As Gouda as Dead by Avery Aames

photographs of the Valentine’s baskets in the right place. They kept bouncing from the right margin to the left. If I had enough time, I would put myself through a weeklong website design course, but I didn’t, so I continued to struggle, one click and drag at a time.
    Around one P . M ., when I realized noon had come and gone and I was starving, I hurried to the kitchen and fetched the last slice of pomegranate, sage, and crème fraîche quiche. I’d set aside a piece two days ago; it was one of my favorites. The flavors melded together into a delicious mouthful of yum.
    While I devoured the quiche at the granite counter and drank a glass of milk, Rebecca joined me. “Guess who stopped in while you were in the back?” she said.
    â€œMeredith?” Soon, all my girlfriends would come in to commiserate if Rebecca had anything to do with it, the frivolity of last night’s bachelorette party a mere mist of a memory.
    â€œNo, silly. Jordan.”
    I gaped. “Why didn’t you show him to the office?”
    â€œBecause he seemed in a hurry to find Tyanne.”
    â€œDidn’t you tell him I’d informed her about the postponement?”
    â€œI did, but that didn’t deter him. He said he wanted to settle accounts.”
    A pang of regret gripped me. I thought of all the flowers that would have to be canceled and the food and the cake that we’d commissioned from Providence Pâtisserie. Not to mention all the guests that would have to be alerted. I’d given that task to Tyanne. I thought it might ground her. I told her I’d contact my grandparents and bring them into the loop. I hadn’t yet. I knew Grandmère would tend to me like a mother hen.
    â€œCall him,” Rebecca suggested.
    â€œI will when I take my next break.” I slung on my apron and trudged through the shop to make note of what needed reordering. As I slipped my hand into the pocket of my apron for the pad and pen that I usually kept there, I felt something else—a folded square of paper. I opened it and realized it was a note. Not simply a note; a love letter. From Jordan. Blinking away the instant tears that sprang to my eyes, I read how much he loved and adored me. In closing, he asked if I would like to go on a date soon.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Rebecca asked, trying to take a peek.
    â€œNothing. Nothing at all.” I showed her the note.
    She applauded. “Oh, yay! What a romantic. He’s wooing you all over again. By the way, he has nice handwriting.”
    â€œYes, he does.” I chalked that up to the fact that he was a magnificent chef who liked everything to be just so. I eyed the note again and reflected on what Tyanne had said about Tim not writing text messages. If he’d wanted to reach Urso so badly and couldn’t get hold of him by phone, why hadn’t he at least attempted texting? Had he been worried that whomever he saw doing
whatever
it was the person was doing might see the text and hurt him? Well, too late for that. The person did hurt Tim; he killed him—text or no text.
    The front door to the shop flew open. In bustled my grandmother. “
Chérie
!” Had she sensed that I’d been thinking about her? “There you are. I am so sad for Tim and his family. And for you.” She brushed a fresh dusting of snow off the shoulders of her winter coat and gathered me into her arms. We kissed
la bise
, first one cheek and then the other, and then she held me at arm’s length. “You look pasty.”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œI heard you have postponed your wedding.”
    I skewered Rebecca with a glance. Had she sneaked into the office and called Grandmère? Defiantly, Rebecca shrugged a shoulder.
    â€œYou and Jordan,” Grandmère went on. “You are as sad as the pair in
Love Letters
.”
    â€œWe are nothing like them, Grandmère. Jordan and I will be together.” Spoiler alert.