She heard the knock but remained where she was. “It’s open,” she called out. Meticulously, she adjusted the heat under the skillet. “I’ll take the champagne in here.”

“Chérie, if I’d only thought to bring some.”

Stunned, Summer turned and saw Monique, glorious in midnight black and silver, framed by her kitchen doorway. “Mother!” With the kitchen fork still in her hand, Summer closed the distance and enveloped her mother.

With that part bubbling, part sultry laugh she was famous for, Monique kissed both of Summer’s cheeks, then drew her daughter back. “You are surprised, oui? I adore surprises.”

“I’m astonished,” Summer countered. “What’re you doing in town?”

Monique glanced toward the range. “At the moment, apparently interrupting the preparations for an intimate tête à tête.”

“Oh!” Whipping around, Summer dashed back to the skillet and turned the chicken breasts, not a second too soon. “What I meant was, what are you doing in Philadelphia?” She checked the flame again, and was satisfied. “Didn’t you once say you’d never set foot in the town of the hardware king again?”

“Time mellows one,” Monique claimed with a characteristic flick of the wrist. “And I wanted to see my daughter. You are not so often in Paris these days.”

“No, it doesn’t seem so, does it?” Summer split her attention between her mother and her range, something she would have done for no one else. “You look wonderful.”

Monique’s smooth cheeks dimpled. “I feel wonderful, mignonne. In six weeks, I start a new picture.”

“A new picture.” Carefully Summer pressed a finger to the top of the chicken. When they sprang back, she removed them to a hot platter. “Where?”

“In Hollywood. They have pestered me, and at last I give in.” Monique’s infectious laugh bubbled out again. “The script is superb. The director himself came to Paris to woo me. Keil Morrison.”

Tall, somewhat gangly, intelligent face, fiftyish. Summer had a clear enough picture from the glossies, and from a party for a reigning box office queen where she’d prepared île Flottante. From her mother’s tone of voice, Summer knew the answer before she asked the question. “And the director?”

“He, too, is superb. How would you feel about a new step poppa, chérie?”

“Resigned,” Summer said, then smiled. That was too hard a word. “Pleased, of course, if you’re happy, Mother.” She began to prepare the brown butter sauce while Monique expounded.

“Oh, but he is brilliant and so sensitive! I’ve never met a man who so understands a woman. At last, I’ve found my perfect match. The man who finally brings everything I need and want into my life. The man who makes me feel like a woman.”

Nodding, Summer removed the skillet from the heat and stirred in the parsley and lemon juice. “When’s the wedding?”

“Last week.” Monique smiled brilliantly as Summer glanced up. “We were married quietly in a little churchyard outside Paris. There were doves—a good sign. I tore myself away from Keil because I wanted to tell you in person.” Stepping forward, she flashed a thin diamond-crusted band. “Elegant, oui? Keil doesn’t believe in the—how do you say?—ostentatious.”