Summer Desserts

Chapter One
    H er name was Summer. It was a name that conjured visions of hot petaled flowers, sudden storms and long, restless nights. It also brought images of sun-warmed meadows and naps in the shade. It suited her.
    As she stood, hands poised, body tensed, eyes alert, there wasn’t a sound in the room. No one, absolutely no one, took their eyes off her. She might move slowly, but there wasn’t a person there who wanted to chance missing a gesture, a motion. All attention, all concentration, was riveted upon that one slim, solitary figure. Strains of Chopin floated romantically through the air. The light slanted and shot through her neatly bound hair—rich, warm brown with hints and tints of gold. Two emerald studs winked at her ears.
    Her skin was a bit flushed so that a rose tinge accented already prominent cheekbones and the elegant bone structurethat comes only from breeding. Excitement, intense concentration, deepened the amber flecks that were sprinkled in the hazel of her eyes. The same excitement and concentration had her soft, molded lips forming a pout.
    She was all in white, plain, unadorned white, but she drew the eye as irresistibly as a butterfly in full, dazzling flight. She wouldn’t speak, yet everyone in the room strained forward as if to catch the slightest sound.
    The room was warm, the smells exotic, the atmosphere taut with anticipation.
    Summer might have been alone for all the attention she paid to those around her. There was only one goal, one end. Perfection. She’d never settled for less.
    With infinite care she lifted the final diamond-shape and pressed the angelica onto the Savarin to complete the design she’d created. The hours she’d already spent preparing and baking the huge, elaborate dessert were forgotten, as was the heat, the tired leg muscles, the aching arms. The final touch, the appearance of a Summer Lyndon creation, was of the utmost importance. Yes, it would taste perfect, smell perfect, even slice perfectly. But if it didn’t look perfect, none of that mattered.
    With the care of an artist completing a masterpiece, she lifted her brush to give the fruits and almonds a light, delicate coating of apricot glaze.
    Still, no one spoke.
    Asking no assistance—indeed, she wouldn’t have tolerated any—Summer began to fill the center of the Savarin with the rich cream whose recipe she guarded jealously.
    Hands steady, head erect, Summer stepped back to give her creation one last critical study. This was the ultimate test, for her eye was keener than any other’s when it came to her own work. She folded her arms across her body. Her face was without expression. In the huge kitchen, the ping of a pin dropped on the tile would have reverberated like a gunshot.
    Slowly her lips curved, her eyes glittered. Success. Summer lifted one arm and gestured rather dramatically. “Take it away,” she ordered.
    As two assistants began to roll the glittering concoction from the room, applause broke out.
    Summer accepted the accolade as her due. There was a place for modesty, she knew, and she knew it didn’t apply to her Savarin. It was, to put it mildly, magnificent. Magnificence was what the Italian duke had wanted for his daughter’s engagement party, and magnificence was what he’d paid for. Summer had simply delivered.
    “Mademoiselle.” Foulfount, the Frenchman whose specialty was shellfish took Summer by both shoulders. His eyes were round and damp with appreciation. “Incroyable.” Enthusiastically, he kissed both her cheeks while his thick, clever fingers squeezed her skin as they might a fresh-baked loaf of bread. Summer broke out in her first grin in hours.
    “Merci.” Someone had opened a celebratory bottle of wine. Summer took two glasses, handing one to the French chef. “To the next time we work together, mon ami. ”
    She tossed back the wine, took off her chef’s hat, then breezed out of the kitchen. In the enormous marble-floored, chandeliered dining room, her Savarin was even now beingserved and admired. Her last thought before leaving was—thank God someone else had to clean up the mess.
    Two hours later, she had her shoes off and her eyes closed. A gruesome murder mystery lay open on her lap as her plane cruised over the Atlantic. She was going home. She’d spent almost three full days in Milan for the sole purpose of creating that one dish. It wasn’t an unusual experience for her. Summer had baked Charlotte Malakoff in Madrid, flamed Crêpes