The Lost Recipe for Happiness (31 page)

She was very much asleep, her mouth open, a faint snore coming from between her lips. Alvin went to the edge of the bed and nudged her back, and when she didn’t open her eyes, he jumped up on the edge of the bed and put his paws on her shoulder. “Alvin, no,” she said in a pitiful voice.

He patted her shoulder, tugging with his claws at the duvet, pulling it off her shoulder. She made a soft noise, but it took a lot of effort to turn over. “Alvin—” She saw Julian. “Hi, sorry to be in here. The loft was just—” She sighed.

“You look terrible. What can I get you?”

“I just need to rest. I’ll be all right in the morning.”

“Did you need to get into the hot tub?”

She shook her head.

“Let’s get you down there. That will help.”

“I just don’t think—is Portia here? I don’t want to freak her out.”

Julian sat down next to her. “What can I do, Elena? Let me help you.”

“It’s just stress. It will be better in a day or two.”

“Will a massage help?”

“Maybe.” She tangled her hand in his. “Will you be giving it?”

He bent to kiss her. “I can. Purely nonsexual, of course.”

She hesitated, then reached for his hand. “Help me sit up.”

He did and she reached for the hem of her shirt, and pulled it off over her head, and with great effort turned over. “I actually do know a little about this,” he said, pushing the quilt away. “My fourth wife was a massage therapist.”

“I thought she was a yoga teacher.”

“Both.” He went to the bathroom and came back with some unscented oil. “Lucky for you, I have some oil left over from those days.”

It drew a small chuckle. “Really. You’ve been moving it from house to house all this time.”

Alvin seemed satisfied and slumped nearby the bed on the floor. Julian said, “Brace yourself,” and turned on a lamp on the nightstand. Elena didn’t move. The light put the scar over her shoulder into relief, a thick cord of dark pink. He started there, at her shoulder blades, moving his hands lightly at first, from shoulder to shoulder, up into her neck, down the channel of her spine. The main scar submerged about halfway down, turning into a very thin white line. There were faint dots on either side of the spinal column, as if there were stitches or pins there once. Below her ribs on the left side, the scar reemerged in two rivers—one neat and clean, a surgical incision that healed well, the other a ragged gash where something must have pierced her.

He thought of the boy yesterday, flung onto the bed, and it made him think of a seventeen-year-old Elena lying in a ditch in the dark, thinking that her sister was there, holding her hand. “I hate it that this happened to you,” he said, and his voice was thick. “That you’re still in so much pain.”

“Better this than dead.”

“Absolutely.” He kneaded the lower back with the heels of his hands, moved into the buttock. “Jesus, Elena, these muscles are like rocks.”

She groaned, half in pain, half in pleasure. “Oh, that hurts so good.”

For a while, he worked in silence. “What were your injuries, exactly, Elena? That you had to spend so much time in the hospital?”

“Broke my back in four places,” she said, eyes closed. “Shattered left hip—that’s what that scar is. Broken clavicle and right shoulder blade and many ribs. Lost my left kidney. The back is the big problem.”

He dug into her left buttock, feeling the glutes like iron cords. “Not your hip?”

“Maybe.” She shifted a little to look at him. “It’s not like this all the time. I just got stressed out, and I didn’t want to take any muscle relaxants and—”

“How long has it been since anyone looked at all of this? A medical professional?”

“A while, probably five years. There’s not much they can do. This is the legacy of catastrophic car accidents. That’s what one guy told me—that if you survived a big wreck, this was what you had to look forward to.”

His hands stilled. “How do you know they haven’t come up with a thousand ways to make you feel better? It’s been twenty years.”

“Julian, can we not have this conversation right this minute?”

“Sorry.”

“Talk to me about you, instead. How’s the screenplay going?”

A frisson of worry lit up the nerves in his body, all at once, then subsided. “Very well, honestly. I’d like to start filming this summer, while Portia is out of school.”

“Ah, very good. I wondered how you’d manage that.”

“It won’t be easy, but she’s my priority for the next four years. I should have done it sooner. But…well, that’s water under the bridge. I can do it now.” He worked deeper, feeling some looseness starting to emerge. Good. “I think I’m going to have to get her a dog.”

“Yes!” In her enthusiasm, Elena turned over. “She is such a dog person! And I think there might be any number of possibilities.”

Her breasts, white and plump, drew his eye, and without heat, he touched them. “Okay. We can talk about it. I’d love your thoughts.”

She covered his hands. “Thank you, Julian. I think I might be able to make it to the hot tub now without freaking out your daughter.”

He smiled down at her, aware of a vast tenderness. She was pale and there were shadows below her eyes and in this light he could see the fine lines. Her hair was a tangled mess on the pillows. And he felt more at home, sitting in this quiet pool of light, than he had in his entire life.

She pulled his hands up and kissed the palms. “What put that pensive look on your face?”

“It’s so easy to be around you,” he said. Touched her hair. Thought the words but didn’t say them,
I love you.

She kissed his thumb. “I know,” she said. “Me too.” Struggling to a sitting position, she said, “Can you get in the hot tub with me? We’ll wear bathing suits.”

“Sure. Sounds good. Ivan brought you some soup. And Portia and I brought you some things, too.”

“What things?”

“Portia will like showing you.” For one more moment, he let the softness rush through him, that sense of home, and bent to kiss her bare shoulder. “C’mon.”

As she struggled into a standing position, he knew he would have to tell her, soon, that the movie was about her life, her losses. But it needed to be at just the right moment. The right circumstances.

THIRTY-EIGHT

P
OLVORONES
(M
EXICAN
C
HRISTMAS
C
OOKIES
)

¹
/
₂
cup butter

¹
/
₂
cup lard

¹
/
₂
cup granulated sugar

2 large egg yolks

1 large orange; entire peel grated to zest, plus juice

2 cups all purpose flour

2 cups finely ground almonds

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Grease a baking sheet or use parchment. In bowl, beat the butter, lard, and sugar until creamy. Add egg yolks one at a time, beating them into the sugar mixture well. Add the orange zest and the juice of the orange, then fold in flour and almonds in small batches, blending well. The dough will be crumbly. Roll it out on a floured surface to
³
/
₄
inch, and cut out small circles, an inch or so. Bake about 15 minutes, until lightly golden, no more. Sprinkle with powdered sugar if desired.

THIRTY-NINE

T
hings normalized in their new pattern over the next week. Elena put herself on waiting lists around town for various apartments and condos and even one tiny house. In the meantime, she stayed at Julian’s. Which wasn’t all bad. It gave her access to the hot tub, which would buy her some time on her feet. Alvin had a place to stay every day when she was at work.

But the biggest pleasure was in her connection to Portia. It was as if she had suddenly inherited a smart, pretty niece who wanted to do everything with her. They made Christmas cookies—a ritual the girl had never had the pleasure of performing—and decorated a tree and put garlands around the windows. They shopped for Christmas presents. Elena visited the dog kennel with her, and cleverly extracted information about rescue dogs and why Portia felt so passionately that anyone who wanted a dog should go to the rescue services to get one. Portia herself had been eyeing a mixed-breed pup that nobody seemed to want for fear he would turn out to be savage—pit bull mixed with husky. The pup was very smart, fluffy, and funny looking. Elena carefully reported the news to Julian.

Things in the kitchen began to normalize as well. The bad reviews did hurt business, and one—painfully—would run in
Condé Nast Traveler
magazine in January. They had seen an advance. But Julian had gone to work trying to find out who was in charge of the Travel Channel show, pulling his considerable strings. If they could get the Orange Bear into that Valentine’s Day special, it would help.

They were still wretchedly shorthanded, as was every kitchen in town, and they were all in fierce competition for any available body they could find. Julian put ads in Denver and Grand Junction newspapers, but it ended up being both Peter and Ivan who were the biggest help in recruiting. Ivan knew everyone and worked the nepotism angle, bringing in a dishwasher and commis, and Peter put the word out among the ski bums.

Despite the challenges over housing, scrambling to find replacements for the decimated kitchen staff, and her ongoing—and very private—body pain, Elena’s spirits lifted as Christmas edged closer. She enjoyed the bustle in the shops, the Christmas music playing. She and Patrick went out shopping one afternoon between shifts, and had a beer in an upscale pub.

“Have you talked to Mia?” he asked, picking delicately through the nuts on the table and choosing the almonds.

“A week or so ago, I talked to her.”

“We’ve all three fallen in love,” he said.

“I’m not in love,” Elena said with a frown. But she looked at him more closely. “But—wow! You so are.”

A tinge of color rosied his cheekbones. “I feel like I came to Aspen to meet Ivan. Seriously.”

“I would never in a million years have chosen him out of a crowd for you.”

“No?” Patrick inclined his head, his gaze direct. “Why?”

“He’s very sexy, no question.” Didn’t he see how different they were? “But there’s a lot of darkness in him. You’re so sane and levelheaded.”

“I had a good childhood,” he said. “Ivan didn’t.”

“I think he could be pretty volatile, that’s all. And he’s very, very much in love with you. Be careful.”

“He won’t hurt me, Elena. I’m absolutely certain of that.”

Elena was not, but she said, “I’m more worried about what you could do to him.”

“It’s sweet that you’re worried, but don’t, okay? We’re good. Very good.” He sipped his Pellegrino through a straw. “Back to you, girl. And Julian. Our boss, oh my God. What were you thinking?”

“I know.” She shook her head, and a vision of Julian rose in her imagination, playing with Alvin and his crocodile, or sucking on her lower lip, or massaging her back with such care. “I’m keeping my distance, don’t worry. And we agreed that my job is safe, no matter what.”

“That’s not what I meant, exactly. He’s not the type to backstab you. You’ve gone through a lot of lovers,
ma chérie.
Maybe it’s time to let one of them in?”

“What are you talking about? I fall in love all the time. Just ask Mia.”

“All with men who are not your equal in some way or another.”

“That’s not true! What about Timothy?”

“Oh, the spoiled little English lad who didn’t have the IQ of a chipmunk?”

She chuckled. “Okay, so he wasn’t that bright. We had a good time traveling.”

“Nothing wrong with that, but he was never going to be your soul mate and you knew it.”

“That’s not true. My heart was broken big-time when he broke up with me.”

“Nobody has ever broken your heart, Elena, because you don’t give it to them. You just like to put on a good show, and wallow around feeling bad for a few months.”

His words stung. “I loved some of them. Maybe Timothy was a little convenient and situational—you know, falling in love on holiday—but I really did love Dmitri. And he really did break my heart.”

“No, he pissed you off,” Patrick said. “You didn’t like it that he took up with somebody else, but that man was seriously in love with you and no matter what he did, he couldn’t get through to you.”

Elena leaned back in the booth, looking at him, feeling a hollow sense of recognition she found difficult to brush off. “Do you think that’s really what I do? Keep myself aloof from them?”

“Yes.” He plucked another almond out of the bowl. “But I think you might want to let this one in. And it would be good for you.”

She made an exasperated noise. “Patrick, has it escaped your notice that he’s way, way, way out of my league? He’s wealthy and good-looking and could have a dozen women at the snap of his fingers. He works with beautiful actresses all the time.”

“So?”

“So, who could resist that, over and over?”

“I was working in the San Diego restaurant when he broke up with one of his wives,” Patrick said. “He took it hard. Went on the wagon, both from women and alcohol. He didn’t date for almost three years. Not at all. That shows a lot of strength of character.”

A wave of something rose in her, closing her throat, making her feel vaguely ill. She even felt as if she might cry. “I can’t want that,” she whispered, waving a hand. “It’s too much.”

“He’s the first one who has ever deserved you,” Patrick said, reaching across the table. “Just think about it, Elena. You deserve some happiness. We all do.”

“I am happy,” she said.

He smiled. “You know what I mean.”

She breathed against the terror. “I know.”

“You need to call Mia. That’s all that happened to her, too. She fell in love, really really really in love, and as much as she wanted to be here, she couldn’t leave him. Is that so terrible?”

“No. It’s not.” She bowed her head. “I’ll call her by Christmas,” she said. “Promise.”

Danger arrived on the Tuesday morning just before Christmas.

Ivan understood happiness didn’t last. He wasn’t some seven-year-old who needed to believe in happily ever after, forever and ever, amen. Not like that.

What he hated was that happiness ran away so fast every time, and there he was, flung back out to suffer before he’d had a chance to really enjoy the peaceful time. He was tired of it, so tired that when the man arrived at the service door, Ivan almost lied and said they had filled all the positions they needed. Unfortunately, Elena was close by and called out a cheery, “Come in, talk to me! I’ve got to finish this mole, but I can listen while I cook.”

The man was six feet or a little better, glistening gold all over—sun-bleached streaks in gold hair, shaggy the way a lot of skiers wore it, eyebrows and arm hairs bleached by constant exposure to the sun. Cheekbones chiseled like swords angling down to the mouth of a comic-book hero—firm, sharply cut. The guy should be a model. Everyone turned around to look as he crossed the room, his tight ass and tiny waist impossibly fit. As if he felt Ivan’s gaze, he looked over his shoulder and winked, all self-assured elegance.

Fuck. Ivan wanted to slam things, bang and storm, but he did not. He carefully moved around the room, wondering where Patrick was, if he’d seen this Adonis come in.

Naturally, Elena hired him. A ski bum. Dag, who not only looked like that but turned out to have a Danish accent, which gave him that little soupçon of extra pizzazz, as if he needed it. When Patrick met him, Ivan was in the room, and Patrick just coolly shook his hand and said, “Welcome,” before he rushed off to find Elena.

Dag turned around, watching Patrick, and he smiled, with a smooth, slow perfection that made the top of Ivan’s head whirl off. Stepping close, Ivan growled, “Back off.”

“Ah,” he said, grinning, and lifted his hands, as if under arrest. “No problem. No problem.”

On Christmas Eve, the restaurant closed at eight, and by ten, Ivan and Patrick were settled in front of the Christmas tree at Patrick’s place, drinking eggnog and listening to rock-and-roll Christmas carols, which Ivan insisted upon. Springsteen sang “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town,” in that raw, ragged voice, and Ivan leaned back happily, drink in hand, to watch the lights sparkle. Patrick was cutting out paper snowflakes that he was going to use for table decorations tomorrow, when a few people would come over for a Christmas goose with all the trimmings. Patrick had made a special request for it, tickled by the idea of a Dickens sort of Christmas, and Ivan tracked down one of his suppliers to get a honking big bird—he laughed every time he said this—and it was marinating now. Ivan would get up at dawn to put it in the oven so it would be ready for dinner. He’d also secretly rented a Victorian-era costume, complete with a top hat, in which he thought he looked pretty hot.

The restaurant was closed. All of Liswood’s restaurants were closed for Christmas and again on New Year’s Day. He felt everyone deserved a couple of days off every year, no matter what, something Ivan found remarkable.

“This is great,” Ivan said.

Patrick smiled up at him. “It is. I’m so looking forward to our dinner tomorrow! Thank you for cooking goose.”

“One big honking bird,” Ivan said, laughing.

“The joke might be a little overdone,” Patrick said, but he was grinning. He unfolded thin white paper to reveal a beautifully intricate snowflake. “Sure you don’t want to try one?”

“I’m sure.”

“What was happening in your life last Christmas?” Patrick asked.

Ivan had to think about it. “Nothing very good. The restaurant had problems because the owner was putting all the profits up his nose. I was living in a trailer out by Carbondale and it sucked. But I got a good review in the
Denver Post
for my steak pie. I haven’t made that for you, have I?”

“No. I’d love to try it.”

“You’re easy, man. It’s great to cook for you.”

Patrick inclined his head crisply. “Thank you.” He took another piece of paper from the pile. “Were you seeing anyone?”

“Not really. I hadn’t been back here long.” Sipping the creamy, rummy eggnog, he pursed his lips. “How about you, lover? What were you doing last Christmas?”

“I was living in New York. I went home to Boston for Christmas, but it wasn’t particularly pleasant. My boyfriend wouldn’t come with me—he said my parents were stuck up—so I went alone and we were on the outs, so I wasn’t happy.”

“Was that the bartender, the one who almost came here with you?”

Patrick nodded. “He wasn’t very nice, honestly. It was way past time to break up with him. You just get used to things being a certain way.”

“Are your parents stuck up?”

“Yes. But they are still my parents.”

“Do they like your boyfriends as a rule?”

“They’ve only met one or two.” Patrick placed another snowflake neatly on the pile. “They’d rather I wasn’t gay, but they’re big on dignity, so they’re polite enough.”

“They’d hate me, wouldn’t they?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Not exactly in their world, am I? All rough edges and crooked teeth.”

“You’re a James Beard–winning chef. That will impress them.” Patrick touched his ankle. “And seriously, they love me, so when someone is important to me, they do their best to like them, too.”

“But they don’t always.”

“Of course not.”

Ivan thought of Dag, the polished Dane, with a twist of worry. “Have they ever met Elena?”

“Several times, when she lived in New York. My mother isn’t crazy about her, but my father thinks she’s hot.” A smile quirked his lips. “One is connected to the other, I’m quite sure.”

“Wouldn’t they like it if you were with someone like old Dag?”

Patrick looked perplexed. “Dag?”

“The new guy in the kitchen. The Scandinavian.”

“The ski bum? You must be kidding. He’s a player. I don’t like players.”

“I’m a player.”

“No,” Patrick said, putting down his scissors. “You pretend to be, but you have a very passionate heart.” He inclined his head. “You just haven’t had anyone love you through thick and thin, that’s all.”

Stung by those blue eyes, Ivan looked away. “Wow.”

Then Patrick came to sit beside him. Touched his hand. “I think I fell in love with you at first sight, Ivan. And I’m pretty sure you felt the same way. Let’s try to just enjoy it, shall we? We got lucky.”