A week later, and Summer almost wished she’d pitched a tent and stayed right there in the lavender bushes, instead of returning to the fray. It was dinner service on a Friday night, and she was turning out pot au caramels as fast as the double-burner could manage, sweltering in the heat of the steamy kitchen as the sound of clashing pans—and clashing personalities—echoed around her.

“Two duck on three!”

“Fire table six again, it’s not rare enough.”

“What the hell? You said well done!”

Summer kept her head down and focused on not burning the cream. A low simmer, that was all you needed for the silkiest caramel sauce, otherwise the sweet, rich flavor took on a bitter edge, and the whole flavor of the dessert was ruined.

“Non, non, STOP!”

She cringed, ducking out of the way as Andre steamed past. The target for his rage today was the new porter, who cowered by the pile of carrots as Andre unleashed his anger in three different languages about the size of his slicing. “Julienne!” he screamed. “JUL-I-ENNE.”

He threw a handful of carrots in the boy’s face and stormed out. The kitchen didn’t miss a beat, they kept working like nothing had even happened, but the poor assistant looked like he was about to burst into tears.

“It’s OK,” Summer said, taking pity on him. Everyone else was ignoring him; they’d all been there, and they’d all learned just to suck it up and keep working.

Or, in Summer’s case, go cry in the wine cellar and then keep working.

“When he said ‘julienne,’ he really means extra-fine,” she explained. “He likes everything cut slimmer than you probably learned in school.”

“He never said.” The boy’s lip trembled.

“He expects you to read his mind,” she told him. “So you have to watch—every single thing he does, it’s for a reason. And one day, he’ll expect you to just take over without any warning.”

He took a deep breath. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me, just julienne. Fast.”

He jumped to attention, and Summer turned back to her double-boiler—in time to see the milk froth in a rolling boil. Crap! Now she’d have to throw it out and start again.

She grabbed a pot-holder and hoisted it over to the sink, tipping it all down the drain. Lana, one of the sous-chefs, joined her to rinse a bowl of lettuce. “You shouldn’t let the newbies distract you,” she said dismissively. “They need to learn it on their own, just like we did.”

“And didn’t you wish back then someone had lent a hand?” Summer countered.

Lana shrugged. “Better to figure out you can’t hack it now. If you don’t have the skills, you’ll never make it. At least, not without connections,” she added, with a sideways glance.

Summer blinked, but she didn’t have time to come up with a witty comeback before Lana waltzed back to her station.

Lovely.

She knew what her coworkers thought of her. Her mother’s name loomed large, shadowing all her achievements, and every time she got a word of praise or a rare promotion, she could hear the whispers.

“Must be nice, having mommy call the shots.”

They all assumed Eve was pulling strings behind the scenes, or the chef was angling for an introduction, a chance to grab his own shot at fame. They didn’t know Eve had refused to even let her attend culinary school. “I know what it takes to make a great chef,” she’d told her bluntly, when Summer begged to go. “And you just don’t have it.”

At first, Summer thought she’d just have to prove herself to her mom. Show she was good enough, that she could handle the pressure. She got herself a job at one of the hottest restaurants in the city, doing scut work to learn the ropes. She cooked for her mother every chance she got, even spending time on the set of her TV show to be helpful, tweaking the recipes and suggesting new dishes for the cookbooks. Every time she brought it up again, she hoped that this time, her mother would see her potential. And every time, Eve just gave her that pitying smile and told her not to be foolish.

“You don’t understand the work it takes to build all of this,” she’d said, gesturing around at the lights and cameras and dozens of people working overtime to bring Eve Bloom’s brand of effortless perfection to life. “It’s not all frosting and Easy-Bake Ovens. Soon enough, you’ll get bored and quit. I only want what’s best for you.”

That’s when Summer had realized she’d never convince her mom to support her dreams. She’d just have to make them happen on her own. So, she’d taken her trip to Europe and then found a job here in the city with her new talents, putting in the long hours and working her way up every year, until finally Eve Bloom had seemed to realize two things. One, that her daughter was becoming a success, and two, that it made her look good.

Summer could pinpoint the shift right down to the minute. They’d been having dinner out together, on one of her brother’s rare trips back to town, when the head of the Food Channel had interrupted halfway through the meal. Eve had greeted him with a smile, ready to accept his compliments, but instead, he’d turned to Summer.

“I have to tell you, my wife is still raving about those hazelnut madeleines she had at Chez Andre last week. They were delicious.”

“Thank you.” Summer had flushed, surprised.

“Of course they were,” her mom had interrupted. “It runs in the family!”

Now, Eve didn’t miss a chance to boast about her wonderful daughter—or how she’d nurtured her talent all these years. Summer had stopped taking it personally. Her mom loved the spotlight and stole it any chance she got, which is why Summer happily kept her at arm’s length.

But of course, the rest of the kitchen staff didn’t know that. They probably pictured them having cozy dinners together, and testing recipes in Eve’s amazing kitchen (featured in Better Homes and Gardens). So Summer tried even harder to prove she’d gotten her shot based on talent and hard work, and nothing else.

Not that they’d believe her if she let the caramel burn again.

Summer got back to work and made it through the rest of the shift unscathed. She whisked, and stirred, and conjured sugar into caramel perfection, and by midnight, she was utterly beat.

“Coming for a drink?” one of the other sous-chefs asked, as they all grabbed their jackets and stumbled tiredly out the back doors.

Summer shook her head. Usually, they all went to the bar down the block to drink away the stress of service, but tonight, she was too tired to even make it that far. “I can’t keep my eyes open,” she yawned, buttoning her coat against the night chill. I’ll be lucky if I don’t fall asleep on the train.”

She set off for home, waiting an age for the subway to Brooklyn, and then trudging another ten blocks to her apartment building. She lived in a tiny studio on the fourth floor, and as she hauled herself up the final flight, she was greeted with a blast of loud music from the apartment next door.

Heavy rap. At 1 a.m.

She banged on the door as she passed. “Turn it down!” she yelled, reaching into her bag for her keys.

The door swung open, music thumping even louder. “Shut the fu— Oh, hey baby.” Her neighbor, Sal, leaned in the doorway and looked her up and down. He was an over-tanned hardbody who was always inviting her to CrossFit, to “work on those buns.” “You’re looking good.”

“Liar.” Summer sighed, unlocking her door. “Any chance of letting me sleep?”

“Sorry, babe, I’ve got company.” Sal winked. “But you’re welcome to join us.”

Eww.

Summer slammed the door in his face and dropped her bag to the floor. The music was somehow even louder inside, shaking their shared wall with a heavy bass, but she tried to ignore it as she crossed to her tiny excuse for a kitchen and put the kettle on the stove to boil.

She needed a new place to live.

It wasn’t bad by New York standards: four hundred square feet, crammed to the ceiling with her baking equipment, a bed against one wall. Sure, there was a patch of damp in the bathroom that was smelling worse with every passing month and the water ran hot only every other day, but it was all she could afford right now if she wanted to put part of her paycheck away in the savings account marked Dream Bakery.

The music next door went down a notch, and Summer let out a sigh of relief—until the thumping bass was replaced by the sound of a thumping headboard, and Sal’s motivational sex cries.

“Yeah baby! Dig deep! Feel the burn!”

She closed her eyes. Not for the first time, she thought about packing up her bags and leaving it all behind—for Europe again, or Australia. Somewhere far away from Chef Andre, and her mother, and all the noise.

But she couldn’t just take off, she reminded herself. She was a grown-up now, working to build a life, and a future in the industry. She’d never prove she had what it took to be a great chef if she quit at the first (or second, or third) sign of trouble.

She had a dream, and she just had to hold onto it, for as long as it took.

It was clear she wasn’t getting any sleep, not until Sal’s workout was done, so Summer poured herself a cup of tea, changed out of her work clothes, and began to collect ingredients from the over-stuffed cupboard. She’d forgone a dining table in favor of a small butcher’s block countertop, and now, she set out her stand mixer and favorite blue porcelain mixing bowl. The recipe was deceptively simple, and she knew it by heart: just cream the butter and sugar until fluffy; add a couple of eggs and the flour. She still had the lavender she’d picked stashed in her bag, and she scattered some of the delicate blossoms into the creamy yellow peaks of finished batter; dropping dime-sized dollops onto a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper, and sliding them into the oven.

It didn’t take long for the scent of butter and lavender to start wafting through the room, and fifteen minutes later, she pulled out the finished sheet. Wafer-thin, fragrant and rich, just the way Madame Celine had taught her.

Summer took one right off the sheet, before they’d even cooled. She popped it in her mouth and closed her eyes, letting the light, delicate taste transport her far away. Baking was her therapy, her escape. But this time, instead of conjuring the blue skies and wide valleys of Provence like it always did, a different scene came to life in her mind.

The old stone cottage in Sweetbriar Cove.

Except, it wasn’t the way she’d found it, derelict and falling into disrepair. In Summer’s mind, the big windows were polished and gleaming, filled with a delicious display of cakes, and out front, a cluster of little bistro tables seated people enjoying their morning croissant, or a decadent tarte aux pomme.

She could see it all, as clear as day. She stepped inside the front door and found the floors freshly swept, and a long countertop filled with cake stands, each more tempting than the last. It was warm and homey, full of sunshine, with a chalkboard menu and mismatched china, old cookbooks stacked on the shelves, and happy people sighing with pleasure over their next bite of heaven.

Her bakery.

She’d always pictured it here in the city, with sleek displays and critics lining up to name her the new hot chef in town. New York was one of the toughest places to launch a restaurant in the world, and Summer had been determined she would do it one day—and prove her mother wrong.

But what if she didn’t have anything to prove?

What if her dream was the escape plan, all along?

The bakery on Blackberry Lane.

Summer opened her eyes, her heart pounding. It was crazy. Hadn’t she just been saying she couldn’t just run away and leave her life behind?

Except this wasn’t running away. She’d be running to something: the dream she’d been working towards all these years.

Summer felt a shiver of excitement, that champagne bubble in her veins. Poppy had said the town would be overrun with tourists all summer. Tourists who would love a place to stop for cake or fresh bread on their way through . . .

Was she really considering this? But now that she had that picture in her mind, it felt within reach, so close, she could almost reach out and touch it.

Think. Details.

Summer crossed to the bookcase and pulled down her binder, stuffed with loose-leaf sheets and magazine tears, and covered with recipes and polaroids of her best dishes. For years, she’d filled it with all the information she’d need to open her own place: mock business plans, sales projections, interviews with other successful chefs, and more. Now, she sat cross-legged on her bed and flipped through, her excitement rising.

Could it work?

Summer quickly looked up the cost of rent around Sweetbriar, and almost cheered when she saw the results. It was barely one tenth of even the most run-down space in the bad part of Brooklyn! And if that cottage had been used as some kind of restaurant before, then maybe the kitchen would already be equipped . . .

She ran the numbers, trying to keep her hopes in check. She’d been working and saving for so long, she couldn’t afford to get it wrong. If she took off on a whim and crashed and burned, then there would be no second chance.

But if it worked . . .

She wouldn’t have to wait. Working, and hoping, and saving—all for some point on the horizon that never seemed to get any closer.

She could make her dream happen, right now.

Hadn’t she been wishing she could be wild and spontaneous again? Well, it didn’t get much more spontaneous than this.

She leapt up, tied her hair back, and looked around.

She had a lot of packing to do.