The Lost Recipe for Happiness (22 page)

Now.

She let him kiss her fingers, one at a time. Let him press his mouth to her palm, to each small pad beneath each digit, and sweep his tongue over the wounds. It tickled and sizzled and she let him just do what he would, pressing his mouth to her wrist. She spread her fingers on his cheek, feeling the pockmarks from long ago, the little prickles of a missed patch of beard. Beneath the pad of her thumb was the bottom of his goatee, silky soft.

He still didn’t look at her as she took off his glasses, his hat, letting his hair fall free in that erotically glossy tangle. She put her hands on his face and leaned in to kiss each eyelid. Lightly. His cheekbones. Finally his mouth, as succulent as cherries, and she sucked on his lower lip until he moved and they tumbled backward on her couch, with the flickers of the candles keeping watch.

“God,” he breathed, and they kissed as if that was the only way to stay alive, as if tongues brushing, lips burning like this, could sustain them. Elena buried her hands in his hair and cried out when he pushed up her blouse and struggled with her bra and ended up breaking the clasp in his urgency to put his face to the abundance there, cool and white. Her breath rose high in her throat as she clasped him to her, crying out as he took her breasts in his hands and brushed his face over her, buried his nose, lapped the valley between her breasts, then rose and feasted on nipple and breast and throat. He worked her legs open, pulled their bodies, still clad in jeans, together.

It felt to her that her skin leaked honey from every pore, and Julian, so hungry, starving, so needful, lapped it all away, drinking from the crook of her elbow and the hollow of her throat. He dipped his tongue into her mouth and suckled her tongue until she was whimpering and he was drenched and sticky and they melted out of their clothes. And for a long moment, she wanted only to admire the white column of his chest, and the tensile cords of his thighs, and his organ, ruddy and proud, leaking and leaping, before their limbs and bodies twined and she felt him slide between her legs, into her center, nudging her womb.

And there, he paused and raised his head. “Look at me, Elena,” he said raggedly. She opened her eyes, the thudding red pulse of him rising and rising in her, and she made a soft noise as something brushed her face, her hair. He kissed her, slowly, slowly, eyes boring into her, and he began to move again. There was in the room a rustling that scared her, and a pulse of light, and then there was only Julian, and she bit his neck in her hunger, breathing in the wild apple scent of him, the taste of his skin, like golden morning, like wine, like lifeblood. She whimpered and bit him and he hauled her up into him and they shimmered and broke and blazed and Elena had enough sense to think
Oh, shit
before she tumbled over the edge of everything.

Elena hated the part when she had to move. The front of her was in pretty good shape. There was a dent or two on her torso, but they were not terribly evident unless you were looking for them. Her legs were somewhat crooked, she’d been told, but it was her back that was horrific, and as Julian shifted, emerging from the haze, she wondered what next. What next?

He shifted his weight to his elbows. “Am I squishing you?”

“No.”

“Don’t regret this, Elena,” he whispered.

“Don’t talk.” She put her hands on his mouth. He opened his lips and sucked her fingers in. With her other hand, she shoved at his shoulder. “I need to get up.”

He moved awkwardly. Red crept up his cheeks.

Elena said only, “I just want to get this over with,” and stood up, putting her back to him. “It isn’t beautiful.”

He said nothing. She didn’t move. Her shoulders got cold and she turned around.

He was smiling. “Is that a shock technique? I’m supposed to be horrified or something?”

“No. Usually it has quite the opposite effect.”

A dark brow rose. “Really. Hmm.” He reached out a hand and brushed her pubic hair. “I like this better.” When she didn’t move away, he slid his fingers lower, between the damp lips.

She found she liked it, standing over him. His body was white and long, with a scattering of dark hair over his chest, and thinly down his belly to the nest of penis, hair, and skin. She’d bitten him and the mark showed on his shoulder. His hair fell around that odd, beautiful face and he looked at her as he stroked her clitoris. Waiting.

Elena smiled and shifted to let him in.

TWENTY-SEVEN

T
ANSY’S
C
HURROS

1 cup flour

3 eggs

1 cup water

¹
/
₂
cup butter

¹
/
₄
tsp salt

Lard or shortening for frying

¹
/
₄
cup sugar

¹
/
₂
tsp ground cinnamon

It all happens fast, so get it all ready ahead of time—measure out the flour, break the eggs and beat them lightly. In a saucepan, heat water, butter, and salt to boil, then stir in flour. Stir vigorously over low heat until the mix forms a ball, about a minute, then remove from heat and beat the eggs into the dough until everything is smooth.

Heat lard or shortening (about 2 inches) in a heavy frying pan until a bit of dough sizzles.

Spoon the dough into a cake-decorating tube with a fat star tip and squeeze out strips of dough about 4–5 inches long, and fry about three or four at a time, 2 minutes or so on each side. Drain on paper towels and sprinkle generously with sugar and cinnamon while still hot, or try powdered sugar. Makes men and boys your slaves for life.

TWENTY-EIGHT

E
lena finally dragged herself to the Orange Bear around three. She’d originally intended to arrive just past noon, but—well. Julian. As she walked through the gilded late-fall day, with wind clattering through the last cottonwood leaves and purple clouds piling up over the mountains, her limbs were liquid, her mind soft. She’d let Julian take Alvin to Portia while she worked, and would send him there again tomorrow for the opening. She was paying Portia for babysitting. Julian promised, bending in to kiss her neck, that he would bring the dog home after her shift.

Elena didn’t know if she would survive that long. Flashes of his mouth, his hands, all the things they’d been doing all afternoon, kept slamming into her, as if her memories were gusts of perfumed lust.

Wow. She clutched it all close to herself, smiling. Maybe she
could
fall in love again. Maybe there was one more in her, one more chance—

Stop. She shook her hair out of her face and squared her shoulders as she came up the walk to the restaurant. Deliberately, she pushed herself into business-mind. This was important stuff—in a little more than twenty-four hours, her first solo menu would debut to the public.

The restaurant looked welcoming and warm in the late day. The outside had been sanded and painted a pale golden orange with white trim, which sounded terrible but looked wonderful against the reddish-brown earth and deep blue and green of the mountains. As winter came, the vivid blue skies and white slopes would provide a spectacular backdrop. She picked up a plastic straw, blown onto the steps from somewhere, and admired the sign, carved by a local artisan. An orange bear with a broad dark nose and the letters in relief. Around the edges of the sign were carved pink and orange stylized flowers, and the lettering—
The Orange Bear
—was a friendly, soft-edged font.

A flutter of mixed emotions moved in her. Excitement. Joy. Anticipation. Terror. Tomorrow night, she’d be a wreck. For tonight, thanks to Julian, she was feeling pretty loose.

The kitchen was in full uproar. The music played and the dishwashers swished and orders rang out in Spanish and English. A prep cook chopped scallions and Ivan was massaging something on a cutting board, his hands and arms covered with meat and spices up to his elbows. He was whistling and lifted his chin in greeting as she came in. Juan stood at the stove, stirring something in a big iron pot. “Hey,
Jefa,”
he said, calling her over. “Taste this soup, eh? I’m thinking I found us a new daily special.”

She took out a spoon and ladled out a taste. It was a deep, velvety chicken broth with tomatoes and garlic and spices, and floating bits of chicken and tortillas. She closed her eyes, put her hand over her lips to press in the flavor. It seemed she had never tasted chicken broth before, that this was the pinnacle of all. “Good God,” she said in English. “That is spectacular.”

He smiled, the big gentle eyes lighting up in pleasure.
“Gracias, Jefa.”

“Definitely put it in the rotation.” She took out a fresh spoon, ladled out a second taste. “Who taught you to cook?” she asked in Spanish.

“Mi padre.
He had a restaurant in Juarez. Good cook,” he said. “Not always a wise man, but—” He shrugged. “He meant well. I lit a candle for him today.”

“I made a table at home,” she said. “My sister would have been thirty-seven years old today.”

He looked at her. Nodded in his quiet way.

“Jefa!”
Ivan called. “Come taste this.”

Elena grinned at Juan. He said, “The boy needs attention.”

“Coming!” She headed over to the corner where Ivan was working at a stainless steel table. “Hey, Ivan. What are you up to?”

He grinned at her, lifted a handful of pale meat. “A ground chicken mixture for the beef-adverse. A sausage like chorizo, without all the stuff that makes people squirm.”

Elena leaned over the bowl and inhaled the sharpness of cumin, the faint greenness of sage, and the smoky hint of chipotles. “Nice.” She narrowed her eyes. “The onions are an odd addition. Wouldn’t they come later?”

He shrugged, slapping meat back and forth between his hands. He inhaled the scent, too, pursed his lips as if to seal it in his nostrils. “I’m experimenting. Maybe a little more garlic, too. And I was thinking about some cilantro.”

His eyes were glossy, an almost unreal shade of blue, and a smile played over that sensual mouth.

“Are you high or something?” she asked.

He wiggled his eyebrows. “High on love, sistah, high on love.”

“Hoo-kay! Not to offend you, Maestro, but you might want to finish that up. We have a lot of other stuff to do.”

“I hear you,” he said easily. “This has just been mobbing me for a few days and I suddenly figured out what might be missing.”

Elena nodded. “Let me try it when you cook it.” She patted him on the back and moved toward the stairs to the second kitchen.

“Hold on there, sis.” He grabbed the back of her whites. “You just
patted
me on the back. Let me have a look at you.”

Elena composed her face carefully, wiping it clean of any emotion. “What?”

He peered at her through hooded eyes, intently sweeping over details—chin, eyes, neck, mouth. Raising his chin, he smiled with half his mouth. “Aha!”

She tugged away, pretending she had no idea what he saw. “I’ve got work to do, Rasputin.”

He laughed as she ducked into the stairwell and dashed upstairs to the pastry and tamale prep kitchen. The music and mood here were entirely different. North light slanted in through a bank of windows at the top of the wall, giving the room a blue and shadowy cast. Tansy liked the natural light and worked beneath the windows rolling pastry. The music was something Latin and quiet, and the air smelled of cinnamon and frying dough. Elena’s stomach growled. “Wow, that smells fantastic.”

The scene was as quiet and peaceful as a Vermeer, the woman cooking in denim and a plain white button-up shirt covered by an apron, her wrinkled face softened by the cool light, her arms dusted with flour.

She raised her head. “Hello, sweetie,” she said in her smoker’s rasp. Then with a grin that showed one missing tooth, “I mean Chef.”

“It’s all right, Tansy. You alone can call me ‘sweetie.’” She ambled over, drawn by the frying dough. “What do we have here?”

“Just churros.”

“Which is like Michelangelo saying ‘just statues.’” The twists of dough cooled on the butcher-block table in little rows, sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. Elena grabbed one, still hot, and ate it in a suspended moment of bliss. “This makes me think of feast days when I was a kid.”

“Food takes you back, that’s for sure.”

“Mmm.” The churros were crisp outside, hot and airy inside, and the sugar and cinnamon bit into her memories and called forth some unnamed year when she, along with her other siblings, sat in a church hall, dressed in their Sunday clothes, devouring churros from grease-stained paper napkins—explosions of pleasure in every bite.

“Wow,” she said, “I think I’m starving. I need a meal.”

“Juan said he was going to serve the family meal at four.” Tansy glanced at the clock on the wall. “Not long now.”

“Good. You have everything—all set for tomorrow?”

“Ready as I can be, I reckon. I think it’ll be a fine blowout, Chef. The crew works well together and the menu is terrific.”

“Thanks.” Elena opened the reach-in and saw satisfying rows of tamales, mini and regular sized, lined up by color on trays.

“Where is your mama?” Tansy asked.

“Espanola. That’s where I grew up.”

“Not so far away.”

Elena smiled faintly. “Farther than you can even imagine.”

A cry rang out downstairs and Elena bolted. She was halfway down the stairs before someone called out in Spanish,
“Jefa!
We need you down here, pronto!”

She scrambled into the kitchen, where the lively chaos had screeched to a halt and centered around Hector, who held his hand wrapped in a bloody towel. It dripped blood to the white floor.

“He cut himself,” said Ivan, coming over with ice and a wet towel. “Tell him to bind it, for God’s sake! Fuck, this is why I hate bilingual kitchens.”

Like there was any other kind. One of the others said something profane in Spanish, and Elena glared at him, too. She bent to examine Hector’s hand. She said in Spanish, “Put pressure on it, but first let me see.”

She shook her head as she saw the gash, deep and long across the flesh pad beneath his thumb. “You have to go to the ER. Juan, you take him.”

The kitchen stilled. Juan just looked at her, then to Ivan. Hector stared balefully at his hand.

“What is it?” Elena asked.

“It’s cool,
Jefa,”
Ivan said. “I’ll take him. We’ll be back in time for dinner.” He winked and herded Hector toward the door. “C’mon, man.”

Elena narrowed her eyes at Juan. “What gives?”

Juan gave a Latin shrug. “Nobody likes American medicine.”

But something was awry. She narrowed her eyes. “C’mon, Juan, what’s going on?”

“De nada,”
he said, and put his hand on her shoulder, turning her toward the dining room. “Let’s go put the meal out.”

For a moment, she stood, testing her intuition. There was something wrong, but she couldn’t quite discern what it was. “Go,” she said to Ivan.

She caught a wordless exchange of glances between the two men, but for now, she left it alone. “I’m going to check the storerooms. Double-check everything before you go tonight.” Then she scowled. “Damn. If Hector’s out, who will we get to replace him?”

“I’ll ask around.” Juan stirred his stockpots. “Hector won’t miss, though.” He rubbed his thumb and fingers together.
“Dinero.”

Julian paced around the house, up to his office, down to the kitchen for coffee, for a slice of cheese, for—whatever. Nothing sounded good, no matter how many cupboards he opened. It wasn’t food he wanted just now.

Portia, looking weary, brought two water glasses upstairs and put them in the sink. Alvin followed behind her and flopped down on the kitchen floor with a big sigh.

“What’s with you?” Portia asked her father.

He shook his head. “Restless.”

“Is it the movie?”

A sharp prick of guilt stabbed him. The lie of omission. “Kind of.”

She slid onto a stool, crossing her arms on the counter. “Do you have to wait on approval or something? I thought you were past all that with those producers.”

He inclined his head. “Well, they want more of the slasher series, but I convinced them to let me do the ghost story. There are some…issues with it that I’m trying to work out.”

“They should let you do what you want,” she said with the innocence of fourteen. “You started with ghost stories.”

He gave her a sideways grin. “That’s true.” The first film had been a remake of
The Importance of Being Earnest,
with a twist: one of the “Ernests” gets killed in a mix-up, and his ghost gives the other one a lot of trouble. He’d been twenty-five years old when he made it, and although it was raw in ways, he sometimes thought it was one of his best efforts. But embarrassment or pride, that was how a life in movies went—you threw yourself into whatever you were doing at the time.

“I like ghost stories,” she said.

“So do I, as it happens.” He put the kettle on. “Have some hot chocolate with me?”

She nodded. “Is my mom gonna be in the movie?”

Ricki and her newly appointed husband had flown out this afternoon, after a long chat. “I hope so. I wrote the part with her in mind.”

Her delft-blue eyes fell on his face, showing nothing. “That’s nice. It’s been harder for her to get parts lately.”

“That’s Hollywood,” he said with regret. “No matter how beautiful, it’s harder for a woman to land a good role after forty.”

“Do you think my mom is beautiful?”

Julian chuckled. “Anyone with eyes thinks your mother is beautiful, Portia. She’s like a painting.”

She nodded, gnawing her bottom lip.

“What’s on your mind, kiddo?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess it hasn’t helped her a lot, has it? Being beautiful? She’s not all that happy. Five husbands and all those boyfriends and nobody seems to stick. Not that I think
you
ran out on her or anything.” She waved a hand. “You know what I mean.”

“I do.” The kettle began to rumble, and Julian took two mugs from the shelf and opened the cupboard to look for hot chocolate. There, left over from the tasting party, was a stock of Ibarra chocolate in a round yellow package. “Shall we try this kind?”

“Sure. You need the spinner thing, though.”

He raised his eyebrows in question. Portia pulled open a drawer and pulled out a whip. “This. And it takes milk, not water.”

“Ah.” He clicked the kettle off and opened the fridge and took out the milk. “The happiness thing, with your mother?” He found a heavy saucepan and put it on the burner, measured milk into it. “That’s why I keep nagging you to find other things to think about than how you look. If you use your body for skiing, and it makes you feel good to be
in
your body, then you’re not so miserable when you think somebody else is prettier than you or thinner or whatever.”