Page 84 of Dream Lake

“No, most of my patients are dogs, cats, and horses.” Phyllis smiled reminiscently as she added, “Once I diagnosed a guinea pig with a sinus infection.”

“What’s your weirdest case ever?” Justine asked.

Phyllis grinned. “That’s a tough one. I’ve seen a lot of weirdness. But not long ago a man and a woman brought in their dog, who’d been having stomach problems. The X-rays showed a mysterious obstruction, which I removed with an endoscopic camera. It turned out to be a pair of red lace panties, which I put in a plastic bag and gave to the woman.”

“How embarrassing,” Emma exclaimed.

“It gets worse,” Phyllis said. “The woman took one look at the panties, clocked the man with her purse, and left the office in a fury. Because the underwear didn’t belong to her. And the man was left to pay the bill for a dog who had just outed him as a cheater.”

The story was greeted with raucous laughter.

Glasses were refilled and little fingerbowls filled with water and rose petals were brought out. They rinsed their fingers and dried them on fresh napkins. A palate-cleansing sorbet was served in frosty lemons that had been hollowed into small cups, the iced puree flecked with lemon zest and mint.

When Zoë and Justine went to the kitchen for the next course, Phyllis exclaimed, “I’ve never had food like this in my life. It’s anexperience.”

James frowned. Inexplicably, he had become more dour and subdued with every passing minute. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“For goodness’ sake, James,” Emma said. “She’s right. It is an experience.”

He grumbled beneath his breath and poured more wine into his glass.

Zoë and Justine returned with plates of crisp-skinned quail, brined with salt and honey before it had been roasted in the oven. The quail was accompanied by quenelles, or small delicate dumplings, made with minced chanterelle mushrooms and a sweet, nutlike kiss of hyacinth.

Alex had eaten quail before, but not like this, enlaced with a pungent, toasted, deeply rich flavor. Conversation turned languid, faces flushed, eyes blinked slowly as repletion settled over the room. Coffee and handmade chocolate truffles were served, followed by pots-de-crème, vanilla and egg creams and honey baked in a water bath. The luscious emulsion dissolved in the mouth and slid gently down the throat, coating the taste buds in rapture.

James Hoffman alone had been silent amid the exclamations of the group. Alex couldn’t fathom what was wrong with the man. He had to be ill, there was no other possible reason why he had eaten so little.

Apparently reaching the same conclusion, Phyllis asked James in concern, “Are you okay? You hardly touched your food all through dinner.”

He looked away from her, focusing his gaze on the pot-de-crème in front of him, blotchy color appearing on his cheeks. “My dinner was inedible. It was bitter. All of it.” He stood and tossed his napkin to the table, and cast a furious, resentful glance at the stunned faces around him. His gaze settled on Zoë’s blank face. “Maybe you did something to my food,” he said. “If so, your point was made.”

“James,” Phyllis protested, blanching. “I ate from your plate, and your food was exactly like mine. Your taste buds must be off tonight.”

He shook his head and strode from the room. Phyllis hurried after him, pausing to turn back at the doorway and say sincerely to Zoë, “It was magnificent. The best meal of my life.”

Zoë managed a smile. “Thank you.”

Justine shook her head after Phyllis had gone. “Zoë, your dad is crazy. This dinner was amazing.”

“She knows it was,” Emma said, gazing at Zoë.

Zoë looked back at her with resignation. “It was the best I could do,” she said simply. “But that’s never been enough for him.” She stood from the table and gestured for them to stay in their chairs. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to put on another pot of coffee.” She left the library.

Seeing Justine begin to stand, Alex said quietly, “Let me.”

She frowned but remained seated as he headed after Zoë.

***

Alex wasn’t entirely certain what he would say to Zoë once he reached her. For the past two hours, he had watched her set plate after plate of magnificent food in front of a father who would never appreciate such offerings. He understood the situation all too well. From his own experiences, Alex knew that parental love was an ideal, not a guarantee. Some parents had nothing to give their children. And some, like James Hoffman, blamed and punished their children for things they’d had nothing to do with.

Zoë was occupied with measuring grounds into the basket of the small coffeemaker. Hearing his footsteps, she turned to face him. She looked expectant, oddly intent, as if she wanted something from him. “I wasn’t surprised,” she said. “I knew what to expect from my father.”

“Then why did you make this dinner for him?”

“It wasn’t for him.”

His eyes widened.

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