Summer Desserts

himself heading for the kitchen, and Summer.
    She looked as she had the first time he’d seen her—her hair down, her feet bare. On the table in front of her were reams of scrawled-on paper and a half-empty glass of diluted soda. Behind her, boxes were stacked, sacks piled. The room smelled faintly of pine cleaner and cardboard. In her own way, she looked competent and completely in charge.
    “Not hiding,” she corrected. “Working.” Tired, she thought. He looked tired. It showed around the eyes. “Been busy? We haven’t seen you down here for the past couple of weeks.”
    “Busy enough.” Stepping inside, he began to poke through her notes.
    “Wheeling and dealing from what I hear.” She leaned back, realizing all at once that her back ached. “Taking over the Hamilton chain.”
    He glanced up, then shrugged and looked back at her notes again. “It’s a possibility.”
    “Discreet.” She smiled, wishing she weren’t quite so glad to see him again. “Well, while you’ve been playing Monopoly, I’ve been dealing with more intimate matters.” When he glanced at her again, with his brow raised exactly as she’d expected it to be, she laughed. “Food, Blake, is the most basic and personal of desires, no matter what anyone might say to the contrary. For many, eating is a ritual experienced three times a day. It’s a chef’s job to make each experience memorable.”
    “For you, eating’s a jaunt through adolescence.”
    “As I said,” Summer continued mildly, “food is very personal.”
    “Agreed.” After another glance around the room, he looked back at her. “Summer, it’s not necessary for you to work in a storage room. It’s a simple matter to set you up in a suite.”
    She pushed through the papers, looking for her list on poultry. “This is convenient to the kitchen.”
    “There’s not even a window. The place is packed with boxes.”
    “No distractions.” She shrugged. “If I’d wanted a suite, I’d have asked for one. For the moment, this suits me.” And it’s several hundred feet away from you, she added silently. “Since you’re here, you might want to see what I’ve been doing.”
    He lifted a sheet of paper that listed appetizers. “ Coquilles St. Jacques, Escargots Bourguignonne, Pâté de Campagne. Is it too personal a question to ask if you ever eat what you recommend?”
    “From time to time, if I trust the chef. You’ll see, if you go more thoroughly through my notes, that I want to offer a more sophisticated menu, because the American palate is becoming more sophisticated.”
    Blake smiled at the term American , and the way she said it, before he sat across from her. “Is it?”
    “It’s been a slow process,” she said dryly. “Today, you can find a good food processor in almost every kitchen. With one, and a competent cookbook, even you could make an acceptable mousse.”
    “Amazing.”
    “Therefore,” she continued, ignoring him, “to lure people into a restaurant where they’ll pay, and pay well to be fed, youhave to offer them the superb. A few blocks down the street, they can get a wholesome, filling meal for a fraction of what they’ll pay in the Cocharan House.” Summer folded her hands and rested her chin on them. “So you have to give them a very special ambience, incomparable service and exquisite food.” She picked up her soda and sipped. “Personally, I’d rather pick up a take-out pizza and eat it at home, but…” She shrugged.
    Blake scanned the next sheet. “Because you like pizza, or you like being alone?”
    “Both. Now—”
    “Do you stay out of restaurants because you spend so much time in a kitchen behind them or because you simply don’t like being in a group?”
    She opened her mouth to answer and found she didn’t know. Uncomfortable, she toyed with her soda. “You’re getting more personal, and off the point.”
    “I don’t think so. You’re telling me we have to appeal to people who’re becoming sophisticated enough to make dishes that were once almost exclusively professionally prepared, as well as draw in clientele who might prefer a quick, less expensive meal around the corner. You, due to your profession and your taste, fall into both categories. What would a restaurant have to offer not only to bring you in, but to make you want to come back?”
    A logical question. Summer frowned at it. She hated logical questions because they left you no choice but to answer. “Privacy,” she answered at