So, for the moment, neither would Monique DuBois Lyndon Smith Clarion Morrison. She supposed, when the news broke, the glossies and trades would have a field day. Monique would eat up every line of publicity. Summer kissed her mother’s cheek. “Be happy, ma mère.”

“I’m ecstatic. You must come to California and meet my Keil, and then—” She broke off as the knock interrupted her. “Ah, this must be your dinner guest. Shall I answer for you?”

“Please.” With the tongue caught between her teeth, Summer poured the sauce over the suprêmes. She’d serve them within five minutes or dump them down the sink.

When the door opened, Blake was treated to a slightly more voluptuous, slightly more glossy, version of Summer. The candlelight disguised the years and enhanced the classic features. Her lips curved slowly, in the way her daughter’s did, as she offered her hand.

“Hello, Summer is busy in the kitchen. I’m her mother, Monique.” She paused a moment as their hands met. “But you are familiar to me, yes. But yes!” she continued before Blake could speak. “The Cocharan House. You are the son—B.C.’s son. We’ve met before.”

“A pleasure to see you again, Mademoiselle Dubois.”

“This is odd, oui? And amusing. I stay in your hotel while in Philadelphia. Already my bags are checked in and my bed turned down.”

“You’ll let me know personally if there’s anything I can do for you while you stay with us.”

“Of course.” She studied him in the brief but thorough way a woman of experience has. Like mother, like daughter, she mused. Each had excellent taste. “Please, come in. Summer is putting the finishing touches on your meal. I’ve always admired her skill in the kitchen. Myself, I’m helpless.”

“Diabolically helpless,” Summer put in as she entered with the hot platter. “She always made sure she burned things beyond recognition, and therefore, no one asked her to cook.”

“An intelligent move, to my thinking,” Monique said easily. “And now, I’ll leave you to your dinner.”

“You’re welcome to join us, Mother.”

“Sweet.” Monique framed Summer’s face in her hands and kissed both cheeks again. “But I need my beauty rest after the long flight. Tomorrow, we catch up, non? Monsieur Cocharan, we will all have dinner at your wonderful hotel before I go?” In her sweeping way, she was at the door. “Bon appétit.”

“A spectacular woman,” Blake commented.

“Yes.” Summer went back to the kitchen for the rest of the meal. “She continually amazes me.” After placing the vegetables on the table, she picked up her glass. “She’s just taken her fourth husband. Shall we drink to them?”

He began to remove the foil from the bottle, but her tone had him pausing. “A bit cynical?”

“Realistic. In any case, I do wish her happiness.” When he removed the cork, she took it and absently waved it under her nose. “And I envy her perennial optimism.” After both glasses were filled, Summer touched hers to his. “To the new Mrs. Morrison.”