Without realizing it, she began to see him as a pillar of solidity and sense in a world of nonsense. And, for perhaps the first time in her life, she felt an intrinsic need for that pillar.

Along with Blake, Summer had her work to keep her temper and her nerve ends under some kind of control. She poured herself into it. There were long sessions with the printer to design the perfect menu—an elegant slate gray with the words COCHARAN HOUSE embossed on the front—thick creamy parchment paper inside listing her final choices in delicate script. Then there were the room service menus that would go into each unit—not quite so luxurious, perhaps, but Summer saw to it that they were distinguished in their own right. She talked for hours with suppliers, haggling, demanding, and enjoying herself more than she would ever have guessed, until she got precisely the terms she wanted.

It gave her a glow of success—perhaps not the flash she felt on completing some spectacular dish—but a definite glow. She found that in a different way, it was equally satisfying.

And it was unpardonably annoying to be told, after the completion of a particularly long and successful negotiation, that she should take a little nap.

“Chérie.” Monique glided into the storage room, just as Summer hung up the phone with the butcher, bearing the inevitable cup of herbal tea. “It’s time you had a break. You mustn’t push yourself so.”

“I’m fine, Mother.” Glancing at the tea, Summer sincerely hoped she wouldn’t gag. She wanted something carbonated and cold, preferably loaded with caffeine. “I’m just going over the contracts with the suppliers. It’s a bit complicated and I’ve still got one or two calls to make.”

If she’d hoped that would be a gentle hint that she needed privacy to work, she was disappointed. “Too complicated when you’ve already worked so many hours today,” Monique insisted and took a seat on the other side of the desk. “You forget, you’ve had a shock.”

“I cut my arm,” Summer said with strained patience.

“Fifteen stitches,” Monique reminded her, then frowned with disapproval as Summer reached for a cigarette. “Those are so bad for your health, Summer.”

“So’s nervous tension,” she muttered, then doggedly cleared her throat. “Mother, I’m sure Keil’s missing you desperately just as you must be missing him. You shouldn’t be away from your new husband for so long.”

“Ah, yes.” Monique sighed and looked dreamily at the ceiling. “For a new bride, a day away from her husband is like a week, a week can be a year.” Abruptly, she pressed her hands together, shaking her head. “But my Keil, he is the most understanding of men. He knows I must stay when my daughter needs me.”

Summer opened her mouth, then shut it again. Diplomacy, she reminded herself. Tact. “You’ve been wonderful,” she began, a bit guiltily, because it was true. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all the time, all the trouble, you’ve taken over this past week or so. But my arm’s nearly healed now. I’m really fine. I feel terribly guilty holding you here when you should be enjoying your honeymoon.”