The women of the Potluck Catering Club have a growing business. They even became the subject of a budding filmmaker's class project. Problem is, they didn't read the fine print when they signed off on his documentary. When he enters the club in the reality show "Great Party Showdown," the ladies of Summit View, Colorado, head to the Big Apple for the unexpected adventure of their lives. Between navigating New York City, dealing with other cutthroat contestants, and trying to maintain their close friendship in the high-stress world of reality TV, the Potluck women must keep their eyes on the prize--a cool million dollars--and work together if they're going to make it back to Colorado in one piece.

A Taste of Fame serves up the perfect blend of humor, misadventure, and mouth-watering recipes. Fans new and old will love this exciting trip into the wild world of competitive cooking!

Chapter 1

Lisa Leann

Hot News

“Excuse me?”

Kat Sebastian’s voice crackled through the phone line from her New York City studio. “Team Potluck will be featured tomorrow evening on our new reality show, The Great Party Showdown. It was a last-minute decision.”

I stood up and squealed into the phone as if I were a June bug who’d landed on a robin’s wing. “You’re kidding me!”

“I never kid. It’s too late to back out. We have your signature, and it is binding.”

My head spun and I aimed my derriere for the nearest office chair and sat. “Wait a minute, wait. I’m not sure the girls even remember signing your release, and now you’re saying we have to fly to New York? When? Tonight?”

Kat’s voice was clipped. “No, no. We’re airing an edited version of the submission tape your son shot of your team catering the Byrd-Dolton wedding. Then it will be up to America to decide if your team will continue in the competition.”

I ran my free hand through my hair, disregarding the havoc to my appearance. “Meaning?”

“If you make it through this round, a film crew from Stirring Productions will be in Summit View, Colorado, next week to tape your catering company in the next challenge. I’m faxing you the information you’ll need, including all the stats on the accommodations and the grand prize. That’s a carrot that should refresh your team’s memory.”

My fax machine started to purr as Kat said, “Call me if you have any more questions.”

I opened my mouth, but before I could find my voice, the dial tone hummed in my ear. I hung up and walked to my fax machine, which was perched on a nearby marble-topped table. I caught the first of several pages gliding toward me. I stared at the document. Kat was right, it all looked legal. Though “binding” was how she’d put it. I closed my eyes.

Who would have thought my son’s class project would lead to this?

During his spring break from college, Nelson had flown up from Austin, presumably for a bit of skiing. But instead of hitting the slopes, he’d joined my girlfriends and me and filmed our little Potluck Catering Company working the wedding of Becky Byrd and Allen Dolton, a young couple from church. At the time, Nelson had told us the footage was for a class project in his advanced marketing class at the University of Texas. Then he revealed he was also sending his tape to a TV reality show looking for contestants. Sure, we’d all signed off on the paperwork he’d handed out, but we were only playing along because he seemed so excited. No one wanted to squash his dreams. Besides, we figured reality would do that for us.

The fact was, reality had just given me a wake-up call. How would I ever tell the girls we were about to be on national TV?

I stopped to rub the beginnings of a headache in the center of my forehead. The real question was, how would I tell my husband? Henry would never go along with this.

I walked down the spiral staircase of my wedding boutique to my dessert bar by my front register and poured myself a cup of coffee. I took a sip then walked to the front window to watch the cars drive down Main Street. It was a beautiful July afternoon. The edges of the blue sky were embroidered with the silhouettes of jagged peaks that surrounded our mountain valley. Across the street I could see Clay Whitefield’s jeep parked in front of the Higher Grounds Café. As usual, Clay, our local reporter, was there looking for a story. But despite the fact that we’re practically colleagues, with the local paper carrying my advice column and all, I wasn’t about to give Clay the scoop, at least not yet.

I took another sip of my coffee and drifted back to my worries. My biggest problem was Henry. Things had been tense between us, and we’d made zero progress in our weekly counseling sessions with Pastor Kevin. News like this could . . . well . . . I shuddered.

I turned and walked through the shop’s plush sitting room to the kitchen in the back. I pushed open the swinging door and rinsed out my china cup in the stainless steel sink.

After I placed it in the drying rack, I looked at my gold Chico’s watch and saw it was already past five.

A few minutes later, I pushed the accelerator of my Lincoln Continental a few miles over the speed limit, keeping a sharp lookout for Deputy Donna and her speeding tickets. It was dangerous to speed when she was on duty, but I had a lot to do if I was going to prepare for an emergency meeting of our Potluck Catering Company. I felt my forehead knit. Who should I call first? Evangeline

Benson Vesey?

I shook a “no” to myself. Poor Evie. She still saw herself as president of what was left of the old prayer club. Never mind that once I’d arrived to town, the club had morphed into a catering company. Sure, we still had our famous potluck meetings, complete with prayer and gossip. I mean, that was a bonus. Plus, it was always a treat to see the dishes my friends cooked up. Which reminded me, I’d have to remember to pull one of my emergency leek quiches out of the deep freeze.

I was afraid that, as good as it was, my quiche wouldn’t be enough to buffer news like this. This was enough to put the team into a fullblown panic. Sure, they’d been supportive of me during my recent marriage crisis, but just how far would their sympathies go?

I turned into the driveway of our luxury retirement condo overlooking Golden Lake. Sure enough, Henry’s truck was missing from the garage, which meant he was off fishing in the Blue River. I’d have to deal with him later. I checked my Crock-Pot steaming with a summer squash soup, added a dash of pepper, then hurried to the phone next to the kitchen table. I hesitated, then picked up the handset to dial Vonnie, knowing full well that my news would soon change our lives, for better or for worse. view abbreviated excerpt only...

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