Summer was having problems of her own. Four cups of strong black coffee hadn’t quite brought her up to maximum working level. Ten hours’ sleep suited her well, eight could be tolerated. With less than that, and she’d had a good deal less than that the night before, she edged perilously close to nastiness. Add to that a state of emotional turmoil, and Max’s frigid resentment, and it didn’t promise to be the most pleasant or productive morning.

“By using one of the traditional French garnitures for the roast of lamb, we’ll add something European and attractive to the entrée.” Summer folded her hands on some of the scattered papers on her desk. She’d brought a few of Enrico’s flowers in and set them in a water glass. They helped cover some of the dusty smell.

“My roast of lamb is perfect as it is.”

“For some tastes,” Summer said evenly. “For mine it’s only adequate. I don’t accept adequate.” Their eyes warred, violently. As neither gave way, she continued. “I prefer to go with clamart, artichoke hearts filled with buttered peas, and potatoes sautéed in butter.”

“We’ve always used watercress and mushrooms.”

Meticulously, she changed the angle of a rosebud. The small distraction helped her keep her temper. “Now, we use clamart.” Summer noted it down, underlined it, then went on. “As to the prime rib—”

“You will not touch my prime rib.”

She started to snap back but managed to grit her teeth instead. It was common knowledge in the kitchen that the prime rib was Max’s specialty, one might say his baby. The wisest course was to give in graciously on this point, and hold a hard line on others. Her British heritage of fair play came through.

“The prime rib remains precisely as it is,” she told him. “My function here is to improve what needs improving while incorporating the Cocharan House standard.” Well said, Summer congratulated herself while Max huffed and subsided. “In addition, we’ll keep the New York strip and the filet.” Sensing he was mollified, Summer hit him with the poultry entrée. “We’ll continue to serve the very simple roast chicken, with the choice of potatoes or rice and the vegetables of the day, but we add pressed duck.”

“Pressed duck?” Max blustered. “We have no one on staff who’s capable of preparing that dish properly, nor do we have a duck press.”

“No, which is why I’ve ordered one, and why I’m hiring someone who can use it.”

“You’re bringing someone into my kitchen just for this!”

“I’m bringing someone into my kitchen,” she corrected, “to prepare the pressed duck and the lamb dish among other things. He’s leaving his current job in Chicago to come here because he trusts my judgment. You might begin to do the same.” With this, she began to tidy papers. “That’s all for today, Max. I’d like you to take along these notes.” While the headache began to drum inside her head, she handed him a stack of papers. “If you have any suggestions on what I’ve listed, please jot them down.” She bent back over her work as he rose and strode silently out of the room.