She already knew exactly the kind of place she'd run, one day. She'd been dreaming about it for years. A little bakery of her own, where decadent chocolate tortes jostled side by side with lighter-than-air meringues; the air was scented with vanilla and butter, and nobody screamed at you for plating the dessert without a streak of gold leaf on the dish. She would turn out delicacies all day long – not tired old pound cakes, but new, interesting flavors, like the sweet summer cake sitting in the backseat, with slices of fresh, bourbon-soaked peaches baked right into the batter. Summer had made it at the restaurant one night in a fit of rebellion, when the soufflés Andre ordered refused to rise. He'd stormed in, ready to fire her, until the notes started coming back from the dining room, all lavish with praise. One diner had loved it so much, she'd even begged for Summer to bake it for her wedding, so here she was, driving three hundred out of the city with fifteen pounds of cake packed up tightly like precious works of art. Which Summer rather thought they were.
She checked the directions on the GPS again, and found she was just a few miles out. The road had shrunk to a two-lane highway, with a canopy of pine trees shading the blue skies overhead, and the ocean glinting through the trees. Summer rolled the windows all the way down to enjoy the warm, sunny day and took a breath of salty sea air. She'd been living in the windowless kitchen for so long, she hadn't even noticed the seasons change. Now, it was almost Memorial Day – time for herbed salads and fresh fruit sorbets; lobster rolls, and sweet taffy that stuck to your fingers.
She smiled. The truth was, she had an ulterior motive for making the delivery in person. Her best friend, Poppy, had just moved out to the Cape, and soon as she was done with the wedding, they had a whole weekend planned to reconnect, relax – and for Summer to meet this new man who had swept her friend off her feet. She'd heard plenty of stories about him, but as best friend, it was her official duty to size him up and make sure he wouldn't break Poppy's heart.
Her cellphone rang, and Summer hit the speaker, expecting it to be Poppy. "Hey babe," she said happily, "I'm almost there."
"Almost where?"
The voice on the other end of the line deflated Summer's good mood in an instant. "Hi mom."
"Where are you? I called the restaurant, but they said you had the day off. You shouldn't be slacking," Eve Bloom said disapprovingly. "You know there are a dozen sous-chefs who would kill for the chance to work under Andre."
"I am working," Summer explained. "I had to make a wedding cake for an event out of state."
"You're catering?" Her mother's voice rose, and Summer winced.
"It's a favor," she soothed her. "Besides, the Kenmores are Andre's biggest investors. I'm sure there will be tons of restaurant people at the wedding, and they'll be a captive audience to my baking."
"Hmm, well alright." Eve seemed mollified. "But make sure you circulate and meet everyone, don't just hide away in the kitchen. Investors buy into a personality, not just the food."
Summer stifled a sigh. Her mother would know. Eve Bloom was one of the biggest TV chefs in the country, with collection of cookbooks, Food Network shows, and even a line of non-stick pans selling gangbusters at Target. She'd built an empire out of smiling perfection, and no matter how hard she tried, Summer knew she'd never live up to her mother's example – which is why she'd given up on winning Eve's approval ten years ago, and had set about forging her own path, instead.
"And be sure to wear your hair back from your face," Eve continued. "Did you show your stylist those photos I sent? Marcie agrees, bangs would make your nose look much smaller."
Marcie was her mother's hair and makeup assistant, on-hand 24/7 to give Eve a youthful glow, and constant adoration. "Uh huh," Summer answered vaguely. She'd learned the hard way it was easier just to agree with everything her mom said.
And live halfway across the country from her, too.
Her older brother had done one better – he barely stepped foot in the States at all with his job as a photojournalist, which meant Summer was lucky enough to get the full force of their mother's attention. "Anyway, the reason I'm calling is we're going to need you in the studio next week," Eve continued briskly. "I'm flying out to film a family meal segment, sharing recipes down through the generations. I'll teach you to make a pie, and then we'll host a nice family dinner together."