Summer Desserts

by Nora Roberts

  She looked around, and though he was gone, he was everywhere. Dropping to the couch, she let herself weep and wished she were anywhere else.

  She hadn’t come to Rome for the cathedrals or the fountains or the art. Nor had she come for culture or history. As Summer took a wicked cab ride from the airport into the city, she was more grateful for the crowded streets and noise than the antiquity. Perhaps she’d stayed in America too long this time. Europe was fast cars, crumbling ruins and palaces. She needed Europe again, Summer told herself. As she zipped past the Trevi Fountain she thought of Philadelphia.

  A few days away, she thought. Just a few days away, doing what she was best at, and everything would fall back into perspective again. She’d made a mistake with Blake—she’d known from the beginning it had been a mistake to get involved. Now, it was up to her to break it off, quickly, completely. Before long he’d be grateful to her for preventing him from making an even larger mistake. Marriage—to her. Yes, she imagined he’d be vastly relieved, within even a few weeks.

  Summer sat in the back of the cab watching Rome skim by and was more miserable than she’d ever been in her life.

  When the cab squealed to a halt at the curb she climbed out. She stood for a moment, a slender woman in white fedora and jacket with a snakeskin bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. She was dressed like a woman of confidence and experience. In her eyes was a child who was lost.

  Mechanically she paid off the driver, accepted her bag and his bow, then turned away. It was only just past 10:00 A.M. in Rome, and already hot under a spectacular sky. She remembered she’d left Philadelphia in a thunderstorm. Walking up the steps to an old, distinguished building, she knocked sharply five times. After a reasonable wait, she knocked again, harder.

  When the door opened, she looked at the man in the short silk robe. It was embroidered, she noticed, with peacocks. On anyone else it would’ve looked absurd. His hair was tousled, his eyes half-closed. A night’s growth of beard shadowed his chin.

  “Hello, Carlo. Wake you up?”

  “Summer!” He swallowed the string of Italian abuse that had been on his tongue and grabbed her. “A surprise, sì?” He kissed her soundly, twice, then drew her away. “But why do you bring me a surprise at dawn?”

  “It’s after ten.”

  “Ten is dawn when you don’t begin to sleep until five. But come in, come in. I don’t forget you come for Gravanti’s birthday.”

  Outside, Carlo’s home was distinguished. Inside it was opulent. Dominated by marble and gold, the entrance hall only demonstrated the beginning of his penchant for the luxurious. They walked through and under arches into a living area crowded with treasures, small and large. Most of them had been given to him by pleased clients—or women. Carlo had a talent for picking lovers who remained amiable even when they were no longer lovers.

  There was a brocade at the windows, Oriental carpets on the floor and a Tintoretto on the wall. Two sofas were piled with cushions deep enough to swim in. An alabaster lion, nearly two feet in height, sat beside one. A three-tiered chandelier shot out splinters of refracted light from its crystals.

  She ran her finger down a porcelain ewer in delicate Chinese blue and white. “New?”

  “Sì.”

  “Medici?”

  “But of course. A gift from a…friend.”

  “Your friends are always remarkably generous.”

  He grinned. “But then, so am I.”

  “Carlo?”

  The husky, impatient voice came from up the curving marble stairs. Carlo glanced up, then looked back at Summer and grinned again.

  Summer removed her white fedora. “A friend, I take it.”

  “You’ll give me a moment, cara.” He was heading for the steps as he spoke. “Perhaps you could go into the kitchen, make coffee.”

  “And stay out of the way,” Summer finished as Carlo disappeared upstairs. She started toward the kitchen, then went back to take her suitcase with her. There wasn’t any use leaving Carlo with something like luggage to explain to his friend.

  The kitchen was as spectacular as the rest of the house and as large as the average hotel room. Summer knew it as well as she knew her own. It was all in ebonies and ivories with what appeared to be acres of counter space. It boasted two ovens, a restaurant-sized refrigerator, two sinks and a dishwasher that could handle the aftermath of an embassy dinner. Carlo Franconi had never been one to do anything in a small way.

  Summer opened a cabinet for the coffee beans and grinder. On impulse, she decided to make crêpes. Carlo, she mused, might be just a little while.

  When he did come, she was just finishing up at the stove. “Ah, bella, you cook for me. I’m honored.”

  “I had a twinge of guilt about disrupting your morning. Besides—” She slipped crêpes, pregnant with warm apples and cinnamon, onto plates. “I’m hungry.” Summer set them on a scrubbed worktable while Carlo pulled up chairs. “I should apologize for coming like this without warning. Was your friend annoyed?”

  He flashed a grin as he sat. “You don’t give me enough credit.”

  “Scusi.” She passed the small pitcher of cream. “So, we’ll be working together for Enrico’s birthday.”

  “My veal, with spaghetti. Enrico has a weakness for my spaghetti. Every Friday, he is in my restaurant eating.” Carlo started immediately on the crêpe. “And you make the dessert.”

  “A birthday cake.” Summer drank coffee while her crêpe cooled untouched. Suddenly, she had no appetite for it. “Enrico requested something special, created just for him. Knowing his vanity, and his fondness for chocolate and whipped cream, it was easy to come up with it.”

  “But the dinner isn’t for two more days. You come early?”

  She shrugged and toyed with her coffee. “I wanted to spend some time in Europe.”

  “I see.” And he thought he did. She was looking a bit hollow around the eyes. A sign of romantic trouble. “Everything goes well in Philadelphia?”

  “The remodeling’s done, the new menus printed. I think the kitchen staff is going to do very well. I hired Maurice from Chicago. You remember?”

  “Oh, yes, pressed duck.”

  “It’s an exciting menu,” she went on. “Just the sort I’d have if I ever decided to have a place of my own. I suppose I developed a bit of respect for you, Carlo, when I started to deal with the paperwork.”

  “Paperwork.” He finished off his crêpes and eyed hers. “Ugly but necessary. You aren’t eating, Summer.”

  “Hmm? No, I guess it’s a touch of jet lag.” She waved at her plate. “Go ahead.”

  Taking her at her word, he switched plates. “You solved the problem of Max?”

  Absently she touched her arm. The stitches, thank God, were a thing of the past. “We’re managing. Mother came to visit for a while. She always makes an impression.”

  “Monique! So, how is she?”

  “Married again,” Summer said simply and lifted her coffee. “A director this time, another American.”

  “She’s happy?”

  “Naturally.” The coffee was strong—stronger than she’d grown used to in America. She thought in frustration that nothing was as it once was for her. “They’re starting a film together in another few weeks.”

  “Perhaps her wisest choice. Someone who would understand her artistic temperament, her needs.” He lingered over the perfect melding of spices and fruit. “And how is your American?”

  Summer set down her coffee and stared at Carlo. “He wants to marry me.”

  Carlo choked on a bite of crêpe and grabbed for his cup. “So—congratulations.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Unable to sit, she rose, sticking her hands in the pockets of her long, loose jacket. “I’m not going to.”

  “No?” Going to the stove, Carlo poured them both more coffee. “Why not? You find him unattractive, maybe? Bad tempered, stupid?”

  “Of course not.” Impatient, she curled and uncurled her fingers inside the j
acket pockets. “That has nothing to do with it.”

  “What has?”

  “I’ve no intention of getting married to anyone. That’s one merry-go-round I can do without.”

  “You don’t choose to grab for the brass ring, maybe because you’re afraid you’d miss.”

  She lifted her chin. “Be careful, Carlo.”

  He shrugged at the icy tone. “You know I say what I think. If you’d wanted to hear something else, you wouldn’t have come here.”

  “I came here because I wanted a few days with a friend, not to discuss marriage.”

  “You’re losing sleep over it.”

  She’d picked up her cup and now slammed it down again. Coffee spilled over the sides. “It was a long flight and I’ve been working hard. And, yes, maybe I’m upset over the whole thing,” she continued before Carlo could speak. “I hadn’t expected this from him, hadn’t wanted it. He’s an honest man, and I know when he says he loves me and wants to marry me, he means it. For the moment. That doesn’t make it any easier to say no.”

  Her fury didn’t unnerve him. Carlo was well used to passionate emotions from women—he preferred them. “And you—how do you feel about him?”

  She hesitated, then walked to the window. She could look out on Carlo’s garden from there—a quiet, isolated spot that served as a border between the house and the busy streets of Rome. “I have feelings for him,” Summer murmured. “Stronger feelings than are wise. If anything, they only make it more important that I break things off now. I don’t want to hurt him, Carlo, any more than I want to be hurt myself.”

  “You’re so sure love and marriage would hurt?” He put his hands on her shoulders and kneaded them lightly. “When you look so hard at the what-if’s in life, cara mia, you miss much living. You have someone who loves you, and though you won’t say the words, I think you love him back. Why do you deny yourself?”

  “Marriage, Carlo.” She turned, her eyes earnest. “It’s not for people like us, is it?”

  “People like us?”

  “We’re so wrapped up in what it is we do. We’re used to coming and going as we please, when we please. We have no one to answer to, no one to consider but ourselves. Isn’t that why you’ve never married?”

  “I could say I’m a generous man, and feel it would be too selfish to limit my gifts to only one woman.” She smiled, fully, the way he’d wanted to see her smile. Gently, he brushed the hair away from her face. “But to you, the truth is I’ve never found anyone who could make my heart tremble. I’ve looked. If I found her, I’d run for a license and a priest quickly.”

  With a sigh, she turned back to the window. The flowers were a tapestry of color in the strong sun. “Marriage is a fairy tale, Carlo, full of princes and peasants and toads. I’ve seen too many of those fairy tales fade.”

  “We write our own stories, Summer. A woman like you knows that because you’ve always done so.”

  “Maybe. But this time I just don’t know if I have the courage to turn the next page.”

  “Take your time. There’s no better place to think about life and love than Roma. No better man to think about them with than Franconi. Tonight, I cook for you. Linguini—” he kissed the tips of his fingers “—to die for. You can make me one of your babas—just like when we were students, sì?”

  Turning back to him, Summer wrapped her arms around his neck. “You know, Carlo, if I were the marrying kind, I’d take you, for your pasta alone.”

  He grinned. “Carissima, even my pasta is nothing compared to my—”

  “I’m sure,” she interrupted dryly. “Why don’t you get dressed and take me shopping? I need to buy something fantastic while I’m in Rome. I haven’t given my mother a wedding present yet.”

  How could he have been so stupid? Blake flicked on his lighter and watched the flame cut through the darkness. It wouldn’t be dawn for an hour yet, but he’d given up on sleep. He’d given up on trying to imagine what Summer was doing in Rome while he sat wakeful in an empty suite of rooms and thought of her. If he went to Rome…

  No, he’d promised himself he’d give her some room, especially since he’d handled everything so badly. He’d given them both some room.

  More strategy, he thought derisively and drew hard on the cigarette. Was that what the whole thing was about? He’d always enjoyed challenges, problems. Summer was certainly both. Was that the reason he wanted her? If she’d agreed to marry him, he could have congratulated himself on a plan well thought out and perfectly executed. Another Cocharan acquisition. Damn it.

  He rose. He paced. Smoke curled from the cigarette between his fingers, then disappeared into the half-light. He knew better than that, even if she didn’t. If it were true that he’d treated the whole affair like a problem to be carefully solved, it was only because that was his make-up. But he loved her, and if he were sure of anything, it was that she loved him too. How was he going to get over that wall she’d erected?

  Go back to the way things were? Impossible. He looked out at the city as the darkness began to soften. In the east, the sky was just beginning to lighten with the first hints of pink. Suddenly he realized he’d watched too many sunrises alone. Too much had changed between them now, Blake mused. Too much had been said. You couldn’t take love back and lock it away for convenience’ sake.

  He’d stayed away from her for a full week before she’d gone to Rome. It had been much harder than he’d imagined it would be, but her tears that night had pushed him to it. Now he wondered if that had been yet another mistake. Perhaps if he’d gone to her the next day…

  Shaking his head, he moved away from the window again. All along, his mistake had been trying to treat the situation with logic. There wasn’t any logic in loving someone, only feelings. Without logic, he lost all advantage.

  Madly in love. Yes, he thought the term very apt. It was all madness, an incurable madness. If she’d been with him, he could have shown her. Somehow, when she came back, he thought violently, he’d take that damn wall down piece by piece until she was forced to face the madness, too.

  When the phone rang he stared at it. Summer? “Hello.”

  “Blake?” The voice was a little too sulky, a little too French.

  “Yes. Monique?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I always forget how much time is different between west and east. I was just going to bed. You were up?”

  “Yes.” The sun was slowly rising, the room was pale with light. Most of the city wasn’t yet awake, but he was. “Did you have a good trip back to California?”

  “I slept almost the whole way. Thank God, because there have been so many parties. So little changes in Hollywood—some of the names, some of the faces. Now, to be chic, one must wear sunglasses on a string. My mother did this, but only to keep from losing them.”

  He smiled because Monique demanded smiles. “You don’t need trends to be chic.”

  “How flattering.” Her voice was very young and very pleased.

  “What can I do for you, Monique?”

  “Oh, so sweet. First I must tell you how lovely it was to stay in your hotel again. Always the service is impeccable. And Summer’s arm, it’s better, no?”

  “Apparently. She’s in Rome.”

  “Oh, yes, my memory. Well, she was never one to sit too long in one space, my Summer. I saw her only briefly before I left. She seemed…preoccupied.”

  He felt his stomach muscles knotting, his jaw tightening. Deliberately he relaxed both. “She’s been working very hard on the kitchen.”

  Monique’s lips curved. He gives away nothing, this one, she thought with approval. “Yes, well I may see her again for a short time. I must ask you a favor, Blake. You were so kind during my visit.”

  “Whatever I can do.”

  “The suite where I stayed, I found it so restful, so agréable. I wonder if you could reserve it for me again, in two days’ time.”

  “Two days?” His brow creased, but he automatically reached for a
pen to jot it down. “You’re coming back east?”

  “I’m so foolish, so—what is it?—absent-minded, oui? I have business to take care of there, and with Summer’s accident, it all went out of my head. I must come back and tie up the ends that are loose. And the suite?”

  “Of course, I’ll see to it.”

  “Merci. And perhaps, I could ask one more thing of you. I will have a small party on Saturday evening—just a few old friends and some wine. I’d be very grateful if you could stop by for a few minutes. Around eight?”

  There was nothing he wanted less at the moment than a party. But manners, upbringing and business left him only one answer. Again, he automatically noted down the date and time. “I’d be happy to.”

  “Marvelous. Till Saturday then, au revoir.”

  After hanging up the phone, Monique gave a tinkle of laughter. True, she was an actress, not a screenwriter, but she thought her little scenario was brilliant. Yes, absolutely brilliant.

  Picking up the phone, she prepared to send a cablegram. To Rome.

  Chapter Twelve

  Chérie. Must return to Philadelphia for some unfinished business before filming begins. Will be at Cocharan House in my suite over the weekend. Having a little soirée Saturday evening. Do come. 8:30. A bientôt. Mother.

  And just what was she up to? Summer glanced over the cable again as she cruised above the Atlantic. Unfinished business? Summer could think of no business Monique would have in Philadelphia, unless it involved husband number two. But that was ancient history, and Monique always had someone else handle her business dealings. She’d always claimed a good actress was a child at heart and had no head for business. It was another one of her diabolically helpless ways that made it possible for her to do only exactly as she wanted. What Summer couldn’t figure out was why Monique would want to come back east.

  With a shrug, Summer slipped the cable back into her bag.

  She didn’t feel like hassling with people and cocktail talk in just over five hours. The day before, she’d outdone herself with the creation of a birthday cake shaped like Enrico’s palatial home outside Rome, and filled with a wickedly wonderful combination of chocolate and cream. It had taken her twelve hours. And for once, at the host’s insistence, she’d remained and joined the party for champagne and dessert.