Clobbered by Camembert Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.” Pépère 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