The Long Quiche Goodbye (8 page)

“About?”

“Who are you seeing?”

“None of your beeswax.”

I perched on a stool by the bar and watched Matthew unpack boxes filled with bottles of wine, “Is that the pinot noir you’ve been hoping for?”

He nodded. “From Joseph Phelps in California. Hard to get. It’s fabulous, with flavors of blackberries and balsamic reduction, and—”

“Are you kidding? Balsamic reduction?”

“And sandalwood.”

I laughed.

He jabbed a finger at me. “C’mon, you talk about the flavor of grass in cheese.”

I did. Which season a cow, goat, or sheep grazed during the year made a difference to the flavors inherent in the cheese. The younger the grass, the younger-tasting the cheese. If the animal ate clover, I could taste it in the product.

“It’s the same with wine. The grapes draw their flavor from the earth.” He sliced open another box and withdrew twelve bottles of Argentinean malbec, a spicier, edgier red wine than a merlot, so Matthew claimed. I had yet to taste it.

And I wouldn’t today. I hadn’t tagged along to get an education on wine. I wanted to grill my new housemate. We hadn’t had a moment alone since Grandmère had been arrested.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“With . . . ?”

“You.”

“Nothing.”

“You’re not spending much time with the girls.”

He bridled and exhaled through his nose. “Don’t start—”

“I’m not criticizing. I’m not complaining. It’s giving me time to get to know them.” I had enjoyed the last few nights, reading to the girls and teaching them how to cook, although with Clair’s allergies to wheat, gluten, and nuts, I was forced to be creative with recipes or make two of everything. Luckily, few cheeses caused allergic reactions, and Rags was the least allergenic breed of cat. Clair hadn’t had an upset tummy or itchy nose and eyes since moving in. At times, I mused that she might have been allergic to her wayward mother, and with the shrew out of the picture, her symptoms had cleared up. “I’m just wondering what’s up. Are you all right? Have you met someone already? Is it Delilah Swain?”

“I’m not seeing anyone.” He didn’t make eye contact as he set the bottles of wine on the bar.

“Or that gal who owns the bookshop?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m such a reader.”

Matthew’s reading consisted of books about wineries, grapes, and
terroir
.

“I’m intruding, I know, but you’re acting differently. You’re sort of shut down. I don’t want you worrying about Grandmère.”

“I’m not.”

“Is it your ex? Did she call or something?”

“I’m fine, Charlotte.” He twisted the wine bottles so all the labels pointed out. “Look, I’ll come straight home from work tonight and make sure I spend time with the girls. Okay? Just give it a rest.”

“Matthew—”

“Really. Don’t mother hen me. I’m fine. Go tend to the customers in the shop.”

“Rebecca’s doing that.”

“Then bake a quiche or something.”

“Can’t. I’m off to pick up the girls from school.”

“Fine.” He tromped across the hardwood floor and started inspecting bottles of wine in the slots we had built along the far wall. End of discussion.

A ball of frustration gathered in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t like secrets. But Matthew had one, and I intended to find out what it was.

CHAPTER 8

I had been so focused on the shop and Grandmère’s situation that I had neglected to restock the refrigerator at home. With the girls in tow, I headed to the farmer’s market that took place once a week in the Village Green. It would close when the sun set.

A broad white-and-green-striped tent covered the market, which consisted of twelve rows of fruits, vegetables, artisanal breads, coffees, meats, sweets, and nuts. Half the townsfolk seemed to be browsing the goods.

Amy, who appeared to get her fashion sense from my grandmother—blue skirt and purple shirt, with a matching headband threaded through her dark hair, and light blue cape tied at the neck—skipped ahead of Clair and me. Down the aisle of fresh fruits. Up the aisle of vegetables. Twice she twirled and bumped into a customer. I didn’t want to rein her in, her spirit being so much like Grandmère’s, but I didn’t want her to become the terror of Providence either. I gave a quick whistle. Amy flashed me one of her gamine grins.

I stopped, item by item, and filled paper bags with apples, salad fixings, and broccoli.

Clair, dressed in a subdued white blouse and mint capris, pulled idly on the long blonde tresses that framed her face as she studied baskets of strawberries. “These look good. Can I eat them without . . . ?” She wriggled her nose. “You know.”

“Yes. You do fine with all fruits. Pick out the carton you like best. Look for plump and red, no tinges of lime green. Get a carton for Grandmère, too.”

She picked up a basket, turned it in her hands, and put it back. She lifted another. Her hands began to shake. Then her shoulders.

“Clair, what’s wrong?”

She looked over her shoulder at me. Tears dripped down her cheeks. “I’m . . . I’m so worried about Great-Grandmère. The kids at school . . .” She licked a teardrop off her lip.

I turned her around, brushed her hair back over her shoulders, and lifted her chin with my fingertip. “Sweetheart, your great-grandmother is going to be fine. Promise.”

“Amy says . . . Amy says . . .” Clair hiccupped. “Amy says I should slug them.”

I bit back a smile. “Using your fists isn’t always the best solution.”

“I know and I tell her that, but she doesn’t listen to me.” She shuddered beneath my touch. “I want to see Grandmère.”

“We’ll go for dinner soon, okay?”

She nodded.

Amy raced back to us and spun in a circle, eyeing the hem of her cape as it flared. “Did I tell you what happened at school today?”

“Not yet.”

“Willamina Woodhouse got put in detention.” Amy did a little jig.

I grimaced, hoping Amy hadn’t been the one to spur on Willamina. “Er, what did she do?”

“She sassed the teacher.”

“Miss Vance?”

“Uh-huh. She said . . .” Mocking Willamina, Amy fluffed her hair and in a nasal voice said, “‘My father is being buried in two days and you can’t come.’”

So, Kristine had at last set the date. About time.

“What did Miss Vance say?”

“Ask her.” Amy pointed. “Hey, Miss Vance!”

Meredith stood on the far side of the market by the organic coffee display. She glanced up, and then like a meerkat checking its surroundings, looked right and left and ducked down. She didn’t have a hole to dive into, but she slipped from view. Where had she gone? Had she crawled away? I was positive she had seen me. Was she avoiding me? Something gnawed inside me, but I refused to take her actions personally. Not yet.

When the girls and I finished our shopping, I offered to take them to the Country Kitchen for a soda. I didn’t allow them to drink soda during the week, but after the encounter with Meredith, even I wanted a little cooling-off period. A glass of soda would do the trick.

The fifties-style diner was packed and noisy, its red booths and red-checkered tables crammed with teenagers and adults. Rock and roll music played through overhead speakers. Customers made choices of music using the mini jukeboxes set on the tables. Each day, a song was chosen as the “song of the day.” Whenever a customer selected that song, Delilah, the waitresses, and her father “Pops” would parade from the kitchen and sing along with the song, Delilah louder and more on key than the others.

We settled onto three empty stools at the red laminate counter. I sat in the middle, with the girls on either side. Their forearms and elbows barely reached the counter. We each ordered a Mama Bozzuto root beer from the perky counter waitress. The Bozzuto Winery had smartly expanded its product line in recent years and had started making delicious natural sodas. With a thick head of foam and rich caramel flavors, the soda tasted like dessert.

As I sipped my drink, I noticed a few of the customers staring at us and talking under their breaths, but I shrugged off their attention. Gossip and googly-eyed staring was to be expected.

Delilah passed by, the red ruffled skirt of her uniform swishing around her knees, a tray balanced on her shoulder. She winked. “Got what you need?”

I nodded.

Amy tugged on my sleeve. “I didn’t finish my story about Willamina.” She made a huge slurping sound as she drank her soda.

I gave her the evil eye.

She shrugged an apology, then said, “Anyway, when Willie went to detention.”

“Willamina,” I corrected.

“Uh-uh, she prefers Willie.”

That had to make Kristine cringe.

“Go on,” I said.

“Anyway, she skipped past Miss Vance, and she stuck out her tongue.”

“You’re kidding!” I don’t know why I expected good behavior from Kristine Woodhouse’s daughter. The “apple falling far from the tree” metaphor would definitely apply. On the other hand, I didn’t want the twins to be judged by their errant mother. That wouldn’t be fair. “Then what happened?”

“Miss Vance started to cry and she ran out of the room.”

Poor Meredith. No matter what, tomorrow I was going to track her down and—

“There she is again. Getting coffee. See her?”

I swung around on my stool. Indeed, Meredith was standing at the register, paying for a to-go cup of coffee. Had my presence forced her to retreat from the farmer’s market? I didn’t want to believe that. I couldn’t. She had a tote bag from All Booked Up on her arm. Books poked from the top. Meredith was an avid reader. Maybe she had run from the farmer’s market to buy her weekly stash.

“Girls, I’ll be right back.” I hurried to my friend and tapped her on the shoulder.

Meredith spun around. Tawny hair flapped her face. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Fine.”

“Pretty necklace.” I hitched my chin at the sapphire pendant hanging around her neck. “New?”

Her hand flew to it. Her cheeks turned crimson. “It’s . . . an antique.”

I could tell that. And it looked expensive. “From your grandmother’s estate?” Meredith was the only girl in a family of boys. Upon her grandmother’s death, she had received all the jewelry.

Before she could answer, Delilah, her spiky-haired father, and two waitresses paraded from the kitchen singing an Elvis oldie, “(Let Me Be Your) Teddy Bear.” As usual, customers joined in.

Over the din, Meredith said, “I’ve got to go.”

“Wait, Meredith, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

“I can’t talk now.”

“I heard what happened at school today. That Willamina—”

“Sorry, I’ve got to run. Parent/teacher stuff.” She scooped up her cup of coffee, and without another word, dashed out the door.

“Meredith, wait!”

But she didn’t. I blew a stream of frustrated air out my nose. I distinctly remembered Bozz telling me that parent/ teacher conferences were the other day, so why had Meredith lied to me? Was I now a pariah, unworthy of friendship because my grandmother was suspected of murder? Or was I being paranoid and trying to read the worst of every little encounter?

“Stop it!” I heard Amy scream.

Delilah and her staff ceased singing.

At the far end of the restaurant, Amy tussled with Willamina Woodhouse. The girl had her fingers woven into Amy’s hair. Where in the heck was her mother? I raced to the girls and pressed them apart by the shoulders, then wedged myself between them. Amy continued to scuffle against me.

“She started it,” Amy said.

“Did not.”

Willamina looked like a street urchin, her cheeks smudged with dirt, her tumble of curls knotted and frazzled. When was the last time the poor girl had taken a bath? For a moment, I felt as worried as a social worker. Did the child need someone to intervene?

But then she bit me.

It took all my reserve not to pinch her back. “Where’s your mother?” I demanded.

“Campaigning.”

With Ed’s funeral days away? The woman ought to be committed.

“What happened here?” I said.

“She called Grandmère names,” Amy cried.

“Did not.”

“Did so. You said ‘the old goat is guilty.’”

Something inside me snapped. I tightened my hold on Willamina’s arm and shook once. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

“I made it up.”

“I don’t believe you.” She wasn’t nearly clever enough. “Young lady, you tell your mother that she is not to say anything like that in the future, do you hear me?”

“My mother didn’t say it. Mrs. Taylor did.”

Tyanne? Why?

I leveled Willamina with my gaze. “I don’t care who said it, you don’t repeat it. Now, get out of here.” I released her. “And don’t touch Amy again.”

Willamina began to blubber. She scurried out of the shop, knobby knees battering each other.

Delilah sashayed to my side, wiping her hands on her frilly apron. “I’m so sorry. That girl is definitely trouble.”

Everyone in the restaurant was staring at us. My cheeks turned warm.

Delilah raised her hands over her head and clapped. “Okay, folks. Show’s over. Lots of tension in this town. Let’s not add to it. Everybody have a soda on me. Pops, re-cue ‘Teddy Bear.’”

That night, dinner at the house was somber. Matthew sat hunched over, eyes dark, as if he was still angry that I had pressed him for answers at The Cheese Shop. Rags seemed to pick up on the tension. He did figure eights around my ankles, rubbing his head against my leg as he roamed.

While we ate our black bean soup laced with crème fraiche in silence, I fretted about Grandmère’s situation. It didn’t help that Willamina Woodhouse had attacked Amy, or that Ed Woodhouse’s funeral would soon be upon us, or that Kristine was making a big to-do about it, playing the grieving widow, expecting everyone in town to come—even us. I’m sure she thought she could rustle up some votes if she cried crocodile tears.

“I saw Meredith today,” I said, hoping Matthew might jump in and give me a little perspective. “Funny, but I think she was trying to ditch me.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Matthew dropped his spoon onto the serving plate with a clack. “Don’t assume just because someone doesn’t talk to you that they are hiding something.”

“Best friends are supposed to confide in each other.”

“Mommy used to be Daddy’s best friend,” Amy chimed in.

Matthew winced. I did, too. I reached for his hand to offer a silent apology, but he shook my hand away, shoved back his chair, and scrambled to his feet. Rags darted from beneath the table and out of the room.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I’ve got some research to do,” he snapped.

“Can I help, Daddy?” Amy popped up from her chair and hurried to him.

“No.”

“Please, Daddy?” She peered up into his eyes. “I’m sorry if I made you angry.”

He softened. “You didn’t make me angry, Peanut. I . . .” Sad creases bracketed his eyes and mouth. “I need a little alone time.”

And what about me? What did I need? I hadn’t signed on to be a single parent. Out of the graciousness of my heart, I had allowed my cousin and his girls to move in. What had I gotten myself into? If I rocked the boat, would I ruin our budding partnership?

Matthew bent to Amy’s level and kissed her cheek. “Daddy has some business to attend to. That’s all.” He lumbered to the study at the front of the house and shut the door.

I frowned. So much for his spending time with the girls tonight.

“Why don’t we read, Aunt Charlotte?” Clair said, her face pale, eyes wide. She was clenching her soup spoon so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.