The Secret's in the Sauce
Page 1
The Secret’s
in the Sauce
The Potluck Catering Club #1
The Secret’s
in the Sauce
A Novel
Linda Evans Shepherd
and Eva Marie Everson
© 2008 by Linda Evans Shepherd and Eva Marie Everson
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Shepherd, Linda E., 1957–
The secret’s in the sauce : a novel / Linda Evans Shepherd and Eva Marie Everson.
p. cm. — (The Potluck Catering Club ; #1)
ISBN 978-0-8007-3208-0 (pbk.)
1. Womem—Societies and clubs—Fiction. 2. Caterers and catering—Fiction 3. Women cooks—Fiction. 4. Cookery—Fiction. 5. Female friendship—Fiction.
6. Colorado—Fiction. I. Everson, Eva Marie. II. Title.
PS3619.H456S43 2008
813′.6—dc22 2008012783
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
The Secret’s in the Sauce is dedicated to the faithful readers of our first Potluck Club series. Thank you for letting us know you weren’t ready to say good-bye to your favorite Potluck characters. Here they are again in our all-new Potluck Catering Club series. Just wait till you discover the secrets they’ve been keeping. Stir this serving with our love and enjoy!
Contents
1. Evangeline—Peppered Prologue
2. Donna—Wedding Punch
3. Lisa Leann—Reality Bites
4. Evangeline—Catering Dreams
5. Goldie—Chilling News
6. Lizzie—A Little Mixer
7. Goldie—Plane Pickings
8. Vonnie—Dinner Guests
9. Evangeline—Cookbook Dilemma
10. Donna—Half-Baked Valentine
11. Lisa Leann—Spicy Shocker
12. Vonnie—In a Crunch
13. Lizzie—Pressure Cooker
14. Evangeline—Honeymoon Jam
15. Donna—Takeout
16. Lisa Leann—Steamy Pair
17. Vonnie—Deviled Lunch
18. Goldie—Deep-Fried Secrets
19. Lizzie—Boiling Over
20. Donna—Poached Boyfriends
21. Evangeline—Marriage Hash
22. Lisa Leann—In a Pickle
23. Evangeline—Sweet Understandings
24. Lizzie—Teatime Buzz
25. Donna—Steak Out
26. Lisa Leann—Dicey Meeting
27. Evangeline—Savory Prayers
The Potluck Catering Club Recipes
Evangeline
1
Peppered Prologue
Saturday, March 25
Summit View, Colorado
Maybe I should begin by telling you how the Potluck Catering Club came about. Quite naturally I am the one to do the telling, too, no matter what Lisa Leann Lambert might think. She, of course, is taking all the credit for this whole thing, but the fact of the matter is the Potluck Catering Club wouldn’t even be in business this very minute had it not been for my Potluck Club.
I’m rushing ahead of myself, and I don’t mean to. So let me start with a little history. My name is Evangeline Benson Vesey—Mrs. Vernon Vesey, to be exact, having been married now for two whole months to the sheriff of Summit View, Colorado.
If anyone is qualified to tell you about Summit View, it’s me. Not only am I married to the county’s sheriff, but I am also the daughter of the late mayor of the town, the Honorable Daniel Robert Benson. This makes me something akin to royalty, not that I would ever act like it. After all, we are every one of us God’s children.
Nonetheless, people in this community treat me with the utmost respect, though I’d like to think it goes beyond who my daddy was or my husband is and straight to the kind of person I am.
I started the Potluck Club many, many years ago with my friend Ruth Ann, God rest her soul. Over the years we became a sixmember union, now made up of Vonnie Westbrook, Lizzie Prattle, Goldie Dippel, Donna Vesey (who is now my stepdaughter), and Lisa Leann Lambert, a Texas transplant who was never actually asked to join the club but rather invited herself with her delectable cinnamon rolls. As much as I was against her and just plain didn’t care for her, she has become quite the friend. In fact, when I married Vernon a few months ago, she coordinated our wedding.
Which is, in truth, how the catering business came about. And also why I say I started it . . . in my way.
Before you can really understand how the catering service came to be, it’s important to know a little more about the petite package of dynamite known as Lisa Leann Lambert. After she moved to our little town in Colorado’s high country and tried to take over my role as the president of the Potluck Club, Lisa Leann opened a charming bridal service. This was before Vernon and I got engaged, and in order to build some sort of Christlike relationship with her, I had offered to let her handle my wedding. This was a big step on my part, entrusting someone I’m not sure I trust at all with something as important as my wedding day. After all, I’m fifty-eight years old, and this would be my one and only wedding to the man I’ve loved my entire life. Or, at least since I was twelve years old. But that’s another story.
So, while it’s important to understand how the whole catering business came to be—at least to my way of thinking—it is equally as important to know that in my very humble opinion this business has as much potential for failure as it does for success. The question you might be asking—“What could go wrong?”—is more accurately expressed in my mind as “How much will go wrong?”
While I settled in as the new wife of Sheriff Vernon Vesey, a handsome, silver-haired, blue-eyed teddy bear of a man, Lisa Leann took charge. At first, I thought this was a fact I must quickly change. But like I said to Vonnie, it wouldn’t be easy.
“At least Lisa Leann can cook,” I had told her over the phone shortly after my return from my honeymoon.
“You can cook, Evangeline. You can cook just as good as the rest of us.”
“Oh, get real, Von.” I plopped down in one of my kitchen chairs as gracefully as a woman of my age can plop into a piece of brickhard furniture. “I’m a casserole kind of woman. I go for whatever is easy. If I want to take charge of this catering business, I’m going to have to expand my culinary horizons. Start watching the Food Channel and trying out those recipes in Woman’s World magazine.” I took a moment to rub my derrière, which ached a bit from its recent descent into the chair.
“But why must you take over anything, Evie? Why can’t you just be happy with being the president of the prayer group?”
“Vonnie Westbrook, how naïve can you possibly be? Don’t you know that if she’s in charge of the catering business it will only be a matter of time before she’s in charge of the club as a whole? My gosh, I can see it now, the brass nameplate at her counter: ‘Lisa Leann Lambert, President of the Potluck Club and COO of the Potluck Catering Club.’”
“Today the Potluck Club, tomorrow the world,” Vonnie said. I pictured her raising one fist into the air in a symbol of v
ictory and mock salute.
“You joke, Vonnie Westbrook, but you’ll see. You may not be far off from the truth there.”
Vonnie laughed then, laughed so loud and so hard I had to pull the phone away from my ear.
“It sounds like a job for Superman,” she said when she finally— and I do mean finally—quieted.
Or Super-Evie, I thought. Surely somewhere in my closet there’s a cape I can don. Indeed, I had a new goal in life—an assignment, so to speak. My job, should I decide to take it, would be to become the best Mrs. Vernon Vesey ever . . . and save the world from Lisa Leann Lambert and her gooey cinnamon rolls.
It was the least I could do, I decided, as president of the Potluck Club.
Well, I’ve gotten ahead of myself again. I’m good at that. I don’t mean to be confusing; it’s just that I want you to understand what’s happened in the month since my nuptials to Vernon. Then again, I suppose if you’re really to understand everything as it pertains to all of us, we’ll have to go back a bit. Back to that cold yet beautiful January day when I became more than just the Potluck Club president. I became Mrs. Vernon Vesey.
Donna
2
Wedding Punch
Evangeline’s Wedding, One Month Earlier
Now, I’m not one to get all misty eyed, but let’s just say when I saw my daddy standing at the end of the aisle, dressed in his tux, I had to blink to clear my vision. He was so handsome, so regal, as he waited for his bride. It would have been a perfect moment if it hadn’t been for the woman he was marrying.
It was no secret Evie and I had been at war for years. It started when I was in fifth grade and had inadvertently kept her from getting too friendly with Dad, the local sheriff and one of the most eligible bachelors in Summit View.
After that, I was always a target for her cutting remarks. But at least I’d had my Sunday school teacher, Vonnie Westbrook, to stand up for me.
Evie would bark, “Donna, you’re slouching, can’t you stand up straight?”
Vonnie would say, “Evangeline, why are you speaking to this child in that tone?”
Evie’d put her hands on her hips. “It’s just this child needs a mother.”
With all innocence, I’d reply, “No, ma’am, not if that mother was to be you.”
And now, all these years later, Evangeline was finally marrying my dad. Oh happy day.
So not only did the two of us have a history, though I was willing to forgive if she was willing to play nice, I had other concerns. For instance, I was concerned about Evie’s emotional stability. I tried to believe she’d merely had a case of wedding jitters, but in the past few weeks, she flittered from dating my dad then getting engaged to that hideous Bob Barnett before finally walking down the aisle with Daddy.
Talk about an emotional roller coaster.
That, and a couple of public temper tantrums, made me a bit nervous to embrace her as a close relative. But what could I say? Dad obviously loved her, and I was going to have to live with that fact.
Still, I was already missing Tuesday nights, when I’d cook Dad dinner and have him all to myself. Now, he dragged Evie along. It just wasn’t the same.
I clutched my bouquet of daisies and roses and stepped into my rehearsed glide, feeling a bit uncomfortable draped in pink satin. This froufrou look was a far cry from the tough girl image I’d so carefully crafted in my role of sheriff’s deputy.
Before I could break into a scowl, my eyes locked with the eyes of the man who raised me. His smile shifted from me to the back of the room, where Evie would soon appear.
He looked so happy. I vowed to look happy too. Besides, in recent weeks, Evangeline had seemed to soften toward me. So, I was going to try, really try, to soften toward her.
Just as I turned to join the other bridesmaids, two faces seemed to pop out of the crowded pews.
Both David Harris, fresh from Los Angeles, and Wade Gage, my old high school sweetheart, were staring at me as if I were an angel. The thought struck me so funny that I had to stifle a giggle.
Though I tried to keep my mirth under control, I caught Wade with one of his lopsided grins spreading across his face. He looked both amused and smitten, and I had to hold my breath so I wouldn’t laugh out loud. I was saved by the abrupt organ prelude to the “Bridal Chorus.”
When the music sounded, it was as if God himself had flipped a switch inside of me. My giggles stopped, and a heavy soberness engulfed me.
The crowd stood and turned as Miss Evangeline Benson, in her Grace Kelly wedding gown, floated toward the altar.
Everyone turned, except David. He was still staring moon-eyed at me. He jumped as his date shot him in the ribs with an elbow jab.
This might have struck me as funny if the jabber hadn’t been my long-lost baby sister, Velvet James. She was clad in white as if she were a bride herself. I’m no fashion expert, but I know tacky. Velvet flamed me with her eyes as she twined David’s arm into hers.
Her little performance seemed right out of grade school.
The music crescendoed, and I shifted my eyes to Evangeline. She looked lovely as she blushed under the intense gaze of my father. Sweet. And she’d better stay that way. Otherwise, my niceness might crumble and she’d have to deal with the real me, the me I saved for passing out tickets to speeding tourists.
But what was I thinking? This was her wedding day, and I’d pledged to be on my best behavior.
Later, at the dinner reception, after my duties at the head table had been fulfilled, relief swept over me. I sat in my chair, nibbling on one of Lisa Leann’s double chocolate brownies and watching how tender my dad was with Evangeline. She smiled at him, and he kissed her cheek.
I found myself smiling too. Maybe having Evie as a stepmother wouldn’t be as bad as I feared. Besides, what was joined together was joined together, and there was not a thing I could do about it.
The DJ hired to play romantic love songs suddenly blasted us with “The Macarena,” a wedding tradition still popular in the high country. I rushed to join a growing crowd of celebrants as we began to coordinate the motions to the song. Suddenly Wade was next to me. We both hopped and swung our hips as we tried to match the hand motions to the music. I at least had the moves down, but Wade’s elbows were flailing at all the wrong angles. I had to stop just so I could double over in laughter.
He laughed too, then took my hand and pulled me into a standing position before kissing me on top of my head. I felt as though I were in a trance as he led me down a hallway and into an empty room, the church nursery. He pulled me into a corner, next to an empty crib.
I felt my heart pound. I wanted to run, but all I could do was stand as if my feet had been super-glued to the gray plaid linoleum.
He took my hands in his, and I held my breath, uncertain what he would say or how I would respond.
His blue eyes were intense under a wisp of blond hair that had slipped off his forehead. “Today, as I watched you, Donna, I couldn’t believe how beautiful you’ve become.”
I tried to laugh off his tenderness. “Yeah, just like I was eighteen again.” I hesitated as the warmth of the moment bled into my voice. “Like we were both eighteen again.”
He caught my chin in his rough, work-worn hand. “It’s like fourteen years of my life have turned to dust. My feelings for you are still alive. They’re deeper than ever.”
It was too late to escape. I felt hot, then cold, then fear, then peace as he closed his eyes and leaned in for a kiss. As our lips touched, I discovered how hungry I was to kiss him back. His arms encircled me, and my knees felt weak as I became lost in his breath, his scent, his touch, his—
A shrill voice rang out, “Wade, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
Startled, Wade let go and stood ramrod straight before turning to face the doorway.
“Mom!”
And there, silhouetted in shadow, stood the littlest, biggest reason why any girl should run away from Wade Gage: one Mrs. Fay Gage.
&nb
sp; Mrs. Gage was wearing a lavender knit dress with a matching crocheted sweater studded with shiny black beads. Her graying curls were gently brushed into a rounded orb of hair, carefully sprayed so stiff that no breeze would dare interfere. Her naturally wrinkled face was crafted into a scowl that reminded me of the movie poster for the latest horror flick playing down at the theater.
One hand was on her rather wide hip and the other wagged an index finger through the air. “Wade, did you forget you drove your sister and me to the wedding?” She shot me a glare and nodded. “Donna. Can’t say that it’s nice to see you.”
I tried to wipe the evidence of the kiss from my lips, as if I could. “Same here.”
She stared at me without blinking as she spoke to her son. “Wade, why don’t you go and meet us at the front door of the fellowship hall. I’m ready to go home now.”
Wade stepped away from me, a move I noticed and noted. “Yes, Mom.”
He nodded at me, as his mother had. “Donna.”
Then he was gone.
Mrs. Gage took two steps toward me and folded her arms across her middle. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Excuse me?”
“What do you think you are doing with my son?”
“Well, I . . .”
She put both hands on her hips. “I will not have you interfering with Wade again. Do you know what my family has been through because of you?”
I tried to tighten the satin shrug that covered my shoulders. “But . . .”
“We just got Wade cleaned up, dear. He’s sober now. I’ll not have you messing him up again. Is that clear?”
Suddenly Kat Cage Martin, Wade’s sister, appeared at the door. She was a tall, dark-headed woman, with chin-length hair. She was dressed in deep purple with a fuchsia scarf tied around her neck. She was in her early thirties and about sixty pounds overweight with sort of a linebacker look. I wasn’t so sure, even with my years of police training, if I could wrestle her down in a dark alley. Hopefully I wouldn’t have to. “Is everything all right, Mom? Wade said he’s bringing the truck around.”