by Nora Roberts
Perhaps the scene was laughable—huge Max and little Charlie, the undersized Korean cook who came no higher than his superior’s breastbone. They stood, glaring at each other, while both of them held a solid grip on a spinach casserole. It might have been laughable, Summer thought wearily, if the rest of the kitchen staff hadn’t already been choosing up sides while the luncheon orders were ignored.
“Inferior work,” Max retorted. He’d yet to forgive Charlie for being out sick three days running.
“Your casseroles are always inferior work. Mine are perfect.”
“Too much milk,” Max said solidly. “Not enough cheese.”
“Problem?” Summer stepped up, lining herself between them.
“This scrawny little man who masquerades as a cook is trying to pass this mass of soggy leaves off as a spinach casserole.” Max tried to tug the glass dish away and found that the scrawny little man was surprisingly strong.
“This big lump of dough who calls himself a chef is jealous because I know more about vegetables than he does.”
Summer bit down hard on her bottom lip. Damn it, it was funny, but the timing was all wrong. “Perhaps the rest of you might get back to work,” she began coolly, “before what clientele we have left in the dining room evacuates to the nearest golden arches for decent service. Now…” She turned back to the two opponents. Any moment, she decided, there’d be bared teeth and snarls. “This, I take it, is the casserole in question.”
“The dish is a casserole,” Max tossed back. “What’s in it is garbage.” He tugged again.
“Garbage!” The little cook squealed in outrage, then curled his lip. “Garbage is what you pass off as prime rib. The only thing edible on the plate is the tiny spring of parsley you part with.” He tugged back.
“Gentlemen, might I ask a question?” Without waiting for an answer, she touched a finger to the dish. It was still warm, but cooling fast. “Has anyone tasted the casserole?”
“I don’t taste poison.” Max gave the dish another yank. “I pour poison down the sink.”
“I wouldn’t have this—this ox taste one spoonful of my spinach.” Charlie yanked right back. “He’d contaminate it.”
“All right, children,” Summer said in sweet tones that had both men’s annoyance turning on her. “Why don’t I do the testing?”
Both men eyed each other warily. “Tell him to let go of my spinach,” Charlie insisted.
“Max—”
“He lets go first. I’m his superior.”
“Charlie—”
“The only thing superior is his weight.” And the tug-of-war began again.
Out of patience, Summer tossed up her hands. “All right, enough!”
It might have been the shock of having her raise her voice, something she’d never done in the kitchen—or it might have been that the dish itself was becoming slippery from so much handling. Either way, at her word, the dish fell out of both men’s hands with force. It struck the edge of the counter, shattering, so that glass flew even before the casserole and its contents hit the floor. In unison, Max and Charlie erupted with abuse and accusations.
Summer, distracted by the pain in her right arm, glanced down and saw the blood begin to seep from a four-inch gash. Amazed, she stared at it for a full three seconds while her mind completely rejected the idea that blood, her blood, could pour out so quickly.
“Excuse me,” she managed at length. “Do you think the two of you could finish this round after I stop bleeding to death?”
Charlie looked over, a torrent of abuse trembling on his tongue. Instead, he stared wide-eyed at the wound, then broke into an excited ramble of Korean.
“If you’d stop interfering,” Max began, even as he caught sight of the blood running down Summer’s arm. He blanched, then to everyone’s surprise, moved like lightning. Grabbing a clean cloth, he pressed it against the gash in Summer’s arm. “Sit,” he ordered and nudged her onto a kitchen stool. “You,” he bellowed at no one in particular, “clean up this mess.” Already he was fashioning a tourniquet. “Relax,” he said to Summer with unaccustomed gentleness. “I want to see how deep it is.”
Giddy, she nodded and kept her eyes trained on the steam from a pot across the room. It didn’t really hurt so very much, she thought as her vision blurred then refocused. She’d probably imagined all that blood.
“What the hell’s going on in here?” She heard Blake’s voice vaguely behind her. “You can hear the commotion in here clear out to the dining room.” He strode over, intending to give both Summer and Max the choice of unemployment or peaceful coexistence. The red-stained cloth stopped him cold. “Summer?”
“An accident,” Max said hurriedly while Summer shook her head to clear it. “The cut’s deep—she’ll need stitches.”
Blake was already grabbing the cloth from Max and pushing him aside. “Summer. How the hell did this happen?”
She focused on his face and registered concern and perhaps temper in his eyes before everything started to swim again. Then she made the mistake of looking down at her arm. “Spinach casserole,” she said foolishly before she slid from the stool in a dead faint.
The next thing she heard was an argument. Isn’t this where I came in? she thought vaguely. It only took her a moment to recognize Blake’s voice, but the other, female and dry, was a stranger.
“I’m staying.”
“Mr. Cocharan, you aren’t a relative. It’s against hospital policy for you to remain while we treat Ms. Lyndon. Believe me, it’s only a matter of a few stitches.”
A few stitches? Summer’s stomach rolled. She didn’t like to admit it, but when it came to needles—the kind the medical profession liked to poke into flesh—she was a complete coward. And if her sense of smell wasn’t playing tricks on her, she knew where she was. The odor of antiseptics was much too recognizable. Perhaps if she just sat up and quietly walked away, no one would notice.
When she did sit up, she found herself in a small, curtained examining room. Her gaze lit on a tray that held all the shiny, terrifying tools of the trade.
Blake caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, and was beside her. “Summer, just relax.”
Moistening her lips, she studied the room again. “Hospital?”
“Emergency Room. They’re going to fix your arm.”
She managed a smile, but kept her gaze locked on the tray. “I’d just as soon not.” When she started to swing her legs over the side of the examining table, the doctor was there to stop her.
“Lie still, Ms. Lyndon.”
Summer stared back at the tough, lined female face. She had frizzy hair the color of a peach, and wire-rim glasses. Summer gauged her own strength against the doctor’s and decided she could win. “I’m going home now,” she said simply.
“You’re going to lie right there and get that arm sewed up. Now be quiet.”
Well, perhaps if she recruited an ally. “Blake?”
“You need stitches, love.”
“I don’t want them.”
“Need,” the doctor corrected, briskly. “Nurse!” While she scrubbed her hands in a tiny sink, she looked back over her shoulder. “Mr. Cocharan, you’ll have to wait outside.”
“No.” Summer managed to struggle back into a sitting position. “I don’t know you,” she told the white-coated woman at the sink. “And I don’t know her,” she added when the nurse pushed passed the curtains. “If I’m going to have to sit here while you sew up my arm with cat gut or whatever it is you use, I’m going to have someone here that I know.” She tightened her grip on Blake’s hand. “I know him.” She lay back down but kept the death hold on Blake’s hand.
“Very well.” Recognizing both a strong will and basic fear, the doctor gave in. “Just turn your head away,” she advised. “This won’t take long. I’ve already used yards of cat gut today.”
“Blake.” Summer took a deep breath and looked straight into his eyes. She wouldn’t think about what the two women on the other
side of the table were doing to her arm. “I have a confession to make. I don’t deal very well with this sort of thing.” She swallowed again when she felt the pressure on her skin. “I have to be tranquilized to get through a dental appointment.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the doctor take the first stitch. “We almost had to do the same thing for Max.” He ran his thumb soothingly over his knuckles. “After this, you could tell him you’re going to put in a wood-burning stove and a hearth and he wouldn’t give you any trouble.”
“A hell of a way to get cooperation.” She winced, felt her stomach roll and swallowed desperately. “Talk to me—about anything.”
“We should take a weekend, soon, and go to the beach. Some place quiet, right on the ocean.”
It was a good image, she struggled to focus on it. “Which ocean?”
“Any one you want. We’ll do nothing for three days but lie in the sun, make love.”
The young nurse glanced over, and a sigh escaped before the doctor caught her eye.
“As soon as I’m back from Rome. All you have to do is find some little island in the Pacific while I’m gone. I’d like a few palm trees and friendly natives.”
“I’ll look into it.”
“In the meantime,” the doctor put in as she snipped off a length of bandage. “Keep this dressing dry, have it changed every third day and come back in two weeks to have the stitches removed. A nasty slice,” she added, giving the bandage a last professional adjustment. “But you’ll live.”
Cautiously Summer turned her head. The wound was now covered in the sterile white gauze. It looked neat, trim and somehow competent. The nausea faded instantly. “I thought they made the stitches so they dissolved.”
“It’s a nice arm.” The doctor rinsed off her hands in the sink. “We wouldn’t want a scar on it. I’ll give you a prescription for some pain pills.”
Summer set her jaw. “I won’t take them.”
With a shrug, the doctor dried her hands. “Suit yourself. Oh, and you might try the Solomon Islands off New Guinea.” Whipping back the curtain, she strode out.
“Quite a lady,” Summer muttered as Blake helped her off the table. “Terrific bedside manner. I can’t think why I don’t hire her as my personal physician.”
The spunk was back, Blake thought with a grin, but kept a supportive arm around her waist. “She was exactly what you needed. You didn’t need any more sympathy, or worry, than you were getting from me.”
She frowned up at him as he led her into the parking lot. “When I bleed,” she corrected, “I need a great deal of sympathy and worry.”
“What you need—” he kissed her forehead before opening the car door “—is a bed, a dark room and a few hours’ rest.”
“I’m going back to work,” she corrected. “The kitchen’s probably chaos, and I have a long list of phone calls to make—as soon as you arrange to have a phone hooked up for me.”
“You’re going home, to bed.”
“I’ve stopped bleeding,” Summer reminded him. “And though I admit I’m a complete baby when it comes to blood and needles and doctors in white coats, that’s done now. I’m fine.”
“You’re pale.” He stopped at a light and turned to her. It wasn’t entirely clear to him how he’d gotten through the last hour himself. “You arm’s certainly throbbing now, or soon will be. I make it a policy—whenever one of my staff faints on the job, they have the rest of the day off.”
“Very liberal and humanitarian of you. I wouldn’t have fainted if I hadn’t looked.”
“Home, Summer.”
She sat up, folded her hands and took a deep breath. Her arm was throbbing, but she wouldn’t have admitted it now for anything. With the new ache, and annoyance, it was easy to forget that she’d clung to his hand a short time before. “Blake, I realize I’ve mentioned this before, but sometimes it doesn’t hurt to reiterate. I don’t take orders.”
Silence reigned in the car for almost a full minute. Blake turned west, away from Cocharan House and toward Summer’s apartment building.
“I’ll just take a cab,” she said lightly.
“What you’ll take is a couple of aspirin, right before I draw the shades and tuck you into bed.”
God, that sounded like heaven. Ignoring the image, she set her chin. “Just because I depended on you—a little—while that woman was plying her needle, doesn’t mean I need a keeper.”
There was a way to convince her to do as he wanted. Blake considered it. Perhaps the direct way was the best way. “I don’t suppose you noticed how many stitches she put in your arm.”
“No.” Summer looked out the window.
“I did. I counted them as she sewed. Fifteen. You didn’t notice the size of the needle, either?”
“No.” Pressing a hand to her stomach she glared at him. “Dirty pool, Blake.”
“If it works…” Then he slipped a hand over hers. “A nap, Summer. I’ll stay with you if you like.”
How was she supposed to deal with him when he went from being kind, to filthy, to gentle? How was she supposed to deal with herself when all she really wanted was to curl up beside him where she knew it would be safe and warm? “I’ll rest.” All at once, she felt she needed to, badly, but it no longer had anything to do with her arm. If he continually stirred her emotions like this, the next few months were going to be impossible. “Alone,” she finished firmly. “You have enough to do back at the hotel.”
When he pulled up in front of her building, she put out a hand to stop him from turning off the engine. “No, you needn’t bother to come up. I’ll go to bed, I promise.” Because she could feel him tense with an objection, she smiled and squeezed his hand. I have to go up alone, she realized. If he came with her now, everything could change. “I’m going to take those aspirin, turn on the stereo and lie down. I’d feel better if you’d go by the kitchen and make certain everything’s all right there.”
He studied her face. Her skin was pale, her eyes weary. He wanted to stay with her, have her hold onto him for support again. Even as he sat beside her, he could feel the distance she was putting between them. No, he wouldn’t allow that—but for now, she needed rest more than she needed him.
“If that’s what you want. I’ll call you tonight.”
Leaning over, she kissed his cheek, then climbed from the car quickly. “Thanks for holding my hand.”
Chapter Ten
It was beginning to grate on her nerves. It wasn’t as though Summer didn’t enjoy attention. More than enjoying it, she’d come to expect it as a matter of course in her career. It wasn’t as if she didn’t enjoy being catered to. That was something she’d developed a taste for early on, growing up in households with servants. But as any good cook knows, sugar has to be dispensed with a careful hand.
Monique had extended her stay a full week, claiming that she couldn’t possibly leave Philadelphia while Summer was still recovering from an injury. The more Summer tried to play down the entire incident of her arm and the stitches, the more Monique looked at her with admiration and concern. The more admiration and concern she received, the more Summer worried about that next visit to the doctor.
Though it wasn’t in character, Monique had gotten into the habit of coming by Summer’s office every day with healing cups of tea and bowls of healthy soup—then standing over her daughter until everything was consumed.
For the first few days, Summer had found it rather sweet—though tea and soup weren’t regulars on her diet. As far as she could remember, Monique had always been loving and certainly kind, but never maternal. For this reason alone, Summer drank the tea, ate the soup and swallowed complaints along with them. But as it continued, and as Monique consistently interrupted the final stages of her planning, Summer began to lose patience. She might have been able to tolerate Monique’s over-reaction and mothering, if it hadn’t been for the same treatment by the kitchen staff, headed by Max.
She was permitted to do nothing for herself. If
she started to brew a pot of coffee, someone was there, taking over, insisting that she sit and rest. Every day at precisely noon, Max himself brought her in a tray with the luncheon speciality of the day. Poached salmon, lobster soufflé, stuffed eggplant. Summer ate—because like her mother, he hovered over her—while she had visions of a bacon double cheeseburger with a generous side order of onion rings.
Doors were opened for her, concerned looks thrown her way, conciliatory phrases heaped on her until she wanted to scream. Once when she’d been unnerved enough to snap that she had some stitches in her arm, not a terminal illness, she’d been brought yet another soothing cup of tea—with a saucer of plain vanilla cookies.
They were killing her with kindness.
Every time she thought she’d reached her limit, Blake managed to level things for her again. He wasn’t callous of her injury or even unkind, but he certainly wasn’t treating her as though she were the star attraction at a deathbed.
He had an uncanny instinct for choosing the right time to phone or drop in on the kitchen. He was there, calm when she needed calm, ordered when she yearned for order. He demanded things of her when everyone else insisted she couldn’t lift a finger for herself. When he annoyed her, it was in an entirely different way, a way that tested and stretched her abilities rather than smothered them.
And with Blake, Summer didn’t have that hampering guilt about letting loose with her temper. She could shout at him knowing she wouldn’t see the bottomless patience in his eyes that she saw in Max’s. She could be unreasonable and not be worried that his feelings would be hurt like her mother’s.
Without realizing it, she began to see him as a pillar of solidity and sense in a world of nonsense. And, for perhaps the first time in her life, she felt an intrinsic need for that pillar.
Along with Blake, Summer had her work to keep her temper and her nerve ends under some kind of control. She poured herself into it. There were long sessions with the printer to design the perfect menu—an elegant slate gray with the words COCHARAN HOUSE embossed on the front—thick creamy parchment paper inside listing her final choices in delicate script. Then there were the room service menus that would go into each unit—not quite so luxurious, perhaps, but Summer saw to it that they were distinguished in their own right. She talked for hours with suppliers, haggling, demanding, and enjoying herself more than she would ever have guessed, until she got precisely the terms she wanted.