Summer Desserts

Fourée in Athens and molded île Flottante in Istanbul. For her expenses, and a stunning fee, Summer Lyndon would create a dessert that would live in the memory long after the last bite, drop or crumb was consumed.
    Have wisk, will travel, she thought vaguely and smiled through a yawn.
    She considered herself a specialist, not unlike a skilled surgeon. Indeed, she’d studied, apprenticed and practiced as long as many respected members of the medical profession. Five years after passing the stringent requirements to become a cordon bleu chef in Paris, the city where cooking is its own art, Summer had a reputation for being as temperamental as any artist, for having the mind of a computer when it came to remembering recipes and for having the hands of an angel.
    Summer half dozed in her first-class seat and fought off a desperate craving for a slice of pepperoni pizza.
    She knew the flight time would go faster if she could read or sleep her way through it. She decided to mix the two, taking the light nap first. Summer was a woman who prized her sleep almost as highly as she prized her recipe for chocolate mousse.
    On her return to Philadelphia, her schedule would be hecticat best. There was the bombe to prepare for the governor’s charity banquet, the annual meeting of the Gourmet Society, the demonstration she’d agreed to do for public television…and that meeting, she remembered drowsily.
    What had that bird-voiced woman said over the phone? Summer wondered. Drake—no, Blake—Cocharan. Blake Cocharan, III of the Cocharan hotel chain. Excellent hotels, Summer thought without any real interest. She’d patronized a number of them in various corners of the world. Mr. Cocharan the Third had a business proposition for her.
    Summer assumed that he wanted her to create some special dessert exclusively for his chain of hotels, something they could attach the Cocharan name to. She wasn’t averse to the notion—under the proper circumstances. And for the proper fee. Naturally she’d have to investigate the entire Cocharan enterprise carefully before she agreed to involve her skill or her name with it. If any one of their hotels was of inferior quality…
    With a yawn, Summer decided to think about it later—after she’d met with The Third personality. Blake Cocharan, III, she thought again with a sleepily amused smile. Plump, balding, probably dyspeptic. Italian shoes, Swiss watch, French shirts, German car—and no doubt he’d consider himself unflaggingly American. The image she created hung in her mind a moment, and bored with it, she yawned again—then sighed as the idea of pizza once again invaded her thoughts. Summer tilted her seat back farther and determinedly willed herself to sleep.
     
    Blake Cocharan, III sat in the plush rear seat of the gunmetal-gray limo and meticulously went over the report on the newestCocharan House being constructed in Saint Croix. He was a man who could scoop us a mess of scattered details and align them in perfect, systematic order. Chaos was simply a form of order waiting to be unjumbled with logic. Blake was a very logical man. Point A invariably led to point B, and from there to C. No matter how confused the maze, with patience and logic, one could find the route.
    Because of his talent for doing just that, Blake, at thirty-five, had almost complete control of the Cocharan empire. He’d inherited his wealth and, as a result, rarely thought of it. But he’d earned his position, and valued it. Quality was a Cocharan tradition. Nothing but the finest would do for any Cocharan House, from the linen on the beds to the mortar in the foundations.
    His report on Summer Lyndon told him she was the best.
    Setting aside the Saint Croix packet, Blake slipped another file from the slim briefcase by his feet. A single ring, oval-faced, gold and scrolled, gleamed dully on his hand. Summer Lyndon, he mused, flipping the file open….
    Twenty-eight, graduate Sorbonne, certified cordon bleu chef. Father, Rothschild Lyndon, respected member of British Parliament. Mother, Monique Dubois Lyndon, former star of the French cinema. Parents amicably divorced for twenty-three years. Summer Lyndon had spent her formative years between London and Paris before her mother had married an American hardware tycoon, based in Philadelphia. Summer had then returned to Paris to complete her education and currently had living quarters both there and in Philadelphia. Her mother had since married a third