Summer Desserts

her a glow of success—perhaps not the flash she felt on completing some spectacular dish—but a definite glow. She found that in a different way, it was equally satisfying.
    And it was unpardonably annoying to be told, after the completion of a particularly long and successful negotiation, that she should take a little nap.
    “Chérie.” Monique glided into the storage room, just as Summer hung up the phone with the butcher, bearing the inevitable cup of herbal tea. “It’s time you had a break. You mustn’t push yourself so.”
    “I’m fine, Mother.” Glancing at the tea, Summer sincerely hoped she wouldn’t gag. She wanted something carbonated and cold, preferably loaded with caffeine. “I’m just going over the contracts with the suppliers. It’s a bit complicated and I’ve still got one or two calls to make.”
    If she’d hoped that would be a gentle hint that she needed privacy to work, she was disappointed. “Too complicated when you’ve already worked so many hours today,” Monique insisted and took a seat on the other side of the desk. “You forget, you’ve had a shock.”
    “I cut my arm,” Summer said with strained patience.
    “Fifteen stitches,” Monique reminded her, then frowned with disapproval as Summer reached for a cigarette. “Those are so bad for your health, Summer.”
    “So’s nervous tension,” she muttered, then doggedly cleared her throat. “Mother, I’m sure Keil’s missing you desperately just as you must be missing him. You shouldn’t be away from your new husband for so long.”
    “Ah, yes.” Monique sighed and looked dreamily at the ceiling.“For a new bride, a day away from her husband is like a week, a week can be a year.” Abruptly, she pressed her hands together, shaking her head. “But my Keil, he is the most understanding of men. He knows I must stay when my daughter needs me.”
    Summer opened her mouth, then shut it again. Diplomacy, she reminded herself. Tact. “You’ve been wonderful,” she began, a bit guiltily, because it was true. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all the time, all the trouble, you’ve taken over this past week or so. But my arm’s nearly healed now. I’m really fine. I feel terribly guilty holding you here when you should be enjoying your honeymoon.”
    With her light, sexy laugh, Monique waved a hand. “My sweet, you’ll learn that a honeymoon isn’t a time or a trip, but a state of mind. Don’t concern yourself with that. Besides, do you think I could leave before they take those nasty stitches out of your arm?”
    “Mother—” Summer felt the hitch in her stomach and reached for the tea in defense.
    “No, no. I wasn’t there for you when the doctor treated you, but—” here, her eyes filled and her lips trembled “—I will be by your side when she removes them—one at a time.”
    Summer had an all-too-vivid picture of herself lying once again on the examining table, the tough-faced doctor over her. Monique, frail in black, would be standing by, dabbing at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to scream, or just drop her head between her knees.
    “Mother, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve just remembered, I have an appointment with Blake in his office.” Without waiting for an answer, Summer dashed from the storage room.
    Almost immediately Monique’s eyes were dry and her lips curved. Leaning back in her chair, she laughed in delight. Perhaps she hadn’t always known just what to do with a daughter when Summer had been a child, but now… Woman to woman, she knew precisely how to nudge her daughter along. And she was nudging her along to Blake, where Monique had no doubt her strong-willed, practical and much-loved daughter belonged.
    “À l’amour,” she said and lifted the tea in a toast.
    It didn’t matter to Summer that she didn’t have an appointment, only that she see Blake, talk to him and restore her sanity. “I have to see Mr. Cocharan,” she said desperately as she pushed right past the receptionist.
    “But, Ms. Lyndon—”
    Heedless, Summer dashed through the outer office and tossed open his door without knocking. “Blake!”
    He lifted a brow, motioned her inside, then continued with his telephone conversation. She looked, he thought, as if she were on the last stages of a manhunt, and on the wrong side of the bloodhounds. His first instinct might have been to comfort, to soothe, but common sense prevailed. It was all too obvious