Summer Desserts

experienced grandmother could do the same. What was needed was some pizzazz. People would come to this restaurant for what they wouldn’t get at home. Charlottes, Clafouti, flambées.
    The structural changes came from her practical side, but the menu—the menu stemmed from her creativity, which was always paramount.
    As she surveyed the kitchen, the staff, drew in the smells, absorbed the sounds, Summer felt the first real stirrings of excitement. She would do it, and she would do it for her own satisfaction just as much as in answer to Blake’s challenge. When she was finished, this kitchen would bear her mark. It would be different entirely from jetting from one place to the next to create a single memorable dish. This would have continuity, stability. A year from now, five years from now, this kitchen would still retain her touch, her influence.
    The thought pleased her more than she’d expected. She’d never looked for continuity, only the flash of an individual triumph. And wouldn’t she be behind the scenes here? She might be in the kitchen in Milan or Athens, but the guests in the dining room knew who was preparing the Charlotte Royal. Clients wouldn’t come into the restaurant anticipating a Summer Lyndon dessert, but a Cocharan Hotel meal.
    Even as she mulled the thought over in her mind, she found it didn’t matter. Why, she was still unsure. For now, she onlyknew the pleasurable excitement of planning. Think about it later, she advised herself as she made a final note. There were months to worry about consequences, reasons, pitfalls. She wanted to begin, get elbow deep in a project she now, for whatever reason, considered peculiarly her own.
    Slipping her folder under her arm, she walked out. She couldn’t wait to start working on menus.

Chapter Six
    R ussian Beluga Malasol Caviar—that should be available from lunch to late-night dining. All night through room service.
    Summer made another scrawled note. During the past two weeks, she’d changed the projected menu a dozen times. After one abortive session with Max, she’d opted to go solo on the task. She knew the ambience she wanted to create, and how to do so through food.
    To save herself time, she’d set up a small office in a storage room off the kitchen. There, she could oversee the staff and the beginnings of the remodeling while having enough privacy to work on what was now her pet project.
    Avoiding Blake had been easy because she’d kept herself so thoroughly busy. And it appeared he was just as involved in some complicated corporate deal. Buying out another hotel chain, if rumor were fact. Summer had little interest in that,for her concentration focused on items like medallions of veal in champagne sauce.
    As long as the remodeling was going on, the staff remained in a constant state of panic or near panic. She’d come to accept that. Most of the kitchens she’d worked in were full of the tension and terror only a cook would understand. Perhaps it was that creative tension, and the terror of failure, that helped form the best meals.
    For the most part, she left the staff supervision to Max. She interfered with the routine he’d established as little as possible, incorporating the changes she’d initiated unobtrusively. She’d learned the qualities of diplomacy and power from her father. If it placated Max at all, it wasn’t apparent in his attitude toward Summer. That remained icily polite. Summer shrugged this off and concentrated on perfecting the entrées her kitchen would offer.
    Calf’s Liver Berlinoise. An excellent entrée, not as popular certainly as a broiled filet or prime rib, but excellent. As long as she didn’t have to eat it, Summer thought with a smirk as she noted it down.
    Once she’d organized the meat and poultry, she’d put her mind to the seafood. And naturally there had to be a cold buffet available twenty-four hours a day through room service. That was something else to work out. Soups, appetizers, salads—all of those had to be considered, decided on and confirmed before she began on the desserts. And at the moment, she’d have traded any of the elegant offerings jotted down in front of her for a cheeseburger on a sesame seed bun and a bag of chips.
    “So this is where you’ve been hiding.” Blake leaned againstthe doorway. He’d just completed a grueling four-hour meeting and had fully intended to go up to his suite for a long shower and a quiet, solitary meal. Instead, he’d found