Summer Desserts

wanted it too, why pretend otherwise? She’d never believed in pretenses, only in defenses. In any event, she’d already decided to handle Max and the kitchen in her own way. Linking her hands around his neck, she smiled back at him. “Then tonight, we’ll be together. You’ll bring the champagne?”
    She was softening, but not yielding. Blake found it infinitely more exciting than submission. “For a price.”
    Her laugh was wicked and warm. “A price?”
    “I want you to do something for me you haven’t done before.”
    She tilted her head, then touched the tip of her tongue to her lip. “Such as?”
    “Cook for me.”
    Surprise lit her eyes before the laughter sprang out again. “Cook for you? Well, that’s a much different request from what I expected.”
    “After dinner I might come up with a few others.”
    “So you want Summer Lyndon to prepare your dinner.” She considered it as she drew away. “Perhaps I will, though such a thing usually costs much more than a bottle of champagne. Once in Houston I prepared a meal for an oil man and his new bride. I was paid in stock certificates. Blue chip.”
    Blake took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I bought you a pizza. Pepperoni.”
    “That’s true. Eight o’clock then. And I’d advise you to eat a very light lunch today.” She reached for the door handle, then glanced over her shoulder with a grin. “You do like Cervelles Braisées? ”
    “I might, if I knew what it was.”
    Still smiling, she opened the door. “Braised calf’s brains. Au revoir. ”
    Blake stared at the door. She’d certainly had the last word that time.
     
    The kitchen smelled of cooking and sounded like a drawing room. Strains of Chopin were muted as Summer rolled the boneless breasts of chicken in flour. On the range, the clarified butter was just beginning to deepen in color. Perfect. Stuffed tomatoes were already prepared and waiting in the refrigerator. Buttered peas were just beginning to simmer. She would sauté the potato balls while she sautéed the suprêmes.
    Timing, of course, was critical. Suprêmes deVolaille à Brun had to be done to the instant, even a minute of overcooking and she would, like any temperamental cook, throw them out in disgust. Hot butter sizzled as she slipped the floured chicken into it.
    She heard the knock but remained where she was. “It’s open,” she called out. Meticulously, she adjusted the heat under the skillet. “I’ll take the champagne in here.”
    “ Chérie, if I’d only thought to bring some.”
    Stunned, Summer turned and saw Monique, glorious in midnight black and silver, framed by her kitchen doorway. “Mother!” With the kitchen fork still in her hand, Summer closed the distance and enveloped her mother.
    With that part bubbling, part sultry laugh she was famous for, Monique kissed both of Summer’s cheeks, then drew her daughter back. “You are surprised, oui? I adore surprises.”
    “I’m astonished,” Summer countered. “What’re you doing in town?”
    Monique glanced toward the range. “At the moment, apparently interrupting the preparations for an intimate tête à tête. ”
    “Oh!” Whipping around, Summer dashed back to the skillet and turned the chicken breasts, not a second too soon. “What I meant was, what are you doing in Philadelphia?” She checked the flame again, and was satisfied. “Didn’t you once say you’d never set foot in the town of the hardware king again?”
    “Time mellows one,” Monique claimed with a characteristic flick of the wrist. “And I wanted to see my daughter. You are not so often in Paris these days.”
    “No, it doesn’t seem so, does it?” Summer split her attention between her mother and her range, something she would have done for no one else. “You look wonderful.”
    Monique’s smooth cheeks dimpled. “I feel wonderful, mignonne. In six weeks, I start a new picture.”
    “A new picture.” Carefully Summer pressed a finger to thetop of the chicken. When they sprang back, she removed them to a hot platter. “Where?”
    “In Hollywood. They have pestered me, and at last I give in.” Monique’s infectious laugh bubbled out again. “The script is superb. The director himself came to Paris to woo me. Keil Morrison.”
    Tall, somewhat gangly, intelligent face, fiftyish. Summer had a clear enough picture from the glossies, and from a party for a reigning box office queen where she’d prepared île Flottante. From her mother’s tone