The two faces turned to her. Both were flushed either from the heat of the stove or excitement. “Maybe you ought to tell him, Ms. Lyndon,” one of the cooks said after a moment of indecision. The glee was still there, she noticed, barely suppressed.

“Tell him what?”

“Julio and Georgia eloped—we just got word from Julio’s brother. They took off for Hawaii.”

Julio and Georgia? After a quick flip through her mental file, Summer placed them as two cooks who worked the four-to-eleven shift. A glance at her watch told her they were already fifteen minutes late.

“I take it they won’t be coming in today.”

“They quit.” One of the cooks snapped his fingers. “Just like that.” He glanced across the room where Max was babying a rack of lamb. “Max’ll hit the roof.”

“He won’t solve anything up there,” she murmured. “So we’re two short for the dinner shift.”

“Three,” the second cook corrected. “Charlie called in sick an hour ago.”

“Wonderful.” Summer finished off her sandwich, then rolled up her sleeves. “Then the rest of us better get to work.”

With an apron covering her jeans and sweater, Summer took over one section of the new counter. Perhaps it wasn’t her usual style, she mused as she began mixing the first oversized bowl of cake batter, but circumstances called for immediate action. And, she thought as she licked some batter from her knuckle, they damn well better get the stereo speakers in before the end of the week. Summer might bake without Chopin in an emergency once, but she wouldn’t do it twice.

She was arranging several layers of Black Forest cake in the oven when Max spoke over her shoulder.

“You’re making yourself some dessert now?” he began.

“No.” Summer set the timer, then moved back to the counter to start preparations on chocolate mousse. “It seems there’s been a wedding and an illness—though I don’t think the first has anything to do with the second. We’re shorthanded tonight. I’m taking over the desserts, Max, and I don’t exchange small talk when I’m working.”

“Wedding? What wedding?”

“Julio and Georgia eloped to Hawaii, and Charlie’s sick. I have this mousse to deal with at the moment.”

“Eloped!” he exploded. “Eloped without my permission?”

She took the time to look over her shoulder. “I suppose Charlie should have checked with you before he got sick as well. Save the hysterics, Max, and have someone peel me some apples. I want to do a Charlotte de Pommes after this.”

“Now you’re changing my menu!” he exploded.

She whirled, fire in her eyes. “I have a dozen different desserts to make in a very short time. I’d advise you to stay out of my way while I do it. I’m not known for graciousness when I’m cooking.”

He sucked in his stomach and pulled back his shoulders. “We’ll see what Mr. Cocharan has to say about this.”

“Terrific. Keep him out of my way, too, for the next three hours or someone’s going to end up with a face full of my best whipped cream.” Spinning back around, she went to work.