The Summer House Read Online Free

Country in the garage of her old condo in Palm Beach Gardens. In honor of Pierre, she began with chocolate croissants.
    She supposed that when Father learned about her venture, he had not expected it would last very long. Which BeBe admitted to herself was perhaps the one reason shewas determined to make it succeed. Thankfully, she’d waited until her next (and last) divorce before generating the big bucks. She’d moved up from croissants to tea cakes in lemon and custard and raspberry-almond. That’s when she had the idea to pack her goodies in tins, thus escalating the retail price, the geographic span of the market, and the profits.
    And now, here she was, perched on the edge of sixty million dollars, wondering if she should jump in or get off.
    She stood up and decided that right now she was going to do nothing but shower and dress for the office.
    She crossed the media room of her sprawling home, which, nestled as it was along prime Palm Beach waterfront, was a few hundred steps up from the old condo in the Gardens. She absently picked up the remote and flicked on the television as she walked past. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Michael’s picture. She stopped in the middle of the room and turned to the TV. She watched. She listened. She tightened the sash of her silk robe.
    “We’re all so pleased to be at the convention,” Michael was saying to the crowd of reporters, microphones shoved at his face. “It’s been a long journey to Atlantic City. In the next few days, we’ll see where we go from here.” He waved and flashed a wide smile. The cameras pulled back and BeBe saw Liz.
    “Hey,” BeBe called out to the wide screen before her, to her gorgeous kid sister who had come so far. Then BeBe saw Roger and his pain-in-the-ass wife, Evelyn, then Mags and Greg and Danny—Liz’s kids, her nephews, her niece. But the smile that had come to her face vanished when she saw that next to Danny’s wheelchair stood Father, all puffed up and arrogant as if this were his show.
    Looking at the eyes that looked too much like herown, BeBe decided that maybe she should take the sixty million and run. Because for all of Father’s connections and all his big-mouthing, she doubted if he had ever had such a sum. It would be revenge, and it would be sweet, but it would not be enough, never enough. With a slow, steady hand, BeBe raised the remote, leveled it at Will Adams’s face, and pressed the OFF button.
    If it hadn’t been for Claire, BeBe would have lost her mind long ago, like maybe eight years ago when she’d decided she had enough products to begin her own direct mail catalog. Until then, French Country had been offered only through other people’s catalogs and stores, other people who were making the real money, not her.
    Claire was a single mother of three, struggling to make it on an administrative assistant’s pay and no child support. When Claire showed up at the condo for an interview, BeBe was instantly drawn to her. It might have been the young mother’s patently old, but neat and clean, navy blue suit—so uncommon in these days of nothing but jeans. Or it might have been BeBe’s inherent attraction to the underdogs of life, with whom, despite the dubious “privilege” of her upbringing, BeBe had always felt she belonged. BeBe had hired her immediately, and had been happily increasing her salary regularly to numbers the woman had perhaps never dreamed possible.
    However, Claire was a cynic who thought all men were scum (especially Ruiz) and detested politics (especially Michael Barton’s politics), and she never hesitated to share her opinions with her boss.
    “Your sister’s on the phone,” Claire said later that day. BeBe was sitting in her office reviewing résumés formuch-needed additional chefs, trying to decide who could be trusted with her lavish, rich recipes.
    “Lizzie!” BeBe said exuberantly into the phone. “I saw you this morning. You look wonderful.”
    “It’s all done