Summer Desserts

as Carlo disappeared upstairs. She started toward the kitchen, then went back to take her suitcase with her. There wasn’t any use leaving Carlo with something like luggage to explain to his friend.
    The kitchen was as spectacular as the rest of the house and as large as the average hotel room. Summer knew it as well as she knew her own. It was all in ebonies and ivories with what appeared to be acres of counter space. It boasted two ovens, a restaurant-sized refrigerator, two sinks and a dishwasher that could handle the aftermath of an embassy dinner. Carlo Franconi had never been one to do anything in a small way.
    Summer opened a cabinet for the coffee beans and grinder. On impulse, she decided to make crêpes. Carlo, she mused, might be just a little while.
    When he did come, she was just finishing up at the stove. “Ah, bella , you cook for me. I’m honored.”
    “I had a twinge of guilt about disrupting your morning. Besides—” She slipped crêpes, pregnant with warm apples and cinnamon, onto plates. “I’m hungry.” Summer set them on a scrubbed worktable while Carlo pulled up chairs. “I should apologize for coming like this without warning. Was your friend annoyed?”
    He flashed a grin as he sat. “You don’t give me enough credit.”
    “Scusi.” She passed the small pitcher of cream. “So, we’ll be working together for Enrico’s birthday.”
    “My veal, with spaghetti. Enrico has a weakness for my spaghetti. Every Friday, he is in my restaurant eating.” Carlo started immediately on the crêpe. “And you make the dessert.”
    “A birthday cake.” Summer drank coffee while her crêpe cooled untouched. Suddenly, she had no appetite for it. “Enrico requested something special, created just for him. Knowing his vanity, and his fondness for chocolate and whipped cream, it was easy to come up with it.”
    “But the dinner isn’t for two more days. You come early?”
    She shrugged and toyed with her coffee. “I wanted to spend some time in Europe.”
    “I see.” And he thought he did. She was looking a bit hollow around the eyes. A sign of romantic trouble. “Everything goes well in Philadelphia?”
    “The remodeling’s done, the new menus printed. I think the kitchen staff is going to do very well. I hired Maurice from Chicago. You remember?”
    “Oh, yes, pressed duck.”
    “It’s an exciting menu,” she went on. “Just the sort I’d have if I ever decided to have a place of my own. I suppose I developed a bit of respect for you, Carlo, when I started to deal with the paperwork.”
    “Paperwork.” He finished off his crêpes and eyed hers. “Ugly but necessary. You aren’t eating, Summer.”
    “Hmm? No, I guess it’s a touch of jet lag.” She waved at her plate. “Go ahead.”
    Taking her at her word, he switched plates. “You solved the problem of Max?”
    Absently she touched her arm. The stitches, thank God, were a thing of the past. “We’re managing. Mother came to visit for a while. She always makes an impression.”
    “Monique! So, how is she?”
    “Married again,” Summer said simply and lifted her coffee. “A director this time, another American.”
    “She’s happy?”
    “Naturally.” The coffee was strong—stronger than she’d grown used to in America. She thought in frustration that nothing was as it once was for her. “They’re starting a film together in another few weeks.”
    “Perhaps her wisest choice. Someone who would understand her artistic temperament, her needs.” He lingered over the perfect melding of spices and fruit. “And how is your American?”
    Summer set down her coffee and stared at Carlo. “He wants to marry me.”
    Carlo choked on a bite of crêpe and grabbed for his cup. “So—congratulations.”
    “Don’t be silly.” Unable to sit, she rose, sticking her hands in the pockets of her long, loose jacket. “I’m not going to.”
    “No?” Going to the stove, Carlo poured them both more coffee. “Why not? You find him unattractive, maybe? Bad tempered, stupid?”
    “Of course not.” Impatient, she curled and uncurled her fingers inside the jacket pockets. “That has nothing to do with it.”
    “What has?”
    “I’ve no intention of getting married to anyone. That’s one merry-go-round I can do without.”
    “You don’t choose to grab for the brass ring, maybe because you’re afraid you’d miss.”
    She lifted her chin. “Be careful, Carlo.”
    He shrugged at the icy tone. “You know I say what