“You think I don’t know that? You think I’d have you live my life?” Monique laid a hand on her daughter’s head. “Perhaps I’ve seen more deep happiness than you’ve seen. But I’ve also seen more deep despair. I can’t wish you the first without knowing you’d face the second. I want for you only what you wish for yourself.”

“Some things you’re afraid to wish for.”

“No, but some things are more carefully wished for. I will give you some advice.” She patted Summer’s head, then drew her up to sit on the sofa. “When you were a little girl, I gave you none because small children have always been a mystery to me. When you grew up, you wouldn’t have listened to any. Perhaps now we’ve come to the point between mother and daughter when each understands the other is intelligent.”

With a laugh, Summer picked a strawberry from the tray. “All right, I’ll listen.”

“It does not make you less of a woman to need a man.” When Summer frowned, she continued. “To need one to exist, yes, this is nonsense. To need one to give one scope and importance, this is dishonest. But to need a man, one man, to bring joy and passion? This is life.”

“There can be joy and passion in a woman’s life without a man.”

“Some joy, some passion,” Monique agreed. “Why settle for some? What is it that you prove by cutting off what is a natural need? Perhaps it’s a foolish woman who takes a different man as a husband, four times. Again, I don’t apologize, but only remind you that Summer Lyndon is not Monique Dubois. We look for different things in different ways. But we are both women. I don’t regret my choices.”

With a sigh, Summer laid her head on her mother’s shoulder. “I want to be able to say that for myself. I’ve always thought I could.”

“You’re an intelligent woman. What choice you make will be right for you.”

“My greatest fear has always been to make a mistake.”

“Perhaps your greatest fear is your greatest mistake.” She touched Summer’s cheek again. “Come, pour me some more champagne. I’ll tell you of my Keil.”

When Summer returned to the kitchen, her mind was still playing back her conversation with Monique. It was rare that Monique pressed her for details about her personal life, and rarer still for her to offer advice. It was true that most of the hour they’d spent together had been devoted to a listing of Keil Morrison’s virtues, but in those first few moments, Monique had said things designed to make Summer think—designed to make her begin to doubt her own list of priorities.

But when she approached the swinging doors leading into the kitchen, and the sounds of the argument met her, she knew her thinking would have to wait.

“My casserole’s perfect.”

“Too much milk, too little cheese.”

“You’ve never been able to admit that my casseroles are better than yours.”