Clobbered by Camembert

winter skirt swished side to side. “And we’re going to do it.”

I gulped.

“Not it, it,” she blurted. “We’re going to kiss.” Her fingers skirted to her neck, then her chest. A red flush decorated her pale skin. After a moment, a sob caught in her throat and she grabbed my wrist. “Charlotte, what if I don’t like it?”

She had never kissed a boy. Ever. Her Amish upbringing had kept her at arm’s length from all men. She had admitted to liking a lanky boy when she was thirteen, but the farthest they had ever gone in their relationship was holding hands—forbidden before marriage in some sects.

I squeezed her shoulder. “You will like it. Promise.”

“I hoped you’d say that.” She eyed the platter I was putting together. “That’s pretty. What cheeses are you adding to the Liederkranz?”

A few months ago, I had attended a cheese conference and had taken seminars to enhance my understanding of the art of plating. Cheese can be so varied in taste and texture, but many are pale. Adding fruits, nuts, olives, pickles, and meats, in a variety of colors, will brighten a tray and enhance the tasting experience.

“Yarg Cornish Cheese and Roaring Forties Blue,” I said.

“I love Yarg,” she gushed. “Did you know that Yarg is Gray spelled backward because Gray is the name of the couple who came up with the recipe for the cheese? Wait, of course, you did. You told me. The flavor of nettles is so unique,” she went on. “And I adore the Roaring Forties Blue. The nutty finish is divine.”

The front door chimes jangled, and Arlo MacMillan skulked in, all one-hundred-and-forty pasty pounds of him. His overcoat looked two sizes too big.

“Morning, Arlo,” I called.

He gazed at Rebecca and me from beneath his hooded eyelids and gave a hint of a nod. Then he shuffled toward the barrel that was stacked with jars of homemade raspberry jam. Every week Arlo graced the shop with his gloomy presence, but in all the years I had known him, I couldn’t remember him purchasing cheese more than three times—and then it was only Provolone cheese. I had tried to talk him into other selections, but he wouldn’t budge.

Two tourists and a bevy of children, each dressed in a heavy winter coat, trooped in behind Arlo, all chattering at once. They bustled toward the counter, and the man who I assumed was the father scanned the chalkboard menu behind me. At the insistence of a few tour guides, we had added a limited array of pre-made sandwiches to the other foods that we offered. When we sold out, we sold out.

“That Collier’s Welsh Cheddar, turkey, and cranberry croissant looks good to me,” the woman said to the man. “American cheese and salami on wheat for the kids, and include a wedge of that blue cheese.” She pointed at the Roaring Forties Blue. “We’ll add it to tonight’s salad.”

As I was wrapping their purchase in our special cheese paper—waxy on the outside, plastic on the inside— the front door flew open.

“Charlotte!” Tyanne Taylor swept inside. She stamped her tennis shoes on the carpet to clear them of debris, darted around the family, and scooted behind the counter. Runny black mascara streaked her pretty cheeks. Smidgens of it had dripped onto her snug cinnamon-colored jogging suit. Tyanne had worked hard to get rid of unwanted weight, and now she had what health magazines would call a super-toned body. “Sugar, he’s leaving me,” she drawled. “My Theo is leaving me and the children.”

“Why?” I asked in a gentle voice, hoping she would follow my lead. I didn’t want to scare off customers with talk of divorce, but I also wouldn’t turn away a friend in need. I finished off all the sandwich packages with our gold seals, slipped the sandwiches and the wedge of Roaring Forties Blue cheese into a handled bag, and gave the bag to Rebecca. “Ring them up, thanks.”

“Can’t yet. I think the dad has hit it off with Arlo.” Rebecca hooked a thumb.

Indeed, the father had joined Arlo by the barrel that held a display of rounds of Camembert, assorted goat cheeses, sourdough crackers, and jars of pesto, and they were chatting like old friends, which blew me away. Arlo didn’t like anyone. At least I hadn’t thought he did.

“I’ll pay,” the woman said.

I steered Tyanne toward the coat rack at the rear of the store.

When we were out of earshot, Tyanne said, “It’s … another woman.” She rolled her shoulders back. Her jaw drew taut. “But I won’t let him get the better of me. I won’t. I don’t need him. We don’t need him. I saw you were hiring.” She paused, her bravado weakening, and tucked her lower lip under her teeth. “I thought I’d better come and ask. Can I … Will you? I did all the marketing and computer output for the fresh market grocery down in New Orleans before … before …” She started to shake, unable to finish her sentence. Before Hurricane Katrina had turned her life topsy-turvy. After trying to make a go of it in ravaged New Orleans, her husband gave up and purchased his uncle’s insurance business in Providence and had moved the family lock, stock, and barrel. No debate.

I gave her a hug. “You’re hired.” I couldn’t think of anyone I would like more to work in the shop. She was a survivor. Salt of the earth.

“Oh, sugar, that’s such a blessing. Thank you.” She sighed. “I feel like such a cliche. He’s leaving me for his assistant, for heaven’s sake.” She blew a strand of hair off her face. “What did I do wrong? I lost weight. I streaked my hair like he wanted.” She shook her glossy layered locks. “Did I let my mind go flabby or something?”

I squeezed her elbow. “It’s not you. Sometimes we can’t fix things.”

Exactly when had I started to believe that? After Chip ran out, I guessed. I had poured my all into our relationship. A therapist told me the breakup wasn’t my fault. Prior to Chip, I had thought I could fix anything.

“When do I start?” Tyanne asked.

“Now. Bozz is tied up with senioritis at school.”

“It’s only February.”

“All the seniors check out mentally once they’ve heard from the colleges of their choice.” At first, I’d only hired my teenage guru, Bozz, to help with Fromagerie Bessette’s website design, but over the course of the past two years, he had grown into an invaluable employee, knowledgeable about cheese, marketing, and so much more.

“Where has Bozz been accepted?”

“To Providence Liberal Arts College.”

PLAC was the first college ever in Providence, and its debut freshman class would start in the fall. My pal Meredith was bubbling with excitement about the prospect. Her efforts to convert the old Ziegler Winery into a liberal arts college were coming to fruition. Bozz intended to work through college, but he had asked if he could cut his hours from sixteen to eight. I would miss seeing him as often.

I turned to Rebecca. “Would you bring Tyanne up to speed at the cheese counter and in the kitchen? A while later, Tyanne, I’ll walk you through the website, the newsletter, et cetera. Around here, we all pitch in with everything.”

“Might I freshen up, sugar?”

“Of course. You know the way.”

She headed toward the back of the shop.

As she disappeared, Prudence Hart marched in, her dark mood matching her charcoal coat, her prunish face twisted into a knot as always. “This Founder’s Day celebration, or Winter Wonderland faire, or whatever we’re calling it this year, has got to stop.” At times, she reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the East. She shook her fist overhead as if blaming the gods.

“The festival hasn’t started,” I reminded her.

“It makes a mess. Trash flying everywhere. And the riffraff.” Riffraff was one of Prudence’s favorite words. Everyone not of her social status was riffraff. She stomped to Arlo, who was once again standing alone, and nudged him with her bony elbow. “Don’t you agree?”

Like Prudence, Arlo’s ancestors were some of the first settlers in Providence, but that didn’t mean he had to be friends with Prudence. He muttered something, pulled his overcoat tight, and scuttled away from her. Prudence harrumphed. “And have you seen that woman prancing around in the cowboy hat, bragging that she’s going to change things around here? Who does she think she is?”

I said, “Don’t you recognize her?”

“No, why should I?”