Summer Desserts

had over the weekend.
    As her nerves began to calm, Summer straightened away from the wall. She’d handled herself well, she’d made herself clear and she’d walked out on him. All in all, a successful morning. She pressed a hand against her stomach where a few muscles were still jumping. Damn it, things would be simpler if she didn’t want him so badly.
    When the doors slid open she stepped out, then wound her way around to the kitchen. In the prelunch bustle, she went unnoticed. She approved of the noise. A quiet kitchen to Summer meant there was no communication. Without that, there was no cooperation. For a moment, she stood just inside the doorway to watch.
    She approved of the smells. It was a mixture of lunchtime aromas over the still-lingering odors of breakfast. Bacon, sausage and coffee. She caught the scent of baking chicken, of grilled meat, of cakes fresh from the oven. Narrowing her eyes, she envisioned the room as it would be in a short time. Made to her order. Better, Summer decided with a nod.
    “Ms. Lyndon.”
    Distracted, she frowned up at a big man in white apron and cap. “Yes?”
    “I’m Max.” His chest expanded, his voice stiffened. “Head chef.”
    Ego in danger, she thought as she extended a hand. “How do you do, Max. I missed you when I was in last week.”
    “Mr. Cocharan has instructed me to give you full cooperation during this—transition period.”
    Marvelous, she thought with an inward moan. Resentment in a kitchen was as difficult to deal with as a deflated soufflé. Left to herself, she might have been able to keep injured feelings to a minimum, but the damage had already been done. She made a mental note to give Blake her opinion of his tact and diplomacy.
    “Well, Max, I’d like to go over the proposed structural changes with you, since you know the routine here better than anyone else.”
    “Structural changes?” he repeated. His full, round face flushed. The moustache over his mouth quivered. She caught the gleam of a single gold tooth. “In my kitchen?”
    My kitchen, Summer mentally corrected, but smiled. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased with the improvements—and the new equipment. You must have found it frustrating trying to create something special with outdated appliances.”
    “This oven,” he said and gestured dramatically toward it, “this range—both have been here since I began at Cocharan. We are none of us outdated.”
    So much for cooperation, Summer thought wryly. If it wastoo late for a friendly transition of authority, she’d have to go with the coup . “We’ll be receiving three new ovens,” she began briskly. “Two gas, one electric. The electric will be used exclusively for desserts and pastries. This counter,” she continued, walking toward it without looking back to see if Max was following, “will be removed and the ranges I specified built into a new counter—butcher block. The grill remains. There’ll be an island here to provide more working area and to make use of what is now essentially wasted space.”
    “There is no wasted space in my kitchen.”
    Summer turned and aimed her haughtiest stare. “That isn’t a matter for debate. Creativity will be the first priority of this kitchen, efficiency the second. We’ll be expected to produce quality meals during the remodeling—difficult but not impossible if everyone makes the necessary adjustments. In the meantime, you and I will go over the current menu with an eye toward adding excitement and flair to what is now pedestrian.”
    She heard him suck in his breath but continued before he could rage. “Mr. Cocharan contracted me to turn this restaurant into the finest establishment in the city. I fully intend to do just that. Now I’d like to observe the staff in lunch preparations.” Unzipping her leather folder, Summer pulled out a note pad and pen. Without another word she began walking through the busy kitchen.
    The staff, she decided after a few moments, was well trained and more orderly than many. Credit Max. Cleanliness was obviously a first priority. Another point for Max. She watched a cook expertly bone a chicken. Not bad, Summer decided. The grill was sizzling, pots steaming. Lifting a lid, she ladeled outa small portion of the soup du jour. She sampled it, holding the taste on her tongue a moment.
    “Basil,” she said simply, then walked away. Another cook drew apple pies from an oven. The scent was strong and wholesome. Good, she mused, but any