Summer Desserts

by Nora Roberts

“You’re aware what the term immediately means.”

  “I’m aware of it. I was busy.”

  “Perhaps I should make it clear that I don’t tolerate being kept waiting by an employee.”

  “And I’ll make two things clear,” she tossed back. “I’m not merely an employee, but an artist. Secondly, I don’t come at the snap of anyone’s fingers.”

  “It’s eleven-twenty,” Blake began with a mildness Summer instantly suspected. “On a workday. My signature is at the base of your checks. Therefore, you do answer to me.”

  The faint, telltale flush crept along her cheekbones. “You’d turn my work into something to be measured in dollars and cents and minute by minute—”

  “Business is business,” he countered, spreading his hands. “I think you were quite clear on that subject.”

  She’d maneuvered herself successfully toward that particular corner, and he’d given her a helpful shove into it. As a result, her attitude only became more haughty. “You’ll notice I am here at present. You’re wasting time.”

  As an ice queen, she was magnificent, Blake thought. He wondered if she realized how a change of expression, a tone of voice, could alter her image. She could be half a dozen women in the course of a day. Whether she knew it or not, Summer had her mother’s talent. “I received another dissatisfied call from Max,” he told her flatly.

  She arched a brow and looked like royalty about to dispense a beheading. “Yes?”

  “He objects—strongly—to some of the proposed changes in the menu. Ah—” Blake glanced down at the pad on his desk “—pressed duck seems to be the current problem, though several others were tossed in around it.”

  Summer sat straighter in her chair, tilting up her chin. “I believe you contracted me to improve the quality of Cocharan House dining.”

  “I did.”

  “That is precisely what I’m doing.”

  The French was beginning to seep into the intonation of her voice, her eyes were beginning to glow. Despite the fact it annoyed him, she was undeniably at her most attractive this way. “I also contracted you to manage the kitchen—which means you should be able to control your staff.”

  “Control?” She was up, and the ice queeen was now the enraged artist. Her gestures were broad, her movements dramatic. “I would need a whip and chain to control such a narrow-minded, ill-tempered old woman who worries only about his own egocentricities. His way is the only way. His menu is carved in stone, sacrosanct. Pah!” It was a peculiarly French expletive that would have been ridiculous coming from anyone else. From Summer, it was perfect.

  Blake tapped his pen against the edge of his desk while he watched the performance. He was nearly tempted to applaud. “Is this what’s known as artistic temperament?”

  She drew in a breath. Mockery? Would he dare? “You’ve yet to see true temperament, mon ami.”

  He only nodded. It was tempting to push her into full gear—but business was business. “Max has worked for Cocharan for over twenty-five years.” Blake set down the pen and folded his hands—calm, in direct contrast to Summer’s temper. “He’s loyal and efficient, and obviously sensitive.”

  “Sensitive.” She nearly spat the word. “I give him his prime rib and his precious chicken, but still, he’s not satisfied. I will have my pressed duck and my clamart. My menu won’t read like something from the corner diner.”

  He wondered if he recorded the conversation and played it back to her, she’d see the absurdity of it. At the moment, though he had to clear his throat to disguise a chuckle, he doubted it. “Exactly,” Blake said and kept his face expressionless. “I’ve no desire to interfere with the menu. The point is, I’ve no desire to interfere at all.”

  Far from mollified, Summer tossed her hair behind her shoulders and glared at him. “Then why do you bother me with these trivialities?”

  “These trivialities,” he countered, “are your problem, not mine. As manager, part of your function is to do simply that. Manage. If your supervisory chef is consistently dissatisfied, you’re not doing your job. You’re free to make whatever compromises you think necessary.”

  “Compromises?” Her whole body stiffened. Again, he thought she looked magnificent. “I don’t make compromises.”

  “Being hardheaded won’t bring peace to your kitchen.”

  She let out her breath in a hiss. “Hardheaded!”

  “Exactly. Now, the problem of Max is back in your court. I don’t want any more phone calls.”

  In a low, dangerous voice, she let out a stream of French, and though he was certain it was colloquial, he caught the drift. With a toss of her head, she started toward the door.

  “Summer.”

  She turned, and the stance reminded him of one of the mythical female archers whose aim was killingly true. She wouldn’t even wince as her arrow went straight through the heart. Ice queen or warrior, he wanted her. “I want to see you tonight.”

  Her eyes went to slits. “You dare.”

  “Now that we’ve tabled the first issue, it’s time to go onto the second. We might have dinner.”

  “You tabled the first issue,” she retorted. “I don’t table things so easily. Dinner? Have dinner with your account book. That’s what you understand.”

  He rose and approached her without hurry. “We agreed that when we’re away from here, we’re not business associates.”

  “We’re not away from here.” Her chin was still angled. “I’m standing in your office, where I was summoned.”

  “You won’t be standing in my office tonight.”

  “I stand wherever I choose tonight.”

  “So tonight,” he continued easily, “we won’t be business associates. Weren’t those your rules?”

  Personal and professional, and that tangible line of demarcation. Yes, that’s the way she’d wanted it, but it wasn’t as easy for her to make the separation as she’d thought it would be. “Tonight,” she said with a shrug. “I may be busy.”

  Blake glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly noon. We might consider this lunch hour.” He looked back at her, half smiling. Lifting a hand, he tangled it in her hair. “During lunch hour, there’s no business between us, Summer. And tonight, I want to be with you.” He touched his lips to one corner of her mouth, then the other. “I want to spend long—” his lips slanted over hers, softly “—private hours with you.”

  She wanted it too, why pretend otherwise? She’d never believed in pretenses, only in defenses. In any event, she’d already decided to handle Max and the kitchen in her own way. Linking her hands around his neck, she smiled back at him. “Then tonight, we’ll be together. You’ll bring the champagne?”

  She was softening, but not yielding. Blake found it infinitely more exciting than submission. “For a price.”

  Her laugh was wicked and warm. “A price?”

  “I want you to do something for me you haven’t done before.”

  She tilted her head, then touched the tip of her tongue to her lip. “Such as?”

  “Cook for me.”

  Surprise lit her eyes before the laughter sprang out again. “Cook for you? Well, that’s a much different request from what I expected.”

  “After dinner I might come up with a few others.”

  “So you want Summer Lyndon to prepare your dinner.” She considered it as she drew away. “Perhaps I will, though such a thing usually costs much more than a bottle of champagne. Once in Houston I prepared a meal for an oil man and his new bride. I was paid in stock certificates. Blue chip.”

  Blake took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I bought you a pizza. Pepperoni.”

  “That’s true. Eight o’clock then. And I’d advise you to eat a very light lunch today.” She reached for the door handle, then glanced over her shoulder with a grin. “You do like Cervelles Braisées?”

  “I might, if I knew what it was.”

  Still smiling, she opened the door. “Braised calf’s brains. Au revoir.”

  Blake
stared at the door. She’d certainly had the last word that time.

  The kitchen smelled of cooking and sounded like a drawing room. Strains of Chopin were muted as Summer rolled the boneless breasts of chicken in flour. On the range, the clarified butter was just beginning to deepen in color. Perfect. Stuffed tomatoes were already prepared and waiting in the refrigerator. Buttered peas were just beginning to simmer. She would sauté the potato balls while she sautéed the suprêmes.

  Timing, of course, was critical. Suprêmes deVolaille à Brun had to be done to the instant, even a minute of overcooking and she would, like any temperamental cook, throw them out in disgust. Hot butter sizzled as she slipped the floured chicken into it.

  She heard the knock but remained where she was. “It’s open,” she called out. Meticulously, she adjusted the heat under the skillet. “I’ll take the champagne in here.”

  “Chérie, if I’d only thought to bring some.”

  Stunned, Summer turned and saw Monique, glorious in midnight black and silver, framed by her kitchen doorway. “Mother!” With the kitchen fork still in her hand, Summer closed the distance and enveloped her mother.

  With that part bubbling, part sultry laugh she was famous for, Monique kissed both of Summer’s cheeks, then drew her daughter back. “You are surprised, oui? I adore surprises.”

  “I’m astonished,” Summer countered. “What’re you doing in town?”

  Monique glanced toward the range. “At the moment, apparently interrupting the preparations for an intimate tête à tête.”

  “Oh!” Whipping around, Summer dashed back to the skillet and turned the chicken breasts, not a second too soon. “What I meant was, what are you doing in Philadelphia?” She checked the flame again, and was satisfied. “Didn’t you once say you’d never set foot in the town of the hardware king again?”

  “Time mellows one,” Monique claimed with a characteristic flick of the wrist. “And I wanted to see my daughter. You are not so often in Paris these days.”

  “No, it doesn’t seem so, does it?” Summer split her attention between her mother and her range, something she would have done for no one else. “You look wonderful.”

  Monique’s smooth cheeks dimpled. “I feel wonderful, mignonne. In six weeks, I start a new picture.”

  “A new picture.” Carefully Summer pressed a finger to the top of the chicken. When they sprang back, she removed them to a hot platter. “Where?”

  “In Hollywood. They have pestered me, and at last I give in.” Monique’s infectious laugh bubbled out again. “The script is superb. The director himself came to Paris to woo me. Keil Morrison.”

  Tall, somewhat gangly, intelligent face, fiftyish. Summer had a clear enough picture from the glossies, and from a party for a reigning box office queen where she’d prepared île Flottante. From her mother’s tone of voice, Summer knew the answer before she asked the question. “And the director?”

  “He, too, is superb. How would you feel about a new step poppa, chérie?”

  “Resigned,” Summer said, then smiled. That was too hard a word. “Pleased, of course, if you’re happy, Mother.” She began to prepare the brown butter sauce while Monique expounded.

  “Oh, but he is brilliant and so sensitive! I’ve never met a man who so understands a woman. At last, I’ve found my perfect match. The man who finally brings everything I need and want into my life. The man who makes me feel like a woman.”

  Nodding, Summer removed the skillet from the heat and stirred in the parsley and lemon juice. “When’s the wedding?”

  “Last week.” Monique smiled brilliantly as Summer glanced up. “We were married quietly in a little churchyard outside Paris. There were doves—a good sign. I tore myself away from Keil because I wanted to tell you in person.” Stepping forward, she flashed a thin diamond-crusted band. “Elegant, oui? Keil doesn’t believe in the—how do you say?—ostentatious.”

  So, for the moment, neither would Monique DuBois Lyndon Smith Clarion Morrison. She supposed, when the news broke, the glossies and trades would have a field day. Monique would eat up every line of publicity. Summer kissed her mother’s cheek. “Be happy, ma mère.”

  “I’m ecstatic. You must come to California and meet my Keil, and then—” She broke off as the knock interrupted her. “Ah, this must be your dinner guest. Shall I answer for you?”

  “Please.” With the tongue caught between her teeth, Summer poured the sauce over the suprêmes. She’d serve them within five minutes or dump them down the sink.

  When the door opened, Blake was treated to a slightly more voluptuous, slightly more glossy, version of Summer. The candlelight disguised the years and enhanced the classic features. Her lips curved slowly, in the way her daughter’s did, as she offered her hand.

  “Hello, Summer is busy in the kitchen. I’m her mother, Monique.” She paused a moment as their hands met. “But you are familiar to me, yes. But yes!” she continued before Blake could speak. “The Cocharan House. You are the son—B.C.’s son. We’ve met before.”

  “A pleasure to see you again, Mademoiselle Dubois.”

  “This is odd, oui? And amusing. I stay in your hotel while in Philadelphia. Already my bags are checked in and my bed turned down.”

  “You’ll let me know personally if there’s anything I can do for you while you stay with us.”

  “Of course.” She studied him in the brief but thorough way a woman of experience has. Like mother, like daughter, she mused. Each had excellent taste. “Please, come in. Summer is putting the finishing touches on your meal. I’ve always admired her skill in the kitchen. Myself, I’m helpless.”

  “Diabolically helpless,” Summer put in as she entered with the hot platter. “She always made sure she burned things beyond recognition, and therefore, no one asked her to cook.”

  “An intelligent move, to my thinking,” Monique said easily. “And now, I’ll leave you to your dinner.”

  “You’re welcome to join us, Mother.”

  “Sweet.” Monique framed Summer’s face in her hands and kissed both cheeks again. “But I need my beauty rest after the long flight. Tomorrow, we catch up, non? Monsieur Cocharan, we will all have dinner at your wonderful hotel before I go?” In her sweeping way, she was at the door. “Bon appétit.”

  “A spectacular woman,” Blake commented.

  “Yes.” Summer went back to the kitchen for the rest of the meal. “She continually amazes me.” After placing the vegetables on the table, she picked up her glass. “She’s just taken her fourth husband. Shall we drink to them?”

  He began to remove the foil from the bottle, but her tone had him pausing. “A bit cynical?”

  “Realistic. In any case, I do wish her happiness.” When he removed the cork, she took it and absently waved it under her nose. “And I envy her perennial optimism.” After both glasses were filled, Summer touched hers to his. “To the new Mrs. Morrison.”

  “To optimism,” Blake countered before he drank.

  “If you like,” Summer said with a shrug as she sat. She transferred one of the suprêmes from the platter to his plate. “Unfortunately the calf’s brains looked poor today, so we have to settle for chicken.”

  “A pity.” The first bite was tender and perfect. “Would you like some time off to spend with your mother while she’s in town?”

  “No, it’s not necessary. Mother’ll divide her time between shopping and the health spa during the day. She tells me she’s about to begin a new film.”

  “Really.” It only took him a minute to put things together. “Morrison—the director?”

  “You’re very quick,” Summer acknowledged, toasting him.

  “Summer.” He laid a hand over hers. “Do you object?”

  She opened her mouth to answer quickly, then thought it over. “No. No, object isn’t the word. Her life’s her own. I simply can’t understand how or why she continually plunges into relationships, tying herself up into marriages which on the average have lasted 5.2 years apie
ce. Is the word optimism, I wonder, or gullibility?”

  “Monique doesn’t strike me as a gullible woman.”

  “Perhaps it’s a synonym for romantic.”

  “No, but romantic might be synonymous with hope. Her way isn’t yours.”

  Yet we both chose lovers from the same bloodline, Summer reminded herself. Just what would Blake’s reaction be to that little gem? Keep the past in the past, Summer advised herself. And concentrate on the moment. She smiled at him. “No, it’s not. And how do you find my cooking?”

  Perhaps it was best to let the subject die, for a time. He needed to ease her over that block gently. “As I find everything about you,” Blake told her. “Magnificent.”

  She laughed as she began to eat again. “It wouldn’t be advisable for you to become too used to it. I rarely prepare meals for only compliments.”

  “That had occured to me. So I brought what I thought was the proper token.”

  Summer tasted the wine again. “Yes, the champagne is excellent.”

  “But an inadequate token for a Summer Lyndon meal.”

  When she shot him a puzzled look, he reached in his inside pocket and drew out a small thin box.

  “Ah, presents.” Amused, she accepted the box.

  “You mentioned a fondness for them.” Blake saw the amusement fade as she opened the box.

  Inside were diamonds—elegant, even delicate in the form of a slender bracelet. They lay white and regal against the dark velvet of the box.

  She wasn’t often overwhelmed. Now, she found herself struggling through waves of astonishment. “The meal’s too simple for a token like this,” she managed. “If I’d known, I’d’ve prepared something spectacular.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought art ever simple.”

  “Perhaps not, but…” She looked up, telling herself she wasn’t supposed to be moved by such things. They were only pretty stones after all. But her heart was full. “Blake, it’s lovely, exquisite. I think you’ve taken me too seriously when I talk of payments and gifts. I didn’t do this tonight for any reason more than I wanted to do it.”

  “This made me think of you,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken. “See how cool and haughty the stones are? But…” He slipped the bracelet out of the box. “If you look closely, if you hold it to light, there’s warmth, even fire.” As he spoke, he let the bracelet dangle from his fingers so that it caught and glittered with the flames from the candles. At that moment, it might have been alive.