Chapter 13 #2
“You always have a choice.” I lifted an eyebrow, challenging Betsy.
I was sussing her out with each exchange.
Calculating the best way to communicate with her and suspecting I needed to lead with respect, not emotion.
Also, I needed to make it seem like it was her idea. She was a classic executive type.
“All right. Let ’er rip.” Her petite arms barely reached across her large chest, but they found their resting spot and she looked ready to listen. Here was my moment.
“Instead of selling blocks of cheese, we sell connection,” I said, leading her into the idea.
“Connection? To cheese? Ali, just make your point,” Betsy said, dropping her arms by her sides. Sheesh, this woman was tough.
“Not connection to cheese, connection to each other. Host an event where we pair cheese with local wines and beers. Maybe at the Tavern, or we could move some stuff around and do it right here. Call it ‘Cheers and Cheese.’”
“A tasting? Interesting . . . But two hundred pounds of cheese is a lot of cutting up and sampling. Not to mention all the lost profits by just giving it away,” she said.
“We don’t give it all away. We can also sell blocks of it, of course.
We can also bundle the cheese with the wine and a few other accoutrements, creating gift baskets.
Ooh, better yet, make it a write-off! Raise funds for a local charity or initiative that aligns with the farm’s mission, and all the proceeds from the event could benefit that.
” I started to pace a little. I was sinking into my ideas mode and had to move my body to let them flow.
“Celebrate Kind Ridge Creamery and promote inclusive hiring. I love this idea!” I gave a delighted squeal and a small hand clap for emphasis, but I quickly realized my audience and straightened.
Betsy was not a girlie-girl. She was blunt, efficient, and skeptical—a cast-iron skillet in human form. I paused and waited for her response.
“What are you trying to prove here?” she asked suspiciously.
“You said you were interested in this job to ‘occupy your time’ and provide a ‘little distraction.’” She put air quotes around occupy your time and little distraction.
She was right, I did say that when Misha and I first inquired about the Help Wanted sign.
I paused, deciding to lay it all out there for her.
“I’m not trying to prove anything. I know what you must think of me.
But I’m not a spoiled girl looking for a project.
I actually need a job. My bank account is dwindling—quickly.
I have no other income. I like working with people.
I know how to work hard—I’ve been through my own mess, and I’m not afraid of hard things. I can help you.”
She still looked unconvinced.
“Look, I get it, the event I shared with you and Frank may sound like a shallow affair. And mostly it was . . . but the skill set I developed attending events like those—that’s what makes me an asset.
If you think the idea’s crap, then say so.
But I think we’ve got a real shot at moving this cheese and making people feel good about it.
And maybe I can earn a position working for you, here, in the process. ”
She nodded slowly and squinted her eyes at me. “All right, kid. I’ll give you a chance. Put a plan together and let’s move some cheese,” she said.
“Yay! This is going to be so great!” I said, perhaps too excitedly. Betsy’s skepticism of me returned.
“It’s too soon to celebrate,” she said, never straying from her no-nonsense ways.
“I’m an enthusiastic person. I can’t help it,” I said after her.
She thought it was too soon to celebrate, but I needed this win. I had done it. I’d won her over with the idea. Getting to this point was the true unknown. Executing the event and achieving success? That was a given!
For the next hour or so, Betsy and I jotted down ideas and a plan on a yellow legal pad, my big loopy handwriting decorating the lined pages.
Cross-out marks and words added to the margins made the whole thing look a mess.
But it was a beautiful mess. A workable mess. A mess to undo the cheese debacle.
“I think we’ve got a good start here,” I said. “I’m going to pop over to the Tavern and see if we can get a date finalized.” I started to straighten the notepad and clicked the pen I was using closed. I caught Betsy looking at me pensively.
“What?” I asked.
“Libby and I often worked the farmers’ markets together, and of course the wildflower initiative was her baby. She wasn’t afraid to roll up her sleeves and make the world better.” She paused and I nodded like a bobble head on a rumbling dashboard. “You reminded me of her just now,” she said.
The edges of my lips spread into a small smile, and a stutter rippled in my throat.
I stood up and felt a mix of pride and inspiration knowing I was channeling Gibby in service of the community she loved.
Even if this event was small. It felt good to be doing something.
I felt similarly steadfast on one of the last projects I’d contributed to at GlennGlobal.
Although for that one, I’d detected some troubling evidence of water contamination and illegal dumping taking place at a commercial revitalization project outside of Topeka, Kansas.
I was putting the finishing touches on my memo when I was pulled into Ryan’s drama that ultimately made me look like a total fool and feel like a complete loser.
No. Nope. Don’t do that, Ali. Time to move on, I reminded myself.
The Tavern featured a long, glossy wooden bar, and glass shelves of liquor lined the wall behind the bar.
A decent number of draft beer handles poked up like sprouting stems in a window box.
The perimeter of the space featured half-moon-shaped leather booths and tables.
Standard rectangular tables and leather-padded chairs took up the rest of the interior.
The scent of Old English wood polish and stale beer wafted in the air.
Marjorie stepped out through the swinging door from the kitchen, I supposed. “Carl, you just about ready for the check?” she asked the lone customer seated at the bar.
“Yes, yes. Let’s square up.” The man stood uncomfortably and started to dig into his back pocket for his wallet. I recognized him. He was the bus driver who did not seem to appreciate my luggage load.
“Hiya, Ali!” Marjorie hollered as she looked up from slapping Carl’s check on the bar.
“Hey, Marjorie! And hello again, Carl. Not sure if you remember me. I was on the bus from Chicago?” I asked tentatively.
“Oh yeah. Right. Right. Libby’s granddaughter,” he said grumpily.
Carl reminded me of an older Norm from Cheers.
I’d met the actor, George Wendt, once at a story hour charity function in Montreal a few years ago.
My friends at the time didn’t want to delay the party by listening to the “washed-up old guy”—their words, not mine.
But I couldn’t resist his doughy face and small twinkly eyes.
He was no stranger to happy hour even in real life and had the stories to prove it.
Listening to his low, gravelly voice was such a treat that night.
I ended up sitting in the audience without my friends, but I didn’t feel alone—not at the event at least. George Wendt and his fans were comforting to be among.
The laughter and touching stories that filled that historic theater felt like a warm blanket to snuggle into.
It was after the event that loneliness settled in.
When I met back up with my already overserved friends and wondered who the hell were these people.
I remembered looking at the completely curated, image-obsessed, insular group of them and realizing I didn’t actually like any of them.
Nor did I like myself when I was around them.
We may have been swimming in the same pool for the better part of our country-club lives, but we had nothing in common.
They were fueled by competition, corruption, and entitlement.
They judged most people, especially one another.
I realized in that moment that maybe the changes I had made in life to seek more seriousness were not only motivated by Dad’s ultimatum after the border-crossing incident.
“Ali. Earth to Ali. You okay, there?” Marjorie was looking at me. I must have zoned out. I shook myself back to reality.
“Yep. Don’t mind me. A lot on my mind. I have a proposal to chat with you and Calvin about. Do you have a minute?” I asked.
“Come on over. Pull up a stool.” She waved me over to the bar. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Just a water would be great,” I said as I sat down and arranged the notepad on the bar in front of me.
“Are there more tourists trickling into the area?” I asked Carl, who was looking at me sternly.
“Not quite,” he said curtly.
“I am excited for life to pick up around here,” I said cheerfully. I was determined to soften this man up and didn’t care what I was saying.
He grunted. “Pretending to be a local now? You have to stick around for a little while for that.”
My brows lifted. This was the chattiest Carl had been on the few times we’d interacted, but his idea of chitchat was like slicing an apple: slow pressure of the knife through the skin, the ease of the blade through the flesh, and then the snap!
as the blade stops on the cutting board through the other side.
“I never thought of myself as a local, but I am trying to make myself at home here,” I said.
“Good luck with that. Wonder how long it’ll last,” he said again gruffly and stood up to walk out.
“Did I do something to make you angry with me?” I asked.
“Wait, Carl. Your change,” Marjorie hollered after him as he walked toward the door.
“Keep it, Marjie. Have a good one.” And he walked out the door, leaving my question hanging in the air like a balloon caught high in a tree branch.
“What was that all about?” I asked Marjorie.
“Not sure. He can be prickly, but he’s not usually that bristly.” We both shrugged. She picked up some glasses and a dish towel to start polishing the glass.
“What did you need to talk to us about? Cal works the night shift, so he won’t be in until later, but I can fill him in,” she said.
I told Marjorie all about the cheese calamity and our “Cheese and Cheers” event to invite the entire town to sample the cheese from Kind Ridge Creamery while enjoying wine and beer pairings, learning about the mission of Kind Ridge, and raising money for Employment Resources, Inc.
—a Wisconsin nonprofit that supported and advanced employment for people with disabilities.
“This sounds wonderful! Of course you can use the Tavern,” Marjorie said. “Cal has a beer cheese fondue recipe that people absolutely love. We’ll take some of the cheese off your hands so we can have a cheese fountain or something at the event. It’ll be a hit!”
“There’s one more thing. The Corner Market doesn’t exactly have the cooler space to store the cheese. Could we also store some of it in the walk-in coolers here?”
Marjorie winced and paused to think. Then she walked to the other side of the bar and pulled a clipboard out.
“Dang it! Our next delivery of stock arrives on Monday. Once that is delivered, that walk-in cooler is going to be standing room only. I’m afraid we won’t be able to store the cheese either. ”
“Monday? As in one week away?”
She nodded. “’Fraid so.”
“Maybe we should tack this event onto one that is already taking place, that way it will be easy for the town to attend.”
“There’s always the open mic night after the town meeting on Thursday. But that only gives us like four days to pull it together,” Marjorie said.
“Honestly, we don’t need much time. I’ve thrown parties bigger than this with less than twenty-four hours’ notice. And we all know how quickly word travels around here. Do you think we could enlist help from Maggie Jo and Stacy? Eric too?”
“Sheesh, girl! That’s a tight timeline, but heck yeah. I think we can make it work, and I know they’ll all be happy to pitch in,” she said.
I jumped up and stood on the step of the barstool to lean over the bar and reach for Marjorie. “Oh thank you. Thank you. Thank you!”
Marjorie laughed and returned the hug.