Racing Hearts and Family Loyalty: A Literary Excerpt

We like little more than celebrating the work of the amazing writers who help make Fathom what it is. Time to shine the spotlight on Kristin Vuković for her wonderful new novel The Cheesemaker’s Daughter, inspired by her travels to the island of Pag in Croatia. It’s a transformative story — filled with food, wine, truffles, and cheese — about a woman who returns to her Croatian island home to help her father with his struggling business. We like publisher Simon & Schuster's description: "When Marina’s father summons her to their Croatian island from New York — and away from her evaporating marriage — to help him save his failing cheese factory, she must face her rocky past and an uncertain future." With proud family roots from Karlovac, Kristin has written about Croatia for more than a decade. Her Fathom essay, “Chasing the Vines Through Dalmatia,” won a Golden Pen Award in 2017 (we’re so proud!), and her Hemispheres Magazine article, “Memories on the Adriatic,” won a Golden Pen in 2024. Here's a taste of the captivating characters and vivid landscape that await in the pages: 

They reached Motovun by dusk. Marina navigated the Yugo up the twisting road that led to the medieval town. Perched at the top of the hill, Motovun sprawled out like a giant serpent, its red-tile rooftops lightly dusted with snow and glittering in the fading light like frosted scales. She parked in front of an old winery converted into a bed and breakfast, and they entered through the arched stone doorway. Checking into a lonely hotel in the dead of winter seemed like a certain kind of punishment.

“Maržić,” Marina said, trying to hold herself back from sighing. She was suddenly so tired she felt like falling asleep right there on the floor.

“Just one room?” the receptionist asked, glancing at her and her father.

“There is only one reservation, but my father has also come, so he needs a room too. We assumed you’d have space at this time of year,” Marina said.

The receptionist scanned the ledger, as if a delegation was scheduled to arrive.

“Is it a problem?” Nikola said, with a shade of annoyance.

“We have room,” the receptionist said, handing him a key. “Second floor.”

“Third floor, for you,” the woman said, handing her another heavy key that looked like it could open a lock the size of a grown sheep’s head.

Marina regarded the steep stone steps. At least her room was on the top floor, and she wouldn’t have anyone walking above her head. “Good night, Tata,” Marina said, picking up her suitcase.

“See you tomorrow morning, early,” her father said. “Sleep well.”

Marina ascended the stairs, grasping the olive-wood handrail for balance. Her eyes adjusted to the dim hallway light.

“Marina?” Luka stood in front of a door marked thirty-four, ready to turn the key.

She looked at her key: thirty-three. Her stomach dropped.

A familiar sensation washed over her body, hairs standing on end. Her fingers loosened on the key, almost slipping from her grasp.

“Luka,” she whispered, with as steady a voice as she could muster. She wanted to run to him, and away from him.

“I thought you might be staying here,” he said, taking a step towards her. “There aren’t many places in town open this time of year.”

“I thought I’d maybe see you tomorrow, at the festival,” Marina said. How was it possible that she had simultaneously dreaded and looked forward to seeing him?

He shifted his weight. “I thought about calling. I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said, his voice hushed.

“You’re married, Luka,” Marina said. “You have a daughter. And our families…” Her breath caught short. “Where is your father?” Marina hoped Nikola wouldn’t hear their voices carry down the stairwell.

“The Cheese Pavilion. He probably decided to stay the night in Rijeka, sleep it off.”

“We were there, too, earlier. We must have just missed you,” Marina said. They were always just missing each other. She crossed her arms. She wanted to protect her heart.

“Look, I didn’t expect you to turn up in my life again,” Luka said.

“It was a long time ago. Let’s just move on,” Marina said. She surprised herself by the bitterness in her voice.

“We could talk about what happened, or what didn’t happen—what could have happened,” he said.

Marina stared at him. “‘What could have happened,’ Luka? What’s the point of talking about that?”

She felt the blood rise up in her. He had a way of getting underneath her skin. But when she looked at him, anger transformed to lust in a flurry of emotion. Her father’s words echoed in her ears: We never know which day will be our last. What if this were her last day? What would she regret? A flicker of desire crossed Luka’s eyes like a passing cloud. She wanted to disappear into him.

His lips were sweet and tasted of rakija. He smelled of smoke from the Dairy Pavilion, and she breathed him in, pressed herself against him. She felt his body respond and the key dropped on the hard stone. The rattle startled both of them, but she didn’t open her eyes, didn’t want to see, only to feel, to drink in his skin and smoke and rakija like a beast.

He pulled away, bewildered. She brought her hand to her lips.

“Not here,” he said.

“I can’t believe I did that,” she said incredulously.

“I want to, but — we know too many people. It’s a small town,” he said.

“We can’t,” Marina said, stepping further away as her Catholic guilt washed over her. “I’m sure I’ll regret this in the morning.”

“I won’t,” Luka said.

They stood in the hallway, staring at each other for what seemed like eternity. Her legs wouldn’t move. A cleaning lady rounded the corner and Marina quickly retreated into her room, shutting the door and standing with her back pressed against it. Her heartbeats wouldn’t slow. She was so beautifully, brilliantly alive.

Marina parted the curtain; a view of the valley was emerging into focus in the soft dawn. A thin blanket of snow covered the landscape, barren trees and shrubs poking up from the ground. Overcome by fatigue, she crawled back into bed and let the stiff sheets envelop her body.

She’d been up most of the night thinking about Luka. She mulled over his words: What could have happened, a long time ago. When her father had sent her West, their paths diverged, and they’d created new lives. They had both changed. But she loved him; she always would. She wanted to exist in this bubble a little longer, feeling so completely understood, but she knew it couldn’t last.

The bedside alarm startled her. She looked at the red digital numbers: 6:30 a.m. She had never been a morning person. Life molds us into a shape we no longer recognize, and we forget what we were, the original blueprint buried deep within us under layers and layers of other people’s expectations.

In the mirror, under bright and unforgiving fluorescent lighting, she noticed wrinkles she hadn’t mapped before. Her skin appeared sallow; she’d lost some weight in recent months, and her face was thinner. She wondered if people noticed. Not much escaped local gossip: who was pregnant, who had gained weight, who was having money trouble. She splashed some cold water on her skin and turned on the shower.

Getting ready took longer these days: applying eyeliner to make herself look more awake; under-eye concealer to hide the dark circles that never seemed to fade, even with a good night’s sleep; blush to her cheeks to enliven pale winter skin. She remembered walking into a Rite Aid in Astoria soon after she had arrived in the US, overwhelmed by aisles upon aisles of cosmetics. She had been struck by the number of choices she could make, and spent three hours choosing a lipstick. Peach Carnation, Peach Tango, Peach Please, Just Peachy. She counted more than thirty shades of peach.

When she decided she was presentable enough to face the day, she slid on a pair of black pants and a black sweater. Fumbling with the mammoth key, Marina closed the door behind her, and headed down the stairs to the restaurant. Meat and cheese platters were laid out alongside various sweet and savory breads. Nikola was sitting alone reading the paper, a cigarette perched on a saucer.

“Morning, Mala,” her father said, glancing up over his glasses. “How did you sleep?”

Marina stifled a yawn. “Fine, you?”

“I only sleep well in my own bed. You know how I hate to travel,” he said.

“I thought you liked it. You always did so much of it for Sirana. I remember the gifts you used to bring us.”

“You do what you have to do, Marina,” Nikola said, taking a sip of his coffee. “Anyway, there was nothing to complain about. I had a good job, our family had enough to eat. But the road does wear on you.”

Marina flagged the waiter. “The same,” she said, pointing at her father’s cup. The waiter returned with a white coffee.

“Something different this morning, ej?” Nikola said, studying her.

Marina didn’t know if her father was referring to her coffee order or her appearance.

Nikola’s eyes focused behind her. She turned around and saw Luka. She felt a surge of warmth rise to her cheeks.

“Jutro,” Luka said, with a touch of formality. He took a seat a couple of tables away from them.

Luka wore a fine blue coat, his white collared shirt crisply pressed. Nikola nodded in Luka’s direction, smoothed his moustache, and went back to reading the paper. Marina wondered if her father was waiting for Josip to show up. Through the window, the naked trees appeared ghostly, suspended in a straining posture. Marina tried not to think of Luka sitting behind her, or the taste of rakija that lingered like last night’s memory on her lips.

Nikola limped up Motovun’s steep hill carrying a box of Sirana’s cheese. Marina followed him with a stack of brochures, stepping carefully on the balls of her feet to avoid her heels getting stuck between cobblestones. Above them, the arched stone gate brought momentary shade from the weak December sun, which fought to be seen from behind the ceiling of clouds. Snow disintegrated under their footsteps, leaving the cobblestones shiny and slick.

The thick, earthy scent of truffles greeted her. It was early, hours before the fair was scheduled to begin, but vendors had already started to arrange their goods along the long wooden tables: jars of sliced white truffles in Istrian olive oil, minced black truffles, truffles in a paste the color of canned tuna. Whole truffles in glass cases were handled with white gloves and protected like precious jewels.

It was Josip’s idea to make truffle cheese. Nikola had heard about it from one of Sirana’s shepherds, whose wife’s cousin worked at Janković. Everyone had been ordered to go home for the day, and all the workers were overjoyed. The wife’s cousin, who’d dropped off his share of sheep’s milk outside the factory in the refrigerated tank, discovered a strange odor coming from the Janković production room. Someone had left the door ajar, so he poked his head in and saw Josip himself cutting a bin of black lumps with a large knife, and the cousin had told the shepherd’s wife, who told the shepherd, who then told Nikola, and it was in this way that rumors on Pag flew sideways and fast like rain caught in a strong bura wind.

When Nikola found out, he swore aloud and cursed Josip, who was once again ahead of him. The idea to create a Pag cheese made with truffles was innovative, combining two of Croatia’s finest products. Marina knew her father felt he should have thought of it first. Like her father, she was hard on herself.

Nikola was on his third cigarette of the morning; it was an unusually stressful day already.

“Can I have one please, Tata?” Marina asked, surprising herself.

Nikola raised his eyebrow. “You don’t smoke.”

“Only occasionally,” she said.

He opened his dented tin box and rolled her a fresh cigarette, then lit the tip.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been here,” Nikola sighed.

Marina’s eyes traveled over the stone wall and down Motovun’s steep hill to the forest and fields below. On the drive up, Nikola had told her the last time he had been to Motovun was with Dragana, when their country was called Yugoslavia. Her parents had escaped for a romantic weekend in the height of a sweltering summer while Marina and Franko stayed with Grandma Badurina, who let them steal sweets from her pantry. Upon their return, Marina remembered her father describing the forest awash in emerald shades and farms plowed into neat herringbones, a veritable sea of green.

Before the war, weekends took her parents farther afield, not just to their cabin in the Lika forest that had been in Nikola’s family since anyone could remember. Back then, there had been money to do such things. Now, kunas deducted from their diminishing paychecks all seemed to go to taxes or to the country’s supermarket chain, Konzum, for expensive imported staple groceries and other goods. Marina was surprised how quickly her paycheck disappeared each month, after expenses were paid. If she didn’t live with her parents, it would barely be enough to survive. Maybe her father was right. Maybe Yugoslavia had been better for everyone.

After the war, after Josip left, Sirana had been on a steady decline. Nikola stretched the money to cover salaries, often sacrificing his own. She knew he tried not to pay the workers late, even when money from vendors was delayed, and sometimes he paid them in trade, a bottle of homemade rakija or two, or some cheese, to make up for the missing kunas. Most workers didn’t complain; to those who did, he told them it was the same as other jobs in Croatia which paid partial, late, or not enough. Yugoslavia used to take care of its people, and her father saw it as his duty to take care of his workers now that the country no longer did.

She heard a voice booming behind them. “We had a deal,” the voice said.

Marina turned around and saw the back of Josip’s looming figure.

“Low yield drives up the price,” the vendor said, carefully placing his truffles for display on starched white cloths.

“Take your dogs out to hunt truffles at night!” Josip sputtered. “I have orders to fill. I need five kilos at the price you gave me before.”

“I’ll talk with the others. Maybe we can get you half at the original price, if together we have enough.”

Josip slammed his giant hands on the table. “Five.”

“Impossible,” the vendor said. “We also had to ship some to Alba.”

Josip spat on the stones. “Italians.”

The vendor shrugged. “Truffles command a higher price in Italy.”

“I’m sure they paid you handsomely.”

“No one owns the forest,” the vendor said, wiping his hands on his apron. “And no one can predict her bounty.”

“I can predict what will happen if I don’t get my five kilos,” Josip said.

Marina watched as a wave of fear passed over the vendor’s face. The man hadn’t mentioned truffle poachers, who illegally took their dogs into the Istrian forests at night on land reserved for professional truffle hunters who had purchased permits. But he had mentioned the black market — those clever Italians who passed off Croatian truffles as Italian, because Croatian truffles were cheaper and tartufo d’Alba apparently had a better ring to it than Istarski tartufi. The soil composition and quality were so similar no one could tell the difference between them without lab testing. Italy’s brand was well-known, a brand that Americans loved.

Marina found it funny that truffles that came from one side of a border were deemed more valuable, even though the fungi were essentially identical. It mattered where a truffle — or a person — came from.

“Since you’re using them for cheese, I can maybe get you some damaged truffles,” the vendor said. “Dogs sometimes get greedy and take a bite.”

“Five kilos,” Josip said, holding up his hand for emphasis and leaning in close to the man’s face. “I don’t care how you get them. And don’t you be greedy like the dogs.”

Josip turned around and faced Nikola, who stood just a few meters away from him. Her father appeared dwarfed in Josip’s presence. Marina recalled Josip’s piercing blue eyes from his days at Sirana, a color matching Luka’s. As a girl, she imagined streams of lasers shooting out of his eyes, killing anyone unlucky enough to find themselves in his path.

Nikola stubbed out the butt on the ancient wall behind him. Unbeknownst to Josip, her father had been buying his own share of truffles for Sirana’s batch of truffle cheese, for which Nikola had dug into their family savings to make the purchase; the money was slowly diminishing as he supplemented Sirana’s growing costs, including their new specialty cheese. Marina felt guilty that she couldn’t contribute, but she had little savings of her own.

Nikola told Marina not to worry. Uncle Horvat still had political connections in Zagreb, those who had survived the transition from socialism to capitalism. Some of them were the same men who helped her father get her out of the country near the end of the war. These men had a piece of most businesses, which made them wealthy and powerful. They could, for instance, call up truffle hunters in Istria and tell them to reserve a certain amount of truffles for Sirana. These men didn’t have a stake in Janković. Given their investments in other businesses with Uncle Horvat, who co-owned Sirana, they would be pleased if Sirana succeeded.

Josip’s icy blue eyes narrowed when they fell upon Nikola. The two men stared at each other from across the cobblestones. “I suppose you heard that,” Josip said, coming over to their table.

“I’d already heard,” Nikola said, smoothing his mustache.

Josip grimaced and folded his arms against his broad chest. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Who told you?”

“You know, island rumors.”

“How fast they travel,” Josip said, glancing at Marina. He smirked.

Marina froze. Had the cleaning lady seen the kiss and gossiped? Or was Josip alluding to her separation from Marko?

“Good luck with your next truffle order,” Nikola spat.

Luka entered through the archway. As he approached, Marina thought he looked tired. Nikola glared at Luka’s tall, handsome figure, a carbon image of his father.

“Hello, Marina,” he said with a touch of formality, nodding to her.

Marina nodded back in acknowledgement but didn’t meet his gaze. Her heart fluttered. She cleared her throat.

“Marina, come,” Nikola said, stubbing out his cigarette. “Let’s get to work.”

Don't Stop There. Read the Whole Book.

Buy The Cheesemaker's Daughter from an independent bookseller through bookshop.org or on amazon.com.

Excerpted with permission from the author and Simon &Schuster. Copyright © 2024.


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