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creamy, meltable cow’s milk cheese with a salty finish.
    Meredith continued. “And Delilah brought—”
    “Let me guess. Grilled cheese.”
    Meredith tapped her nose. Delilah, our friend and owner of the Country Kitchen, had been testing grilled cheese combinations for weeks. Holmes County was vying to host a statewide competition. Delilah had invented a number of new recipes, including a potato-bacon grilled cheese, lobster grilled cheese, and a portobello vegetarian grilled cheese. She’d even used one of my cheesecake recipes to make a grilled cheese for dessert.
    “Uh-oh, what’s she doing here?” Meredith’s mouth twisted into a knot.
    “Who?”
    “Cruella de Vil.”
    Gripping the twins firmly by the hands, Sylvie strode into the dining room, her ocelot coat flogging her calves.
    Matthew charged around me to block her entry.
    “Why, Matthew, you look almost apoplectic.” Sylvie offered a sly grin. “What’s the problem, love?”
    Matthew muttered something unintelligible.
    Sylvie released Amy and Clair and posed, head cocked, hand on hip, trying to look nonchalant, but she didn’t. Her acid-white hair hung in straggly pieces around her face. Today’s horseback outing with the girls must have taken a nip out of her. C’est bon, I thought with wicked delight. On the other hand, the twins looked energized. Dark-haired little Amy glowed with vivacity, and Clair, a head taller than her sister and typically pale, had rosy cheeks.
    I crossed to the girls and whispered, “Did you have a good time?”
    Clair nodded, but she didn’t look me in the eye. Was she embarrassed that she had enjoyed being with her mother?
    “Matthew, don’t make such a big deal of everything.” Sylvie pressed her palm to Matthew’s chest, right over his heart. He reeled as if he’d been scorched. To cover, Sylvie nodded greetings to the assembling crowd. A spat never failed to attract lookie-loos.
    My grandmother and grandfather pushed to the front of the throng. Grandmère seemed to be holding her breath.
    “This is an adult party, Sylvie,” Matthew hissed.
    “Tosh!”
    “It’s not a place for children. Amy, Clair, I’m sorry. Charlotte, would you—”
    “Laissez-moi, chérie.” Grandmère warned me to stand pat. “I’ll take the girls. After we eat, we’re going straightaway to the theater.” She crouched and opened her arms. Looking sheepish, the twins scooted to her. She ushered them out of the room, and Pépère trundled after them.
    An instant later, Matthew grabbed Sylvie by the arm and swept her toward the exit.
    If looks could kill, Sylvie wasn’t long for this world.
    I scurried after them, eager to watch Matthew put her in her place. However, before I had even reached the foyer, I heard the slam of a car door and the screech of tires in the driveway.
    Matthew returned inside, his eyes smoldering, his mouth tight. He slipped an arm around me, whispered, “Fiasco avoided,” and guided me back to the dining room.
    The banquet table looked resplendent, like something out of a medieval painting. In addition to cut vegetables, Rebecca had suggested serving sliced apples and cooked and cooled fingerling potatoes with the fondue. She’d piled them high onto huge platters. Providence Patisserie had supplied handwoven Amish baskets filled with crusty bread cubes.
    Matthew squeezed my arm and left me to tend to the guests who were hankering for wine.
    “Oooh, look who just popped in.” Rebecca danced to my side and nudged me with her bony hip.
    My heart caught in my chest. Imaginary butterflies took flight in my stomach. Jordan Pace stood in the doorway. Golden light from the chandeliers highlighted his striking cheekbones. Could any man look better in a white shirt, jeans, and boots than he did? Call me crazy, but I swear I heard a jangle of spurs and horses neighing in the distance.
    I twisted away and plucked at my hair. “How do I look?”
    “Sporty,” Rebecca said.
    Rats. I’d been going for Woman of