The Lost Recipe for Happiness (29 page)

“To our missing amigos,” Tansy said. “We might have been miserable tonight, but they’re all in a world of hurt by now, I can tell you.”

Slowly, Elena raised her glass, feeling furiously emotional. “Juan should really have been here tonight. He thought up half the menu.”

It was only then that she realized she had no home, either, and her back spasmed. She would have to stay with Julian tonight at least.

As if called, he returned to the table with a glass of scotch. “Cheers and thanks to all of you,” he said. “You’ll all have bonuses for your dedication. Now, I think we need to toast your chef. Who lost her house today and still managed to pull off what amounted to a miracle tonight. Good job, Chef.”

She nodded, suddenly and completely demolished.

It took another solid hour to get the kitchen cleaned. Breaking her rule, Elena drank two shots of tequila, letting the alcohol do its magic. Once she got back to Julian’s, she could take some pain meds, soak in the hot tub, and it would be all right again.

But it bloody burned like fire tonight. A sudden turn could send swirls of bright popping red through her body, making her dizzy. She discovered she couldn’t lift much of anything at all. She couldn’t find it in herself to care that she limped like Quasimodo.

Ivan worked in sullen silence, as if he blamed her for the comps. She ignored him.

Portia finished the dishes. Peter helped her polish all the stainless steel. They looked like brother and sister, both so blond and fair. She heard them talking about skiing at one point. Obviously, Portia was too young for the nineteen-year-old. She would warn him to mind his manners, but tonight, his crush had served a good purpose.

Finally, finally, the work was done, the night was over, and Elena let Julian drive the three of them home. She didn’t have much to say, except, “I’d like to get in the hot tub at your house, if that’s all right.”

“Of course.”

Alvin tapped toward them happily when the door opened, crocodile in teeth, his feathery tail high, his lips curled up in a grin. He flung himself into Elena, who grunted over the starburst of pain it lit in her body, and grabbed for Julian to steady herself. Alvin turned his head down and bumped then into Portia’s legs, and she laughed and bent down to hug him. “You are so
cute
!”

Alvin groaned, bumped the crocodile against Portia’s hands.

Quietly, Julian said, “Let’s get you in that hot tub, huh?”

“I just realized I don’t have a bathing suit.” This small, terrible thing nearly broke her.

“You can climb in naked,” Portia said. “We’ll leave you alone.”

THIRTY-FOUR

T
EQUILA
M
ENU

Tequila is made from the fermented juice of the blue agave plant, and connoisseurs know there are four grades, just as there are grades of scotch or bourbon:
blanco,
bottled immediately;
reposado,
or “rested,” aged in oak for two months to less than a year;
añejo,
aged for at least a year; and
extra añejo,
aged for at least three years. We have created a splendid menu of tequila creations for your tasting pleasure.

OUR FAVORITE
:

Chinaco Negro Mojito

Extra-añejo tequila mixed with fresh lime juice, crushed mint leaves, a touch of sugar, and Pellegrino.

THIRTY-FIVE

I
van held up a shot of tequila, looking through the thin gold liquid to the bar beyond, seeing in diamond-shaped blasts of color the outline of martini glasses. He closed one eye to see if that lessened the blur, but it didn’t, particularly. He knocked the shot back, feeling it burn all the way down, searing into the damage he’d done to his esophagus over the years of hard, hard drinking.

He poured another.

Patrick sat down beside him, bringing with him a scent of worry and disappointment. “Ivan, it’s time to go. You have to stop drinking or you’ll feel horrible tomorrow.”

“Too late,” he said.

Even Patrick looked slightly—only slightly—disheveled after the nightmare service. He’d slipped his tie off and opened the collar of his shirt two buttons. His normally carefully coxcomb hair was damp and flopping. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I need to get fucked up. Because I totally fucked up.”

“It was a bad night, that’s all. It just happens.”

“No,” he said, hearing his own voice rumble from somewhere deep in his chest. “Way before that. Way before.” Something told him to stop talking. Not to spill his secrets. That Patrick had loved Chef long before he had met Ivan.

But hadn’t he known that this wouldn’t last, this sweet little sliver of happiness? “I fucked up a long time ago.”

Patrick stood up. He plucked the bottle from Ivan’s hand.

“What the fuck?”

“Time to go home,” he said in that prissy way, his nose in the air. He carried the bottle across the room to the bar, and put on his coat. “You need to come with me, Ivan. You’re going to feel just terrible in the morning, and there’s no need to beat yourself up. Come home and let me put you in the bath and wash your back. What do you say?”

“I’m really a bastard,” Ivan said, climbing to his feet. “I don’t know why you like me.”

Patrick half-smiled and helped Ivan into his coat. “Oh, don’t go maudlin on me, love. You know it’s unflattering.”

“It’s my fault the INS came,” Ivan said.

For one moment, Patrick stilled. “What do you mean?”

“A while back, I tipped ’em off.” The memory gave him a vision of his heart as a black, oozing thing. “Like, before I knew she was gonna be good.”

For a long moment, Patrick simply stood there, and closed his eyes. He sighed. “We’ll talk in the morning. Let’s just go home tonight. Get some sleep.”

Ivan nodded heavily, suddenly embarrassed to be drunk. Patrick deserved better. He plodded behind him to the car, taking in the bite of the air and a million stars. Patrick unlocked his BMW with little beeps and Ivan opened the door, but didn’t quite get in. With his hands on the roof of the car, he tipped his head back to let the starshine bathe him, cover him with that cold farawayness. “That’s so fucking beautiful.” His breath came from him in a soft white cloud, blurring the stars. “Do you think there are other planets? You think there’s somebody out there on some other planet who got drunk on some local cactus juice who is looking up at the cold, cold sky and our stars and wondering who is out there?”

“Maybe,” Patrick said, and he paused, too. “It really is beautiful. We’re lucky to live here.”

“We are,” Ivan said, and dropped into the car, folding his long legs up as he closed the door. He inclined his head, thinking of what a house on another planet might look like, what they cooked. “I wonder what their best delicacy is there, what new things they’ll bring to Earth when they come. Maybe it’ll be something like a raspberrystraw-berrylime. Or the most fantastically chocolate tequila.” He laughed softly, and realized Patrick was sitting there quietly next to him. He looked at him, and the same electric zing he always felt blazed through him, lighting up all of his nerves and the back of his throat, and he thought how much he wanted to bend in and kiss him.

Instead, it was Patrick who leaned over, and put his hand on Ivan’s face. Touched his hair. “I wish you knew how amazing you are,” he said, and shook his head sadly. “I’m not sure I can convince you.”

“Try,” Ivan rumbled, and bent in to kiss those pretty pouty lips. “Please try.”

Elena accepted the big goblet of wine Julian offered, and carried it downstairs, where she stripped out of her sweaty, food-drenched clothes and climbed into the hot tub. She sank down to her chin. It was absolutely dark except for the bars of light falling through the patio doors from the great room above. No moon. No sounds except the bubbling of the water. She sipped the cold, crisp Chardonnay and stared upward.

Into the nothingness of her exhaustion flashed a blip of noise—crashing, breaking, crunching metal—and a flash of sky. Like this one.

She sat up, splashing, and the sudden move, even in the heated water, made her cry out softly in pain. She had to stay in the water for a while, let the rock-tight muscles ease a little.

God what a night! The insanity poured through her, the constant Medusa’s head of tasks, weaving and waving together endlessly, the chaotic roar of voices and clattering dishes and the rush of her own heartbeat roaring through her ears.

—the cool chuckling of water in the utter silence of cold night and stars overhead and the click of cooling metal in the darkness and the vast, vast loneliness—

She sat up straighter, breathed in, breathed out, a therapist’s trick from years ago. Then she took a long swallow of wine. Her own trick.

—a hand wrapping around hers, the starry starry night, and whispered voice, it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay someone’s coming—

Elena stood up. Climbed out. Wrapped herself in a thick white robe and went inside. Upstairs. “I need to go to bed,” she announced. “Same room as before?”

In the darkness, Julian lay next to Elena. He’d talked her into sleeping with him, assuring her that Portia didn’t come to his room for any reason, never even came upstairs. They had not made love. She was too plainly, painfully exhausted, barely able to navigate the stairs when they arrived at the house, and even more haunted looking after the very short stint in the hot tub.

She had fallen asleep finally, but it was not a peaceful retreat—a foot twitched, a hand reached out. She shifted away from him, showing him the ancient scar on her back, cutting through her flesh in a long diagonal from shoulder to hip. When he held her, he found his fingers gravitating toward it, tracing the snake shape on the shoulder blade, the faintness over her ribs. It was just there. Part of her.

And yet in the faint pink light of clouds moving into the night sky, he could see the violence of it, the wrenching loss it represented. She had not spoken at all of the accident this morning, and he worried about that. How could you just absorb so much, over and over? He wanted her to let down her guard, maybe have a good cry, express her fury over losing her home, having a car come through her house, losing all of her best kitchen staff, all in a single day.

Instead, her face showed nothing. But in the darkness now, he heard little moans and expressions of protest. The scar seemed almost to writhe, a snake coming to life, rising out of the bed to reveal secrets to him that he should not know. He stretched out his fingers and very, very lightly touched the swoop of the snake into her hip, where it almost seemed to glow with fierce heat. And it wasn’t his imagination—the flesh was hotter here than elsewhere on her body—pain speaking what she could not.

Jesus, how could he help her?

She jolted awake suddenly, sitting up straight with a cry. Julian jerked his hand back, ashamed that he’d disturbed her. She had her hands to her face, covering her eyes, then she smoothed them down her cheekbones, her jaw. She blinked, plainly disoriented, and Julian put a protective arm around her. “You’re all right,” he said quietly. “You’re here with me.”

“Don’t do that,” she said, exhausted. “Don’t do that.”

“Come, lie down.” He tried to nudge her back to the pillows, to the piles of softness and comforters. She pulled against him, and despite himself, he was aroused by the sway and supple plumpness of her breasts in the soft pink light, the curve of flesh beneath her arm, the crease at the bend of her hip, revealed by the comforter falling back. He leaned in and pressed his forehead against her upper arm. “You need to sleep.”

She turned her shoulder away from him. “I felt you tracing the scar.” She reached a hand backward and scratched the place as if it itched or was irritated by his caress. “I hate that. I hate it!” She stood up, throwing the covers off, and he was pierced by the spectral sight of her, moving away, awkwardly, her body stiff, her back a curve in the darkness, her shoulder, her hip each catching a cupful of light.

He leapt up, touched her. “Elena, come back to bed.” He tried to draw her body to him, put his warmth against her stiff cold body.

But she flung him away. “No. You just don’t know. You don’t understand. I hate that.”

She seemed like someone else tonight. Hostile and fierce and sparking with that thick darkness, a lure and sharpness that put him off and drew him in all at once. “I’m sorry. I’m worried about you. It’s cold. Come back to bed. I won’t touch you, I promise.”

“Oh,” she sighed, almost a sob, and covered her face, “it’s not that, that I don’t want you to touch me, but I feel like I’m breaking. I can’t break right now, Julian. Not this minute.”

He reached for her hand, capturing one finger, so dry and ragged that bits of skin were like cactus. “Climb under the covers,” he said, and pulled her under the quilt, tucking it close around her. A choppy spray of fine hair fell inelegantly over her brow. He pushed it away. Vast tenderness welled in him. He traced her eyebrow. Her hand slid from below the covers and clutched his wrist.

“Stop,” she said, her eyes closed tight. Tears leaked from beneath her eyelids. “I can’t bear it tonight. Kindness, compassion, your sweetness. It will demolish me.”

He nodded, pulling back to his own pillow, just one arm over her, over the top of the quilt. “Is that all right?”

She nodded tightly, as if any large movement would cause pain. Tears pooled in the small indentation of her nose. He simply lay there next to her, hoping it was some comfort or warmth. Her foot found his under the cover.

After a long time, she said, “When I woke up in the hospital, it had been three weeks since the accident. My face was so wrecked I didn’t even recognize myself. I was in a body cast and couldn’t move anything except one arm. There wasn’t anybody in the room when I woke up, and I couldn’t figure out what had happened to me. I didn’t remember the accident right away.”

He didn’t move anything except his thumb, just a sweep of it to let her know he was listening.

“When I did remember, I wanted to see my sister and Edwin, and when they told me they were dead, I didn’t believe them. I remembered Isobel holding my hand after the accident. She sat right there in the ditch and kept me company until they found me.”

He pulled out a word. “Umm-hmmm.”

Elena ducked her head deeper into the pillows, and he understood that she was crying. “They had been dead for three weeks by then. Three weeks and I didn’t even know.” She cried very quietly, very intensely. “I don’t know why I lived. I don’t know why I lived. I don’t know why I lived.”

He pulled her into him, holding her as gently as he could while she wept. He said nothing, stroking her hair, careful to keep his hands away from her scar, and he thought,
For me.

When she awakened in Julian’s bedroom, her eyes heavy and tired, Elena only lay there for a long moment. The space between her eyebrows, that place of the third eye, felt thick and shrouded. Julian had moved away in the night—neither of them were cuddly sleepers—and she slid out of the bed, not daring to look at him.

She nearly tripped on Alvin, and he groaned as he stretched out his paws, which were growing little winter tufts. “C’mon, honey,” she said in less than a whisper, using a hand to nudge him away. The air was cold on her naked body, but everything from her head to her toes screamed in protest at moving quickly, so—hunched over and as crooked as a gnome—she lurched into the bathroom.