” Rebecca began.

“No,” I said instinctively and plopped a handful of dried apricots on top of the lacy mound.

“I’m not going to ask you about Chip.” She jutted a bony hip. “I got the hint when you snarled at me.”

“What, then?”

She started to giggle. The nervous laughter increased. She tapped her fingertips on her lips in an effort to stop from tittering, but the sound burbled out of her.

“Spill,” I ordered, “or you’ll burst.”

“Ipo is coming over tonight.” She danced a jig. The hem of her peasant blouse fluted around her hips. Her