One

New York City

“I’m looking for something decadent,” the woman said, leaning over the counter and squinting at the menu board. “Something to impress.”

She was not one of Leah’s regular customers, the ones who stopped in every week to buy cheese for their weekend charcuterie boards or just to stock their fridge. Those people Leah had come to know over the years, as they debated the merits of tossing a good Castelrosso into salad instead of feta.

“Are you looking for a soft or hard cheese?” Leah asked. Typically, she would ask for more information: What other food would be served? If wine would be part of the meal, what varietal? But lately, she was distracted.

“Either one,” the woman said. She had brown hair shimmering with gold highlights and wore a chic, lightweight trench coat.

“I’m a big fan of the Kunik,” Leah said. “It’s a triple cream cheese. Very silky texture and truly delicious. Try this—like butter,” she said, passing the woman a sample of the soft white cheese.

The woman tasted it, and her eyes widened. “You know what you’re talking about.”

Yes, she did. Leah had opened the cheese shop eighteen years earlier, when her daughter was just three years old. The small space on the corner of Seventy-Ninth Street and First Avenue had stood vacant for a long time. Every day, passing it on her way to buy groceries at Agata & Valentina, she fantasized about turning it into a cheese shop. She even had a name for it: Bailey’s Blue, an ode to her love of blue cheese.

The door opened, and this time it was a regular, a party planner named Roya Lout who had talked more than one hostess into using Bailey’s Blue instead of a larger purveyor. “I like your style,” she had declared, and Leah knew she wasn’t talking about her clothes. Years earlier, before it was popular, Leah had made a commitment to feature locally produced cheese, and her shop consistently showcased northeastern artisanal varieties.

There had been a time when she thought about expanding her space to include the location next door if it became available. She taught wine and cheese classes in the cramped back room of the shop, and she could use a dedicated space for that. At just around eight hundred square feet, Bailey’s Blue had one long counter, and one display case filled with wheels of creamy Brie, Camembert, Comte, and Gruyère. She also had one case for her beloved blues: Roquefort, Stilton, Gorgonzola, a few wedges of the classic Maytag, Pur Chèvre Bleu from Illinois, and Bergère Bleue from upstate. The shelves behind the counter brimmed with jars of assorted olives, figs, chocolate-covered almonds, artisanal crackers, and jam—the accoutrements to tease out the nuanced flavors of fine cheese. Her husband had recently added a mounted display of cheese knives and serving boards for sale.

“It’s getting cluttered in here,” she’d said. But Steven, recently retired and now working beside her in the shop, was eager to make his mark.

As it turned out, there would be no expanding next door: the landlord was selling the entire lot to developers, and they would be losing their lease in six months. It was happening all over the Upper East Side neighborhood known as Yorkville, once a haven of mom-and-pop bakeries, hardware stores, boutique pharmacies, and beauty shops. Now entire city blocks were being razed to build high-rises, the small businesses replaced by CVS and Citibank.

Steven saw it as an opportunity to start fresh with a bigger, better space.

“Change can be a good thing,” he said.

Leah, who had been in business for nearly two decades, felt like maybe she needed a moment to catch her breath.

“Congrats,” Roya Lout said. “I read your daughter’s story. To be published in The New Yorker before she even graduates college? She’s a genius.”

A genius who had not answered any of Leah’s texts or calls for the past few days.

“Thank you,” Leah said, brushing the concern about Sadie out of her mind. “And I think you’ll love this Hudson River Valley blue. It’s mellow, but you’ll notice a bit of tanginess.”

Roya slipped the sample into her mouth. “Mmmm,” she said. “There are some tropical fruit notes in here. Right?”

Steven walked in, his arms laden with shopping bags. He gave the customers a nod of greeting before joining Leah behind the counter.

“Mission accomplished,” he said, unpacking the special cheese wrapping paper and bags from Formaticum she’d run out of. Her delivery wasn’t due until tomorrow, so Steven had made a trip to Brooklyn. She smiled at him.

Steven Bailey was tall and lean, his thick dark hair threaded with silver. His intense eyes appeared green-gray, except in the sun, when she could see they were, in fact, blue. He was as handsome as he had been the day she first saw him. She had been fresh out of college, working behind the counter at the legendary shop Murray’s Cheese in the Village, where Steven was the assistant manager. It was supposed to be just a summer job, a last hurrah in the city before she returned to the Hollander winery to take her place in the family business alongside her father.

It hadn’t worked out that way.

Another customer appeared in the doorway, and Roya and the trench coat woman had to squeeze in to make room.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fryer,” Leah said. The woman had lived in the neighborhood for sixty years and had been widowed for half of that time. She kept busy with her four Dachshunds and local gossip.

“Tell me it isn’t true,” Mrs. Fryer said.

“What isn’t true?” Roya asked.

“I’m going to take the Kunik and the Brie,” said the trench coat woman.

Leah nudged Steven out of the way so she could reach into the cheese case. The place really was not big enough for the two of them.

“She’s closing the shop,” Mrs. Fryer announced to the whole store.

“No one’s closing anything,” Steven said.

“Who’re you?” Mrs. Fryer asked.

Steven and Leah exchanged a look. She shrugged.

“I’m Leah’s husband, Steven. We met last week.”

“Well, you can’t fool me, husband. The landlord sold to developers. This entire block is going! They’re putting up a big condo.”

Outside, Mrs. Fryer’s leashed dogs began to bark. “I’ll be back this afternoon for my Gouda.” The door stuck as she left, and warm air wafted in. The trench coat woman reached to close it. When she paid for her cheese, she handed Leah a business card.

“My name’s Anouk Jansen—I’m a real estate agent.”

“Anouk. What a lovely name. Swedish?” Leah said.

“Dutch. If you’re looking for a new retail space, feel free to be in touch.”

“We’re definitely looking for a new space,” Steven said, taking the card from Leah.

“At some point,” Leah said, shooting him a look.

Everything was moving way too fast.

A few months earlier, in a corporate restructuring, Steven’s company had offered senior management—including members of the in-house legal team—the option to take a package and retire early. Steven had jumped at the chance. He’d never enjoyed being an attorney. It had always been a means to an end: supporting his family. But now that Sadie had only one year left of college, the pressure was off.

Leah had fully supported his decision. The truth was, she was ready for a change, too. She’d become tired of running the shop. She’d lost the spark. Yes, she still loved cheese, and maybe she would still try to teach. But she’d had enough of the day-to-day running of the business: the payroll for her part-timers, the politics of the New York City Department of Health, the vendors, her landlord.

But when she admitted to Steven that she wasn’t planning on reopening, he had other ideas.

“I’ll help you. I’ll have so much free time. We can run it together. It can be our cheese shop.”

Leah had been shocked by the suggestion. And not in a good way. Growing up, she’d seen her parents navigate working together, and it had been fraught. “Someone has to be the boss,” her mother had once said to her.

Maybe she could discuss it with her mother next week; she and Steven would be vacationing at the vineyard where Leah had grown up.

Steven opened the register and folded in some receipts.

“Do you need help with the class tonight?” he said.

“No, thanks—I’ve got it.”

He turned to the shelves, rearranging jars that were already exactly how she wanted them. She looked away, willing herself not to ask him to stop. She loved her husband. But all of this togetherness was an adjustment.

It would get easier—she hoped.