Chapter 15
CONFESSIONAL 1204.5
Judson, Lana (Public Relations Director: Juniper Ridge)
My father had affairs.
I don’t think that’s news to anyone, right?
The last one I know of, I was twenty-two, maybe twenty-three. Something like that. Mom pulled me aside, a little tipsy one night because a tabloid wrote something shitty about our family.
“Lana,” she said. “Always remember you don’t need a man. They’re sometimes more trouble than they’re worth. Know you can stand on your own two feet without some guy propping you up.”
She’s right, you know.
Doesn’t make it easier when you miss one specific man…
* * *
“The food should be here any minute.” I glance at my watch, surprised I haven’t heard from Patti or Colleen. It’s almost time for book club to start. “I ordered treats from the café.”
“Relax, Lana Banana.” Lauren flops back on my sofa, slinging her feet on the table. “What are we having?”
“Nothing fancy.” I step to my bar cart and start pouring mimosas. The booze-free kind, since half my guests are either knocked up or trying to be. “Some bagels and muffins, plus a fruit tray.”
“Yum.” Amy takes a drink, then settles on the sofa by Lauren. She winces and rests a hand on her pregnant belly. “Did everyone read the book?”
Nods all around make me glad for my book pick. I thought for sure we’d have one or two stragglers who didn’t bother reading, but maybe they felt sorry for me.
It’s been twenty-four hours since my big fight with Dal, and I haven’t heard a peep from him. Not that I’m dying to forgive and forget. As far as I know, he still thinks he did the right thing.
In my book, that’s not okay.
“Should we start?” I pick up a mocktail and settle on the edge of a wingback upholstered in magenta and yellow paisley.
Jessie Laslo—or I guess it’s Jessie Laslo-Carver now? She’s Gretchen’s sister, also Patti and Colleen’s daughter-in-law. “I love the title.” She smiles a little sheepishly. “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society has such a unique ring to it. I read it on my last overseas trip, and I must’ve had half a dozen people approach me in airports to ask if I liked it.”
“I loved it.” That’s Gabe’s wife, Gretchen. “I really enjoyed all the different voices in the story. Getting the pieces from different angles, you know?”
“Oh, I liked that, too.” Mari shifts Sawyer in her arms, patting his little back. “Sorry, he’s fussy today.”
Gretchen gives a knowing look. “Taylor got like that right before a growth spurt. Took me forever to figure out he was hungry, even though he’d just eaten.”
Mari frowns down at her son. “I nursed him before we came, but I could give it a shot.”
“Just whip it out, Mar.” Lauren pokes her gently in the boob. “Not like we haven’t seen tits before.”
Mari looks around. “Where’d I put the diaper bag?”
I spot it by the door and hustle to grab it, weaving deftly through the legs of my sisters and friends. Scooping it up, I return to her side and deposit the bag at her feet. “Need me to find something?”
“I’ve got it.” She shifts Sawyer to her other arm. “God, I need to organize this.”
She digs through the bag, pulling out diapers and wipes and nursing pads. My chest twists, recalling the story my mother told. What was she like as a new mom? I hardly remember. She was always just there, or often she wasn’t. Here comes Mommy, swooping in for a family day at the zoo before flying off to shoot her next film.
But she obviously fed us, from her own body at that. I never knew until she shared the nursing pad story. It’s not like we talked about breastfeeding. Maybe she covered it with Mari or Gabe, the first of my siblings to spawn.
Or maybe I could have asked. Sometimes, we don’t think to ask our own parents questions until it’s too late. What would Dal ask his mom if he could? Surely there’s wisdom he’d want from his dad, if only?—
“What do you think, Lana?”
“What?” I blink myself back to Amy’s question. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”
“Just curious how you liked reading a novel comprised entirely of letters exchanged between the characters.”
“Oh. Yes.” I did like that part of the book. “I found it really intimate. A super-unique form of storytelling.”
“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. What are these?
“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.”
She bounds to the door looking light and in love and so happy my heart melts. I love how my sisters adore their partners. How perfectly matched they all are.
I thought maybe I’d found that, too.
Nick’s booming voice fills the foyer as he gives Lauren a box and a kiss. “Don’t kill the messenger,” he says, looking at me over Lauren’s shoulder. “My man Dal asked me to bring this by. Guess it’s for your book club?”
“Thank you.” I make my way to the door, taking the box from his hands. It feels warm to the touch. As I pull back the lid, another notecard falls to the floor.
Lauren scoops it up, squinting at words I see written plainly in Dal’s hand. “What the fuck is Kartoffelkn?del?”
I snatch the card as Patty pipes up from the couch. “It’s a German potato dumpling.”
Colleen smiles at the shared memory. “We ate those nonstop when we were there studying Eurasian otters.”
“That’s right.” Patti clears space on the serving tray as I clutch the notecard in a trembling hand. I barely notice Lauren plucking the box from my hand.
I glance at the card, at Dal’s words written there.
Dal’s Kiss-and-Make-Up Kartoffelkn?del
Made with hope, remorse, russet potatoes, egg, butter, parsley, chives…
And a bunchof other things I can’t read through tears filling my eyes. I blink them back to read the rest.
I know this doesn’t make up for what I did. But I hope you enjoy them, nonetheless.
It’s sucha Dal turn of phrase that I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. I settle for shoving a Kartoffelkn?del in my mouth.
“Hot,” I huff, fanning my mouth.
Mari eyes me warily. “But good?”
“So good.” I swallow it down and pick up my drink, taking a sip of mimosa. “The more potato, the merrier.”
Lauren turns from saying goodbye to her husband. “Was that in the book?”
“Maybe it should have been.” I carry the Kartoffelkn?del to the table as Gretchen scoots aside what’s left of the dauphinoise to make room.
Jessie grabs one of each and piles them on a plate. “We’re going with a potato theme here?”
“Looks like it.” I bite into a dumpling, then stifle a groan. It’s amazing, of course. All buttery warmth on the inside, salty crunch on the outside. They’re crispy and light and so perfect I eat two more without pausing for breath. “That was nice of him.”
“You okay, hon?” Mari watches me with concern.
“Just burned my tongue.” Not untrue, but also not the reason for the tears making my eyes sting. “I’m okay.”
It’s a nice gesture and shows Dal paid attention when I told him what book we’d read. But it’ll take more than potatoes to forgive what Dal pulled yesterday.
“You and your potatoes.” Lauren wraps an arm around me, leaning in for another Kartoffelkn?del. “Damn,” she says as she bites into one. “I forgive my husband for getting in the middle of this.”
Mari watches us warily. “Is this the whole plan?” She shifts Baby Sawyer in her arms. “Just—keep sending potatoes until you forgive him?”
It seems lame when she puts it that way. I start to respond, but Lauren cuts me off.
“To be fair,” she says, “Nick’s big grovel involved worm-filled apples, a misspelled tattoo, and lighting a stuffed bear on fire.”
Jessie laughs. “I was dressed as a bear when Joe showed up to sweet-talk me into giving us a shot.”
Gretchen gives her a thoughtful look. “Gabe bought this place as his grovel.” She glances at me and my sisters. “With the rest of you guys, obviously.”
I’ve heard all these stories and got to be present for some. It’s never been me on the receiving end of a grand gesture, so I’m not sure how to feel.
“Lana.” Mari touches my knee. “We’ll stand by you no matter what.”
“Of course.” Lauren squeezes my hand. “Men can be dumbshits, and we can forgive them. That doesn’t mean we’re obligated to do it.”
I pluck the last dauphinoise off the plate, biting a buttery edge off. “Women can be dumbshits, too.” I savor the slide of cheese over my tongue, wondering if I should text Dal. To say thank you, at least. “Bad behavior isn’t the sole domain of dudes.”
There’s a murmur of agreement, followed by more munching. The muffins and bagels get gobbled up slowly, but the potatoes disappear fast. My belly feels warm and full. My heart? That’s another story.
What if Dal had a point? His execution sucked, no doubt. But did I do anybody any favors by holding my secret so long?
I’m still not sure.
We’ve just gotten back to our book talk when the doorbell rings.
“Let me guess.” Amy leans back on the sofa, trying for a glimpse out the window. “My husband this time?”
“Probably a good bet.” I know Cooper loves Dal, though I’m a little surprised he’d get involved. He’s fiercely loyal to me, and if he knows I’m still angry at Dal—well. It’s fine. Especially if he’s bringing more potatoes. I pull open the door, then freeze.
“Dal.” My mouth falls open. He’s wearing the charcoal trousers I like, plus his chef’s coat. Sorta. “I think you missed a button or two.” Or all of them, since the garment gapes wide, revealing his tawny bare chest.
A ripple of abs rolls down his torso, disappearing down into dark trousers.
Someone behind me gives a hum of approval, but I don’t turn to see who it is.
Dal straightens his chef’s coat and meets my eye. “A woman I love once told me I should never wear a shirt.”
I gulp back the throat lump that isn’t potato. “She sounds like a very wise woman.” I don’t smile when I say it, since I’m feeling more guarded than jokey. “Is that for me?”
He looks at the box in his arms and nods. Handing it over, he sets down a tote at my feet. Inside it, I spy three boxes of Nutter Butters and two cans of whipped cream.
“There’s tater tots in the box,” he says almost sheepishly. “The gourmet kind you like with lemon pepper and truffle aioli for dipping.” He nods to a second box, tucked inside the first. “Also some gamja jorim—a Korean potato dish with sesame and onion and?—”
“Thank you.” I glance at the girls behind me, not sure what to do.
Gretchen comes to my rescue. “Don’t mind me.” She swoops in quick to grab the potatoes and the tote. “I’ll just take those off your hands.”
“Thanks.” Drawing a breath, I turn back to Dal. “That was very thoughtful.”
“Lana.” He swallows hard, glancing at the group behind me. “I debated doing this in private, but since I embarrassed you in front of an audience, it seemed fitting to apologize with one.”
“Okay.” Wow, this is happening. My first grand gesture from a guy. “Go ahead.”
He slips a hand in his chef’s coat and comes up with an envelope. He’s doing this in writing?
“Here.” He looks a bit nervous as I take it from his hand. “That’s also for you.”
There’s a notecard inside and I pull it out slowly. “Should I read this now?”
One shoulder lifts in a sheepish shrug. “Yeah, probably. It seems corny now.”
“Corny’s good.” I open the note and start reading the words. “Not as much as potatoey, but—oh, wow.” I study the note as tears fill my eyes. “It’s a checkbox note.”
In Dal’s careful script, it says eight simple words:
Please forgive me? Check one:
[] Yes
[] No
[] Maybe
There’s a square by each,which I barely see through tears.
“I meant to put a pen in the bag, but I forgot.”
“Because you had your hands full making gamja jorim and tater tots?”
“And Kartoffelkn?del,” Lauren shouts from the sofa.
“And dauphinoise,” Gretchen calls with a mouth full of something.
Ignoring them both, I turn back to Dal. “This is sweet. But?—”
“Lana, I screwed up.” His shoulders shake as he takes a breath. “That’s what I wanted to say. No excuses, no justifications. I fucked up big-time, and I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” Clutching the note, I hold his dark gaze. “That means a lot.”
But Dal’s not done. Dragging a hand through his hair, he keeps going. “Look, I’m a guy who makes mistakes, but I like to think I can learn from them. I betrayed your trust and embarrassed you, and none of that’s okay. I hope you know I’d never hurt you on purpose. You mean more to me than anyone else on earth, and it kills me how badly I fucked this up.”
My heart starts to thaw as my hand with the note trembles. “I’m okay.” It’s mostly true, but I’m still all achy inside. “I know you meant well.”
“That’s no excuse,” he says. “I thought I was making some big point, but I wasn’t. I was just an asshole. Also, I’ve just come from a visit to your parents.”
“My parents?” I must look alarmed because Dal jumps in quickly.
“There wasn’t any bloodshed. And I didn’t ask for your hand in marriage or anything patronizing like that.” He frowns. “I mean, if that’s important to you, I’ll do it gladly. But it seemed like a better move to speak with you first.”
“You think?” Christ, this is weird. “Did my mother slam the door in your face?”
“She invited me in for tea.” One edge of his mouth twitches. “Yeah. Shocked the hell out of me, too.”
Tea? “Was it poisoned?”
“Not that I know of.” He lifts one shoulder meekly. “I might’ve been careful to sip slowly.”
We’re getting off track here. “What did you say to my parents?”
“I apologized deeply for what I did,” he says. “I acknowledged it wasn’t my story to share, and that I’d do whatever they asked if they thought it could make a difference. If there’s any need for damage control.”
I see from his eyes he’s sincere. If my mother told him to do a parade of positive PR, he’d be at the front of a float by tomorrow. “What did my mother say?”
“She’s still really upset,” he says slowly. “Which I don’t blame her for at all. But she also said it made her realize someone should have been standing up for you all along. That she was wrong for putting you in that position.” One edge of his mouth quirks. “That maybe an assertive guy isn’t so bad if he’s asserting himself for her kid.”
“Wow, I—” I’m not quite sure what to say.
But Dal’s not done. “She actually apologized.” He sounds like he can’t quite believe it. “To me. She said regardless of whether you can forgive me—and she made it clear you might not—that she was wrong to imply I’d abused you. That she knows I’d never hurt you.”
I know that, too. Not that way, anyhow. “You did hurt me, though.” I say it softly, not ready to let go. “Not in an abusive way, but it still stung.”
“I know, and I’m so fucking sorry.” He drags his fingers through his hair. “If I could go back and do it all again, I’d sit there on that stage and smile. I’d keep my mouth shut and let you do the talking because, Lana, you’re so goddamn good at your job. At protecting people’s feelings. It’s a gift and a talent and the thing I love best about you.”
He’s not doing so bad with this apology. “Thank you.” I still can’t believe he talked to my parents. “Was my father there?”
“Yeah.” He looks down at his hands, then back up to me. “I apologized to him as well. He gave me this look that reminded me so much of my own dad that I—what?”
“I know that look.” It’s my father’s signature expression. “Like he’s halfway between hugging you and shaking you, but you’re not quite sure which?”
“Exactly.” He rubs both palms down the legs of his pants. “Anyway, he let me apologize and said he understood what it felt like to screw up. Which I know doesn’t make what I did any better.”
“At least you’re in good company.” I consider the stories of the women behind me. All of them know what it’s like to stand at the crossroads of anger and forgiveness. To make the choice that works for them.
Can I forgive Dal?
“I’m not sure I know how to trust you again,” I admit softly.
Dal doesn’t flinch. “I don’t blame you one bit. And I won’t say something trite like, ‘please give me another chance,’ or ‘I swear you can trust me this time,’ even though I mean those things.” He tucks both hands in his pockets, then takes them out again, fidgeting with the folds of his chef’s coat. “Trust should be earned. So should second chances.”
Tears prick my eyes as I take him in. His perfect cheekbones and warm, dark eyes. Hands built for slicing and chopping and a few things outside the kitchen. His perfect, sculpted chest.
I frown as my eyes fix on his tattoo. Something’s…different.
“Wait.” I lift a hand to trace one chili and he flinches. “I’m sorry.” I snap my hand back. “Did you add to your ink?”
“Yeah.” He glances down, sheepish. “There’s some new stuff.”
My eyes scan the ink, the series of tick marks I know as Korean characters. “What does it say?”
“Chinjeol,” he says softly, his voice warm and gentle. “Kindness.”
“Oh.” My fingers curl into my palm, tingling where they touched him.
“I wanted a reminder that when I’m faced with a choice of being candid or being kind, I can never go wrong being kind.”
“I love that,” I whisper, tears pricking my eyes. “That doesn’t mean I want you to lie. Everyone needs someone in their life to tell them the truth.”
“But not when it does more harm than good.”
I shrug and consider, not willing to see things in black and white. “It depends. If I come to you and say, ‘Dal, does this skirt make me look like a Tootsie Roll?’ I don’t mind if you steer me to something more flattering.”
One edge of his mouth quirks. “What if I like seeing you as a Tootsie Roll?”
“They’re very delicious.” I’m getting distracted again. “My point is that you don’t need to lie to make me feel better. I count on you to be honest with me. Sometimes, you might be the only one who can be.”
“I hear you,” he says, nodding. “But I can be thoughtful about it. I can pause and ask myself, ‘Dal, will this make you feel better, or Lana?’ The answer should always be you.”
My throat pinches tight, and I’m feeling my eyes sting again. “And my answer is you.” The words croak out before I think them through, but they feel right. “I choose you.”
“Really?” Light fills his eyes as he searches mine. “Does this mean you’ll give me a shot?”
I nod to a smattering of applause behind me. “Yes. I believe in second chances.”
“God, I love you.” His hands slide around me as he pulls me against his chest. “I’m so sorry I swooped in like some know-it-all asshole, when the truth is that there’s just one thing I know for sure.”
“What’s that?” I whisper, burrowing into his chest.
“That I’m nothing without you.” He kisses the top of my head. “You’re the kindest, most big-hearted human I know. There’s no sunshine in my life without you.”
“Dal.” I squeeze him tight and then draw back. “You’re not just saying that so you can stop bringing me potato dishes?”
He laughs and leans in to kiss me. “You can have all the potatoes you want.” His lips touch mine, tender and sweet, as my palms cup his shoulder blades. “Mashed potatoes,” he says, and kisses me again. “Patatas bravas.” Another kiss, this one deeper than the last. “Chili oil smashed potatoes. Truffle fries. Potato croquettes.” More kisses, softer this time, with a graze of his tongue that sends shivers down my spine. “I even know how to make potato candy.”
“You’re kidding.” Pretty sure he’s messing with me. “What’s in it?”
“Instant mashed potatoes, vanilla extract, confectioners’ sugar, peanut butter?—”
“Wait, hold on.” My hands slide down his back to cup his ass. “How did I not know this was a thing?”
“Stick with me, and I’ll make sure you never run out of potatoes or peanut butter.”
That sounds like the start of some pretty good marriage vows, but I’m getting ahead of myself. “Deal,” I say, squeezing his ass. “Do you want to join us for book club?”
He glances behind me as Lauren calls out a reply.
“Come enjoy potatoes and pastries,” she shouts, and I laugh. “And a book that has a mostly happy ending.”
Dal looks deep in my eyes. “Sounds like my kind of party.”