CHAPTER 1
“Bavarian beer cheese.”
I slid the ramekin of my version of German Obatzda across the sampling counter to the middle-aged couple the way a bartender might offer up a brew. Since I was a cheesemonger, however, the cheese-to-stout ratio favored the cheese heavily.
“It’s a different take on American beer cheese,” I continued. “The Germans came up with the recipe as a way to use up their soft cheese before it went bad. It’s mixed with butter and seasonings. The orange hue is from the paprika. You can make it with a combination of Camembert, brie, cream cheese … or you can go more authentic and use a strong Bavarian cheese. I mixed the two—Camembert and Romadur—for this one. Spread some on that pretzel bread and see what you think.”
The couple had come in looking for some elevated tailgating ideas, as the Cal vs. Stanford football game was approaching. I could see they were hesitant after putting a nose to the pungent concoction.
Archie, my loyal employee and friend, stood next to me behind the counter, watching the interaction. I’d been mentoring him since he began working in my shop last spring. “I don’t blame you,” he said to them. “I was a little scared to try it, too, after we made it. It’s got some intense flavors in there, but it’s delicious, believe me.”
They must’ve decided to trust the affable nineteen-year-old, because they each plucked a bite-sized piece of the kosher salted pretzel bagels from the proffered basket and slathered on the dip, bravely popping it in their mouths. They nodded with satisfied smiles.
“That is good,” the husband said, going back for more.
“There’s a reason it’s been around since the nineteen twenties,” Archie said, handing them one of the recipe cards we’d typed up that morning.
I stepped back to let him take over the sale with Mrs. Schultz, who’d also been with me since we opened Curds & Whey seven months ago. She stood behind him at the checkout counter. Under her apron, she wore a blouse, a colorful string scarf, and a pleated skirt that showed off her good ankles. It was a trait she took pride in, being smack dab in her sixties, as she liked to say.
I’d told her and Archie the history of Obatzda while the three of us experimented that morning with several recipes until we came up with the current concoction, the best of the lot. Outside the shop windows, the brilliant red-orange leaves still clung to the crepe myrtle trees dotting the Pleasant Avenue sidewalk, making me yearn for hearty fall recipes. That was yet another thing I loved about cheese—it never went out of season.
While Archie cut and wrapped the cheeses the couple settled on buying, I noticed a twenty-something guy tentatively enter the shop, barely stepping across the threshold. He had a Clark Kent look about him, with his slicked-back hair and equally dark-framed glasses, and his shirt buttoned all the way to his Adam’s apple. Just like Superman’s alter ego, despite the outward humble appearance, he had attractive features and a fit physique.
I felt a chilly breeze follow him in as I approached to greet him. I attributed it to a blip in the gorgeous October weather Yarrow Glen was having, which usually hung in the low seventies, but was dropping bit by bit as November neared. However, days later I would consider whether it had been a sign of things to come.
“Can I help you?” I asked him.
Contrary to his hesitant body language, his eyes scanned the shop intently. I followed his gaze, wondering what he thought he’d find while rooted to his spot by the open front door. Curds & Whey was made for exploring up close. Only then could one appreciate the variations in texture and color of the cheeses and dare to inhale the intensity of their fragrances. My store held wheels of aged cheeses in wax casings and wrapped wedges from all over the world stacked on distressed turned-leg tables, so they towered over jars of relishes, olives, and jams. More hard cheeses crowded reclaimed shelves lining the wall opposite the checkout and sampling counters where soft cheeses were displayed in refrigerated cases.
When his attention finally returned to me, he asked abruptly, “You work here?”
I looked down at my wheat-colored Curds & Whey apron I wore over a white cotton blouse and khakis that made it rather obvious that I worked there. Even my sleeves were rolled up. “Yes. I’m the owner, Willa Bauer. How can I help you?”
“Oh, you’re Willa Bauer.” He visibly relaxed. “We spoke on the phone. I’m Thomas Doolittle, Phoebe Winston’s personal assistant.” He spoke with a slight lisp and now made an effort to smile.
“Yes! Thomas. Nice to meet you.” I offered my hand for a proper greeting. He pulled his hand out of his jeans pocket and finally stepped farther into the shop to shake mine. I noticed his other hand was clutching a tablet.
He leaned in and spoke quietly. “I-I’m sorry, but they’re going to have to leave.” He pointed to the beer cheese customers who were paying for their order.
“Excuse me?”
“Phoebe’s here to look over the place before her Book and Cook event tomorrow and we don’t want anyone bothering her.”
“They’re customers of mine, not fans of hers.”
“Everyone wants a piece of Phoebe, even if they’re not a fan.”
“I’m sorry, but my shop is for my customers, so—”
“Thomas, don’t be silly.” None other than Phoebe Winston, herself, swept in.
I recognized the striking twenty-eight-year-old from my research skimming through the celebrity gossip pages, but anybody would’ve known she was somebody. Normal people didn’t have glowing skin and perfect posture and that ineffable something about them. Her presence filled the room. The beer cheese customers stared at her, sensing it too.
Mrs. Schultz and I had heard the name ‘Phoebe Winston,’ but didn’t know much more than that until the company whose vegan cheese we carry contacted us to host a promotional event for her new cookbook/autobiography/self-help book Authentically Me: My Journey to Kindness, Authenticity, and a Vegan Life. However, the same couldn’t be said of Archie. He had watched her season of Fire It Up six years ago, a reality competition show that blended Big Brother with Chopped. The program, which showed contestants living together and cooking against each other in a bid for the final prize, was on television three times a week, but viewers could watch their every move 24/7 via the show’s app. Afterward, she became the new reality show ‘It girl.’ Archie had confided that Phoebe Winston had been his first teenage crush. Thus, I disregarded the fact that the beer cheese couple now seemed invisible to him, as he stared past them at Phoebe. Mrs. Schultz finished the transaction, and the couple left with thanks and one last look behind them.
Phoebe nodded almost imperceptibly at her assistant Thomas, who duly closed the door after the couple left. Except for extreme weather, it always remained open during shop hours to make customers feel more welcome to come in, but I’d make an exception for Phoebe Winston. Having a celebrity like her give a talk and a cooking demonstration in my little shop was a huge stroke of luck. She had a rising lifestyle brand and an almost cultlike following on social media.
It would’ve taken me hours to put together the stylish, deliberately casual look that Phoebe Winston had—a short white blazer over a thin matching sweater, which she wore tucked into her wide-legged rose gold slacks that perfectly skimmed her tall frame. I would’ve looked like a sweating marshmallow in all those layers. Her thick blond hair was just as impeccably understated, parted in the middle and flipping in at the bottom just below her shoulders.
I self-consciously pressed my short hair behind my ears and ruffled my bangs in hopes that I could cover the premature gray strands that kept popping up like neon against my otherwise jet-black hair. For heaven’s sake—I was only thirty-three. When I lamented about it recently on the phone to my mother, she told me she never worried about her hair turning gray, that she’d earned it with all those long days on the farm. If you ask me, that’s a lousy reward for hard work.
Before this very moment, I was fine with my sufficiently satisfactory appearance. My blue eyes sometimes garnered compliments and my bangs covered my oversized forehead. I didn’t mind my heart-shaped face or my perky nose. I’d been five-foot-two since the seventh grade, so except for having a hard time reaching upper shelves, I never thought much about my height either. I came by my cottage cheese thighs honestly, and despite my diet being mostly made up of cheese, I still managed to have a waist. But now, standing before the beautiful, statuesque Phoebe Winston, I couldn’t help feeling a little crabby about my draw in the gene pool lottery.
With her perfect chin pushed in the air maybe higher than it needed to be, she stood waiting to be addressed. I obliged.
“Phoebe, hi. I’m Willa Bauer. It’s so nice to meet you.”
Her multiple rings pinched my hand as she shook it. “We’re already on a first-name basis. How nice.” Behind her unnaturally white smile, I got the feeling maybe she thought it wasn’t.
A white fluffy head, no bigger than a softball, with floppy little ears popped out of the oversized handbag hanging from her arm. Oh no—Phoebe’s famous dog. I should’ve known. He was melt-on-the-spot adorable, but this was one thing I couldn’t overlook.
“He’s precious, but I’m so sorry, we can’t allow him in here. Health department regulations,” I said.
The dog barked—a high-pitched yip—as if to protest on cue.
“I know,” I said to him. “You’re so cute. I’m sorry.”
Archie broke from his trance and went over to soothe the dog with puppy talk. I’d seen him do the same with his own Chihuahua, who was smitten with him. It seemed to work just as well with Phoebe’s Maltese, and with its owner for that matter.
“You must be a dog person,” she said to Archie. “He likes you.” She took the well-groomed dog out of her bag with a single hand and tucked him in the crook of her arm. He almost looked like a stuffed toy with his shiny black eyes and button nose against the white fluff that was the rest of him.
“Hi Buttercup,” Archie cooed at him.
“You know his name?” Phoebe seemed pleased.
“Of course!” Suddenly realizing he’d given himself away as a superfan, he continued shyly, “I-I’ve seen him on your Instagram. I can bring him outside for you.”
She handed Archie the dog, who immediately licked his face. “And what’s your name?” she asked.
“I’m Archie.”
“So nice to meet you, Archie.”
It was definitely a warmer hello than I’d gotten. It even sounded a bit flirtatious. Archie’s face was generously sprinkled with freckles, except where the port-wine stain was located across his left cheek. A light pink blush now overtook his pale complexion.
“Do you mind putting him in the car?” she asked him.
I was surprised by her acquiescence. Archie was a miracle worker.
“I can—” Thomas began.
“Thomas, can you give Archie the key?” Phoebe spoke over him.
Thomas silently handed Archie the key fob from his pocket.
“Is that the car?” Archie indicated the white Range Rover he viewed out the front window blocking the near side of the street. “You’re bound to attract attention double-parked like that. You want me to pull it into a space?”
“Good idea, Archie. Thank you. See Tom-Tom? That’s what initiative looks like,” she said.
Thomas looked down at his spotless white Nikes, seemingly embarrassed.
She turned her attention back to Archie. “You can put Buttercup in his bed in the back seat. While you’re there, would you be a doll and bring in the boxes of signed books in the trunk? I need your brawn.”
I had to press my lips closed when I caught Mrs. Schultz’s eye. I knew she was giggling internally. I was too. There was a plethora of positive adjectives to describe Archie, but brawny was most definitely not on that list. He was lanky with rangy limbs, which his T-shirt, camo cargo shorts, and Curds & Whey apron didn’t hide. However, Phoebe’s flattery seemed to work on him—it was obvious he was smitten.
“You bet.” Archie practically skipped out the door with the tiny dog.
I introduced Mrs. Schultz, who, after a few pleasantries, surprised me by also being taken in by the charismatic Phoebe Winston. Upon learning that Mrs. Schultz was a retired high school drama teacher, they were belting out a duet of the refrain from “There’s No Business Like Show Business” in no time. With Mrs. Schultz’s cropped curls and toothy smile, the song highlighted a resemblance to Ethel Merman I’d never noticed before.
Afterward Phoebe said to her, “Can I ask a huge favor of you? There’s no water for Buttercup in the car and I don’t want him getting too warm in there.”
“Sure, I can bring him some water,” Mrs. Schultz replied.
“Bottled, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, okay, sure.”
“In a ceramic bowl. We don’t use plastic.” Phoebe scrunched her nose at the word plastic.
“No problem.” Mrs. Schultz hurried to the back of the shop and through the swinging door to the stockroom to fulfill Phoebe’s request.
Closing the front door hadn’t done much good. Chet from the meadery wandered in. His tousled shoulder-length hair sometimes covered the sharp angles of his face and soulful eyes that looked like they might be hiding deep thoughts. He stopped short upon seeing Phoebe. She seemed to have that effect on people.
“Do I know you?” she said to him.
“Uh—I’m here for Willa,” he answered uncomfortably.
“Hey, Chet. Don’t tell me I was supposed to put together a cheese platter for Roman,” I said. I supplied Chet’s boss—and the owner of Golden Glen Meadery—with cheese for his mead-tasting events. Roman and I were also close friends, inching our way to possibly more.
“I don’t know about any cheese platter,” Chet said to my relief.
I caught a glimpse of Phoebe’s silent direction to Thomas in the form of a scowl before she plastered on the same smile that had disappeared the moment Mrs. Schultz had gone to the stockroom.
Thomas cleared his throat and addressed Chet. “I’m sorry, but we need to keep the shop clear of fans right now so we can prepare for tomorrow evening’s event.”
“Fans?” Chet said, his eyes questioning the three of us. “Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turned to me and added, “Although I am a fan of yours, Willa.”
I chuckled. “Thank you, Chet. He works at the meadery across the street,” I explained to Phoebe and her assistant. “You should stop by there when you’re done here. I can introduce you to Roman. Have you ever tried mead? It’s an alcoholic drink made with honey. Oh wait, so does that make it not vegan because of the bees?”
“I don’t have time for it, anyway. Tom-Tom, the lists.” Phoebe snapped her fingers and Thomas threw back the cover to his iPad as crisply as an army private clicks his heels at attention to his sergeant. She looked impatiently at Chet to leave.
He ignored her, addressing me, “I was supposed to meet Ginger when I got off from work, but she’s not outside.” Ginger, his girlfriend, worked at the bookstore café a few doors down from Curds & Whey. “My phone has zero battery, so I probably missed her text. I thought maybe you’d seen her.”
“Sorry, I haven’t. Maybe she’s still working. Is the café closed already?”
“Are you talking about Ginger O’Donnell?” Phoebe interjected, much to my surprise.
“That’s right,” Chet said.
“Ginger’s an old friend of mine. We went to culinary school together. I knew she moved here afterward, but I wasn’t sure if she still lived here. I was hoping to see her. Can you be a doll and let her know I’m in town?”
“Sure. Who are you?” Chet dared to ask.
Thomas huffed, “This is Phoebe Winston!”
Chet snapped his fingers. “Oh, yeah, the one on Willa’s flyers. Ginger’s never mentioned you, but I’ll tell her.”
“Let her know I texted her last week if she’s still at the same number. It’s been a few years.”
“Sure thing. See ya, Willa.”
“Good luck finding Ginger,” I answered.
On his way out, he held the door open for Archie to enter, struggling with a heavy box emblazoned with the publisher’s logo.
Copyright © 2022 by Korina Moss.
