Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(73)

“I don’t care for it,” he said.

“I’ll help you, then.” Phyllis reached over and began to spear his remaining fiddleheads enthusiastically.

Zoë, who had just begun on her own salad, looked at her father with concern. “Can I get you something else, Dad? A dish of field greens?”

He shook his head, looking like an airport traveler waiting for his boarding pass number to be called.

Billie Holiday’s ebullient rendition of “I’m Gonna Lock My Heart” danced across the dining table. Soon Justine and Zoë brought out individual bowls of mussels, their abundant steam perfumed with white wine, saffron, butter, parsley. The guests picked up the dark, gleaming shells with their fingers, and used tiny forks to spear the sweet tidbits inside. Empty bowls were set on the table for the discarded shells.

“My God, Zoë,” Justine exclaimed after her first taste of the mussels. “This sauce. I could just drink it.”

A relaxed and jovial mood spread through the room, accompanied by the busy clacking of shells. It was a dish that required activity, involvement, conversation. The broth was indecently good, a savory elixir that washed exquisite, truffly sensation through his mouth. Alex was about to ask for a spoon, having decided there was no way in hell he was giving back his bowl until he’d consumed every drop. But homemade French rolls were being passed around, crisp on the outside, fine textured and chewy on the inside. The diners tore the bread with their fingers and used the pieces to sop up the rich liquid.

The discussion turned to the half-day whale-watching trip that Phyllis and James had arranged to take the next morning, and an alpaca farm that Phyllis wanted to visit.

“Have you ever treated an alpaca?” Zoë asked Phyllis.

“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 an experience.”

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.”