Page 106 of Show Off

“Same.” Dean’s wife, Vanessa, picks up her eReader and thumbs through the pages. “Did anyone else kinda want to try potato peel pie?”

A ripple of laughter rolls through the room. The book makes it sound unappealing, but still. “Kinda,” I admit, shrugging when they all look at me. “I’m down for anything with potatoes.”

“Mmm, tater tots.” Amy rubs her belly. “I’m not ashamed to admit Cooper made a 9 p.m. run to the store last night to pick up some frozen ones. Has anyone else tried dipping them in maple syrup?”

Lauren pretends to gag, but Gretchen sighs with pleasure. “Yes! It’s so good. Not really much different from when your pancake syrup leaks over to your hash browns and?—”

A knock at the door cuts off the rest of her foodie fantasy. Too bad, since I felt rather invested in the story. “I’ll get it.”

I jog through the foyer, expecting Colleen or Patti with a bakery box and a sheepish smile. As I throw open the door, I see I’m right on both counts.

“Sorry we’re late.” Patti holds out a huge pink box, with a smaller, reusable tub stacked on top. “The bagels are on the bottom. Cream cheese, too. The Tupperware one is a special delivery.”

“Oh yeah?” I set down the pink box and pick up the plastic tub. “What did you make?”

“It’s not from us.” Colleen flashes a don’t-kill-the-messenger smile. “But the chef said it goes well with your book club pick.”

“The chef.” She doesn’t mean Dal, right? Of course not. But my heart starts to race as I open the box. Inside, there’s a dozen little muffin-sized somethings. Whatarethese?

“Twice-baked mini potato dauphinoise,” Patti volunteers. “Delicious, I’m told.”

“They look amaz—” My mouth stops working when I spot a small notecard. The gold foil at the edges and the logo for Serenade make it clear where this came from. I flip it over, heart stalling when I see Dal’s handwriting.

Dal’s Dauphinoise (aka I’m Sorry I Was a Dickhead Potatoes)

Made with thinly sliced Yukon golds, crème fraiche, grated Emmentaler cheese, butter, nutmeg, and love.

I swallow hard,tucking the card in my pocket. “It’s something from Serenade.” I thought it might be better not to say Dal’s name, but everyone’s watching me now. “He knew we were reading this book, so I guess he thought?—”

“Potatoes.” Lauren gives a sympathetic nod and takes the box. “Should I set these out, or put them away in the kitchen for later?”

“Set them out.” I draw a deep breath and try not to read too much into it. “I’m sure he meant them to be shared.”

Jessie shifts in her seat beside Gretchen, the sisters both watching with curiosity. “I love dauphinoise.” Jessie plucks one from the box and puts it on one of the tea plates I set out. “Someone made them for me once when I volunteered at a food resource center in Nova Scotia.”

“Yum.” Lauren shoves one in her mouth and chews, stacking the rest on the end of an empty serving tray. “Oh, wow, Lan—you’ve gotta try these.”

I pick one up and take a dainty bite. She’s not wrong. “Holy crap.” It’s still warm and gooey cheese oozes out between layers. The sprinkle of chives on top adds a zippy contrast. “This is delicious.”

Mari finishes chewing and looks at Patti. “I didn’t know Serenade did special orders.”

“They don’t,” she says, looking at me. “I’m not sure he wanted me to tell, but?—”

“Dal.” I slide the notecard from my pocket and hand it to Mari. “That’s his writing.”

“Oh.” She studies the words and flips over the card. When her eyes meet mine, there’s a glint of concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Of course. He probably made them before—” I have to swallow again, since my throat’s closing up. “Before yesterday. He knew about this book club thing.”

She looks unsure but nods anyway. “That was thoughtful.”

My sisters and friends spread the food out on platters, chatting away as they dress bagels and swoon over Dal’s potato bites. I help myself to another, annoyed to admit it’s amazing.

As conversation shifts back to the book, I do my best to pay attention. Something about book clubs and World War II. I’m only half listening. Does it mean anything that Dal wrote the card out by hand? He might’ve planned the potato dish days ago, but he wrote the card recently. Am I reading too much into it?

The doorbell rings again.

“Now what?” Lauren leans out to peer through my front window. “Oh, hey—it’s my husband.”

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