Summer Desserts

door to her suite. “We were never just mother and daughter, but friends, n’est-çe pas? And chère amies always discuss new lovers.”
    “The job,” Summer said distinctly as she dropped into a butter-soft daybed and brought up her legs, “is working out quite well. I took it originally because it intrigued me and—well because Blake threw LaPointe up in my face.”
    “LaPointe? The beady-eyed little man you detest so much? The one who told the Paris papers you were his…”
    “Mistress,” Summer said violently.
    “Ah, yes, such a foolish word, mistress, so antiquated, don’t you agree? Unless one considers that mistress is the feminine term for master.” Monique smiled serenely as she draped herself on the sofa. “And were you?”
    “Certainly not. I wouldn’t have let him put his pudgy little hands on me if he’d been half the chef he claims to be.”
    “You might have sued.”
    “Then more people would’ve snickered and said where there’s smoke there’s fire. The little French swine would’ve loved that.” She was gritting her teeth, so she deliberately relaxed her jaw. “Don’t get me started on LaPointe. It was enough that Blake maneuvered me into this job with him as an edge.”
    “A very clever man—your Blake, that is.”
    “He’s not my Blake,” Summer said pointedly. “He’s his own man, just as I’m my own woman. You know I don’t believe in that sort of thing.” The discreet knock had Monique waving negligently and Summer rising to answer. She thought, as the tray of cheeses and fresh fruit and the bucket of iced champagne was wheeled in, that Max must have dashed around like a madman to have it served so promptly. Summer signed the check with a flourish and dismissed the waiter.
    Idly Monique inspected the tray before choosing a single cube of cheese. “But you’re in love with him.”
    Busy with the champagne cork, Summer glanced over. “What?”
    “You’re in love with the young Cocharan.”
    The cork exploded out, champagne fizzed and geysered from the bottle. Monique merely lifted her glass to be filled. “I’m not in love with him,” Summer said with an underlying desperation her mother recognized.
    “One is always in love with one’s lover.”
    “No, one is not.” With a bit more control, Summer poured the wine. “Affairs don’t have to be romantic and flowery. I’m fond of Blake, I respect him. I consider him an attractive, intelligent man and enjoy his company.”
    “It’s possible to say the same of a brother, or an uncle. Even perhaps an ex-husband,” Monique commented. “This is not what I think you feel for Blake.”
    “I feel passion for him,” Summer said impatiently. “Passion is not to be equated with love.”
    “Ah, Summer.” Amused, Monique chose a grape. “You canthink with your British mind, but you feel with your French heart. This young Cocharan isn’t a man any woman would lightly dismiss.”
    “Like father like son?” The moment it was said, Summer regretted it.
    But Monique only smiled, softly, reminiscently. “It occurred to me. I haven’t forgotten B.C.”
    “Nor he you.”
    Interested, Monique flipped back from the past. “You’ve met Blake’s father?”
    “Briefly. When your name was mentioned he looked as though he’d been struck by lightning.”
    The soft smile became brilliant. “How flattering. A woman likes to believe she remains in a man’s memory long after they part.”
    “You may be flattered. I can tell you I was damned uncomfortable.”
    “But why?”
    “Mother.” Restless, Summer rose again and began to pace. “I was attracted to Blake—very much attracted—and he to me. How do you think I felt when I was talking to his father, and both B.C. and I were thinking about the fact that you’d been lovers? I don’t think Blake has any idea. If he did, do you realize how awkward the situation would be?”
    “Why?”
    On a long breath, Summer turned to her mother again. “B.C. was and is married to Blake’s mother. I get the impression Blake’s rather fond of his mother, and of his father.”
    “What does that have to do with it?” Monique’s gesture was typically French—a slight shrug, a slight lifting of the hand,palm out. “I was fond of his father too. Listen to me,” she continued before Summer could retort. “B.C. was always in love with his wife. I knew that then. We consoled each other, made each other laugh in what was a miserable time for both of us. I’m grateful