The Lost Recipe for Happiness (32 page)

Ivan pulled him close, his hand spreading open over the tumbled blond hair, feeling the preciousness of his skull. “Yeah,” he growled. “Yeah, I did. Thank you.”

“I really don’t like jealousy. It will ruin things.”

“I’ll do my best.” He thought of breakfast. “Tomorrow morning, I’m going to cook you my very best French toast. You will so love it.”

“Ivan, I’m going to get fat!”

“No, you won’t,” he said. “We’ll work it off.”

Elena finally remembered to call Maria Elena on the evening of Christmas Eve, when she was setting up the kitchen in Julian’s house to make tamales with Portia. They had dozens at the restaurant, but when Elena told the girl about making them with the women on Christmas Eve, Portia really, really wanted to try it. And Elena didn’t mind it.

Mama answered with a slightly irritated “Hello?”

“Hi, Mama,” she said. “How are you?”

“Elena,
h’ita
! It’s so nice to hear your voice. What are you doing? We got your package yesterday—so many presents for all the little ones, you must be getting rich!”

Elena laughed. “It’s just little things, Mom. Be sure and put out all the chocolate on Christmas Day.”

“I guess since you sent it, you’re not going to be here on Christmas this year, huh?”

One year, Elena had flown into Albuquerque and rented a car and arrived at Mama’s house in time for mass on Christmas Eve. Maria Elena had never forgotten it, and every year, Elena could hear the hope that Elena would repeat the surprise. For one minute, Elena imagined how that would be, crowded into the little house with too many people, and lots of children, and the happy sound of laughing, and the smell of coffee and pine, chill and chocolate, in the air. “I’m afraid I can’t this year, Mama. We’re still getting the restaurant up and going. Maybe I can pop down in January sometime.”

“I’d like to see you,
m’ija.
What are you doing for Christmas?”

“I’m working mostly. I’ll spend some time with my friends—you remember Patrick? I brought him with me when I lived in New York. We came for something—maybe your birthday, huh?”

“Sure, sure. Nice boy. Not married, though.”

Elena’s lips twitched. “Not yet. He’s here in Aspen, too. I hired him to be my sommelier.”

“That’s nice.” In the background was music on a radio, tinny and thin, and the sound of clattering pans. “We’re having Christmas at Darla’s this year. She’s got more room and all the kids can play easier in her basement.”

“That’s a good idea.” She tucked her phone between her ear and shoulder and ripped open the corn husks she’d bought at the store. “Hey, I’ll tell you, I am making tamales with a young girl here. She’s fourteen and dying to learn. We’ve already made six kinds of Christmas cookies.”

“Very nice.”

“You okay, Mom? You sound tired.”

“Oh, it’s just that time of year. Too much to do. Not enough time to do it all.”

“Well, don’t wear yourself out.”

“I won’t, baby. You enjoy yourself, okay?”

“I will. I love you, Mama.”

“I love you, too. Be good.” And then, defiantly and laughing at once, she added, “Find a husband!”

Elena groaned. “Bye, Mama!”

On Christmas morning, Elena felt shy, waking up next to Julian. They’d stayed up late together the night before, drinking hot chocolate by the fire in his bedroom and listening to his vast collection of CDs. Then they’d made love for a long time in the fire-lit dark, and fallen asleep naked and spent, well after midnight.

Julian was still asleep when she wakened, and for a few long moments, she simply looked at his dark curls, the blunt nose. His mouth was open a little, and he made a soft whistling sound as he breathed, somehow endearing. Tiny threads of silver showed in his chest hairs, and the texture of the skin there revealed his age. He would be fifty next year, she’d finally found out, not that he looked it most of the time. The running and yoga kept him supple and younger than his years.

Still. If she let him in, that would be something to contend with, that he was more than a decade her senior and she would likely outlive him. It scared her to even think in those terms, long terms, as they had only been together a couple of months. But, looking at him, lying here, she knew there was something real in this bond, in whatever it was that was blooming between them.

It made her stomach hurt. There was always that other shoe, wasn’t there? Death, disease, other women, boredom and contempt, all those things people did to each other.

It had been hell trying to figure out what to give him for Christmas—they were at that awkward stage of not dating a terribly long time, but they were also
very
intensely involved. He was also quite wealthy, so he bought whatever he liked. She needed to find something that would show him she’d been paying attention. It took ages, but she finally realized what it should be, and wrapped up her gift and put it under the tree, but now she was nervous. What if he didn’t get it? What if it was too personal?

Portia, on the other hand, was a breeze. Elena had found plenty of cute dog toys and accoutrements for the puppy Julian had arranged to have delivered this morning. Elena squinted at the clock. They would be here with the puppy in twenty minutes. She slipped out of bed and shimmied into jeans and a T-shirt. In the kitchen, she started a pot of coffee and let Alvin outside, then brushed her teeth and peed in the powder room off the kitchen. It was one of her favorite bathrooms, this one, with a brown glass bowl sitting on a counter for a sink, and the faucets coming out of the wall, imitating garden art.

Don’t get used to it,
she told herself. Ease, comfort, luxury. It wouldn’t last.

But for today, this was the most fun she’d had at Christmas in a long time, and she couldn’t wait for Portia to get up and meet her dog. She skimmed a brush through her hair, let Alvin back in, and there was a knock at the door.

Her heart leapt and she rushed into the foyer to answer it, punching the numbers on the alarm to let the woman in. She carried a dog kennel, and Alvin, who’d been eager to see what was going on, lowered his head with an apprehensive expression. “It’s okay, baby,” Elena told him.

The woman said, “He’s been groomed and fed. I wish I could be here to see Portia’s face when she sees him.”

“I’m excited.”

“Thank you again, and please thank Mr. Liswood for the extraordinarily generous contribution.”

“I will.”

After the woman left, Elena knelt and opened the kennel to take out the young dog. He wasn’t much more than four or five months, still a puppy with his broad head and big paws. He wiggled and trembled in her arms, looking at Alvin, who was just perplexed. Elena knelt and let them smell each other. “Be nice, you guys.”

The pup shivered against her knees as Alvin sniffed him thoroughly, head to toe, stopping every so often—the joint of the left back leg, the edge of his ear, a spot midway down his back—to sneeze or snuffle or take another deep sniff. His tail wagged slowly as he inspected this creature, and then he stepped back and bent down and barked. Sharply.

The puppy jerked, then wiggled to get free, and dopily walked over, head down, to play. He was so adorable—big nose and soft fur and that wide bulldog head and the curly tail of a husky.

After she ascertained they’d be okay, Elena captured the pup and called Alvin and they headed upstairs to haul Julian out of bed so they could wake Portia up.

Portia’s reaction was squealing and absolute astonishment. “Oh, how did you know?” she cried, hugging the puppy, who obviously recognized her and wiggled in a far more effusive way when she hugged him than he had when the others greeted him. “He’s the best little pup and nobody wanted to adopt him, and oh, look at him!” She blinked back tears, and gazed at her dad with adoration. “Thank you, Daddy. He’s the best dog and I promise I will take very good care of him.”

Next to the bed, Alvin whined, his crocodile in his mouth.

“Oh, I still love you, too,” Portia said. “Do you have a toy? Come on!” She patted the bed. “Come on up!”

Alvin looked at Elena, who rolled her eyes. “Oh, go ahead, you traitor.”

Julian pulled her forward. “Elena helped.”

Portia grinned, rubbing both dogs with one hand each. “I figured. Thank you, Elena.”

“You are so welcome.”

“C’mon. Let’s go upstairs and open presents. I have stuff for you guys, too!”

They all tramped upstairs—two dogs, a girl, and two adults—and Elena realized this was the first Christmas morning that felt like Christmas morning in years and years. What if—

Don’t borrow trouble,
said a voice. Her own.
Live now.

So she shyly gave Julian his dual gift, and Portia her pile of dog things, and they each gave her boxes, too, and they all tore into them. Portia had a pile of things from her father, who insisted she needed to be spoiled at Christmas because she’d been doing so well in school and in her job. All she had required, it seemed, was a stable environment. She got new skis and ski pants and books and—

“A laptop? My own laptop?”

Julian nodded. “I’ll still be checking on you, you know, and you can keep it upstairs, but it’s yours. You don’t have to ask for permission to use it.”

For the second time that morning, Portia’s eyes welled. She leapt up and hugged him around the neck, her checkered pink and purple pajamas riding low on her strong hips. Elena ducked her head, feeling like an interloper.

And not. Because Portia had showered her with presents—beautiful cut-glass earrings and a silver bracelet and a blouse with airy sleeves, all exactly to her taste.

And Julian gave her a small package, not so small it was jewelry, but small enough to intrigue. “You first,” she said, nervous now. Ready to get it over with.

The first was obviously a book and he opened it.
“The Best Book of Potato Latkes,”
he said, and stared at it for a long moment. Elena’s nervousness grew. Did he remember their early conversation about special food?

He raised his eyes, and smiled. “Perfect. Thank you.”

“They go together.”

The other box held a small, antique menorah she’d found online. It had come from a New Jersey estate. He took it out. His voice was raw when he said, “Thank you, Elena.” He reached for her hand, squeezed it, and she realized he was hiding enormous emotion.

“Your real gift is not here yet,” he said. “I ordered it and there was a small delay. This is just a little something I thought you’d like in the meantime.”

She grinned and opened the package, which was a Day of the Dead skeleton in a small kitchen, wearing roses in her hair. Elena laughed and kissed him. “It’s perfect,” she said. “Thank you.”

FORTY

I
VAN’S
F
RENCH
T
OAST

Perfect for that New Year’s Day celebration

6–8 slices thick-sliced cinnamon raisin bread or rich bread like brioche

5 eggs

¹
/
₂
cup milk

1 tsp each grated lemon and orange zest

¹
/
₂
tsp vanilla

Powdered sugar and raspberries

Whip eggs, milk, zests, and vanilla together in a glass bowl. Get the skillet ready by heating till drops of water dance and disappear. Dip the bread and let the mixture soak in, then grill till golden. Garnish with fresh butter, raspberries, and powdered sugar.

FORTY-ONE

T
he turn of the year brought a serious cold snap, with temperatures dropping below zero at night, making the entire mountain region an ice rink no matter how hard the sand trucks and snowplows worked. Enough snow fell that the slopes stayed prime, and Aspen partied. The hotel rooms were packed, the restaurants filled to capacity, everyone was happy, making pots of money on the tourists and skiers who wanted to mingle with the beautiful people.

The Orange Bear was full every night and word of mouth was excellent, but the bad reviews still rankled. The day the Condé Nast magazine hit the stands, Elena and Julian bought every issue in town and threw them in the Dumpster at the back of the restaurant. Slapping her hands together crisply afterward, Elena grinned. “That felt better!”

The kitchen staff worked itself into its new alignment. There were a few struggles for dominance among the line cooks, and there was never going to be the ease between Ivan and Dag that there had been between him and Juan, but the Danish skier had a lot of talent and he showed up reliably, so they had to keep him. Twice, Elena clamped down on them when a struggle broke out; the rest of the time, she looked the other way. Dag deferred to Ivan in the kitchen—this was a personal struggle.

She missed Juan. Terribly. He was an excellent chef, with a personality to calm the roiling waters, but it was Juan himself she missed. The twinkle in his eye, his old-world mannerliness, his easy chatting with her in Spanish. Having him around had been like having a piece of her home with her every day. She’d come to rely on him and his soothing influence, and she really wanted to get him back. Through Hector and Tansy, she found out the name of his hometown in Mexico, and asked Julian to help her find him. Maybe if they requested this particular cook, they could make a case to the authorities. It was worth a try.

In the meantime, she cracked down on the legality of the papers in her kitchen. Hector produced a legitimate green card somehow, and his sister married a local—probably for
her
green card, but Elena didn’t care, and a loophole in the law allowed the restaurant to request a certain number of work permits, which they sucked up as fast as they could.

Elena also wrote letters. Lots of letters—to her congressmen, to the INS, to the local state and city officials. She even wrote a letter to the President. The laws, in her opinion, were idiotic and benefited no one—not the employers, nor the illegal immigrants flooding in to take the jobs, nor the American citizens who supposedly wanted the jobs the illegals were taking. Nobody won.

Entire projects were shut down throughout the city because there was no one to work them. Potholes on side streets grew to the size of small lakes with no one to man the trucks to fill them up. Restaurants could seat only 70 or 80 percent of their former numbers. And construction projects sat silent, heavy plastic flapping beneath the brilliant skies.

One thing that had come out of the decimation of the kitchen staff was that Elena found herself leading a kitchen with a much higher than average percentage of women. She and Tansy; Hector’s sister Alma on dishes; the line-cook-in-training—i.e., kitchen slave—Katya, who had come to them through the party at Julian’s; and another slave Ivan had unearthed somewhere, a squat girl with mean eyes who didn’t talk much but could wield a knife like nobody’s business.

The only real challenge was her body. Which was falling apart, slowly but surely. The hot tub helped, and she had found a second massage therapist to work on her twice a week in addition to Candy. She walked on a treadmill for an hour every day, since long walks around town were impossible with the banks of snow, some up to ten or twelve feet deep.

Nothing really worked. She was in almost constant pain, in her back, in her hip, taking more and more drugs, which made her irritable and sometimes a little confused. Mostly, she’d learned to cover it, but the strain was showing in her face, draining her strength.

Secretly, she found a doctor who did X-rays and confirmed what Elena had dreaded—she needed more surgery. There wasn’t a lot they could do for the hip, which was riddled with arthritis, but the surgery on her back would, he was sure, be an almost complete fix. It would require her to wear a brace for four to six months, and for the first two, she couldn’t be on her feet, not for any length of time.

And she would need help. Lots of it. She couldn’t be on her own.

That day, she went back to the tower room at Julian’s house, closed the door, and wept bitterly. To relieve the pain, she would have to give up her kitchen. How could she make that choice? To relieve the pain, she would have to depend on others to help her, and show her weakness.

Maybe, she thought, it was the extreme cold making it so bad. When the weather got better, she’d feel better. So she took some more drugs and scheduled massages for nearly every day of the week and hid from everyone the pain she was feeling. It wasn’t as easy to hide the stiffness, a fact that embarrassed her.

Maybe, she thought, more and more mornings, she should go ahead and have the surgery. Ivan was stable. He could run the kitchen—especially if she let him get rid of Dag—and he wouldn’t undermine her. Maybe Patrick would let her stay with him, or she could hire a nurse. But where would she live after this mythical surgery? She could not bear to let Julian see her that vulnerable!

It was taken out of her hands, anyway. On the fifteenth, she had an email from Dmitri, out of the blue.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: ouch!

Saw the slam from Bok. Condolences. Heard you had trouble with INS, which no one can predict. Bad luck.

Here is some good news for you, however—would you consent to be interviewed for my television show? We’ll be in Aspen end of January to shoot a feature that will run on Valentine’s Day: “Aspen for Lovers.” Julian Liswood has always been good to me, and I’d like to feature the Orange Bear, and you, with your gorgeous lips.

Ciao,

dmitri

PS you were right about Jennifer. She was too young for me.

Of course, she thought. Of course. Because the universe couldn’t let her have one
freaking
minute of peace. She wanted to punch her fist through the monitor. Instead, she opened a reply and wrote:

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: re: ouch!

Dmitri! What a great surprise—you must be absolutely thrilled to be hosting the show. It’s just your cup of tea (remember the reporter in Vancouver said you were from the Mick Jagger school of beauty?) and I can’t wait to say I knew you when.

Of course I’d be delighted to be interviewed. Name the time! If you want to call me the numbers are: 970-555-4398 (restaurant) and 970-555-0936 (cell). If there is anything we can do to make your stay more enjoyable, please don’t hesitate to let me know. I look forward to seeing you again.

Warmly,

Elena

Before she could add anything snarky, she hit the Send button.

His reply was instant:

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: re:ouch!

Very good. We will be arriving 28 January and will stay through 1 February. Will call before then to arrange details.

ciao,

dmitri

Ivan felt as if an anvil were hanging over his head. Dag was a constant, needling presence, continuously flirting with Patrick, who ignored him for the most part, but every so often, Dag got through, like when the skier made a plate of blintzes for somebody’s birthday on Sunday afternoon, always a more relaxed day, the end of the workweek, since the restaurant was closed on Mondays. He served them with cherries, red and plump and sinful, and ricotta cheese whipped with lemon curd.

Patrick’s eyes widened at the first taste and he blinked at Dag. “Marvelous!” he said. “Yes, please. I’d like some more.”

Chuckling in his loose way, Dag served the blintzes. He winked at Ivan. “Would you like some, Rasputin?” The nickname had stuck, and Ivan rather liked it, but he didn’t want to touch anything Dag made. Burning inside, he nearly flipped the entire pan of cherries on the floor. Instead, he rolled his eyes in disdain and stalked outside to smoke.

He simmered through the shift, steam coming from his pores like a volcano about to blow. He felt the unrest and turbulence in him and tried to calm it down, going out to smoke regularly, staying away from Dag as much as he could. He drank some herbal tea Elena kept around, and forced himself to pay attention to his own work.

A therapist he’d been sent to after one or another of his drinking violations—driving and fighting, mostly—told him to notice how a thought wasn’t always a directive, it wasn’t even real sometimes. The woman showed him how to break it down—event, reaction, thought. He tried to practice it this afternoon. The event was Dag’s fucking annoying behavior. He needled Ivan deliberately, trying to find his weaknesses and make him crazy.

No, that wasn’t the way this worked. Ivan spun in his station, broiling lamb chops, acknowledging orders with a volley of commands, giving orders, spraying vinegar water over a flame leaping too high, and reviewed.

The event had no emotion. Dag made blintzes. Offered them to Patrick, who ate them and liked them.

Marvelous.

After that, Ivan’s reaction was to feel annoyed. Jealous. His thought was that Patrick didn’t love him and would leave him for Dag. Or someone else more beautiful or more polished or more whatever.

The dark knots of fury eased away from the back of his neck. Patrick did love him. Ivan honestly didn’t know why—Ivan was difficult and high-strung and given to wild mood swings—but it seemed to be true. Dag was trying to get to him, trying to get Ivan to react and do something stupid to mess up either his job or his relationship—while Patrick was faithful, it was impossible to miss that Dag wanted him. If Ivan allowed himself to fall for Dag’s game, Dag would win.

More tension faded. Whew. Maybe he was getting the hang of this sanity thing. Damn. He grinned to himself.

And it all would have worked out just fine, Ivan thought later, if they hadn’t stopped to have a drink at their favorite nightclub after work. The crowd was thin on a Sunday night. Patrick and Ivan found a booth in the agreeable dark and ordered an ale for Ivan, a pinot grigio for Patrick, who never, ever had more than one. “I’m hungry,” Patrick said, and glanced over the very small menu. “Maybe some mushroom caps?”

“And some wings.” Ivan wiggled an eyebrow across the table. “I’m in the mood for something sloppy.”

“It was busy tonight,” Patrick commented, leaning back with a sigh. “Good to see it.”

Ivan nodded. Music from a very good jukebox played quietly. Weariness pooled in his elbows and lower back, tingled through his knees, calves, feet. Sometimes lately, he could really feel his age. Not like Elena, though. “What’s with Chef, anyway?”

The quick shuttering fell over Patrick’s face, making it a blank mask. It irritated Ivan a little, that Chef was more important, or higher in Patrick’s loyalties, but he remembered his mantra: event, reaction, thought. Patrick had known Elena a long time, and in fact, wasn’t loyalty one of the things Ivan found so appealing about him?

“What do you mean?” Patrick asked.

“Here lately there’ve been times she can’t even stand up straight. She’s in serious pain a serious amount of the time.”

Patrick lowered his eyes. Nodded. “I’ve noticed, too.”

“What’s the deal? How does she get better?”

“I don’t know. She hasn’t ever been this bad. I mean, sometimes at the end of a long week or a long trip, she might limp around a little, but…” He took a breath. “Not like this.”

Something in Ivan broke a little, thinking of the way her mouth pinched by the end of a shift. He thought of her scar, that thick cord of violence that ripped her back apart. “Sucks. That she should get the kitchen and then—”

“Do not say a word, Ivan, not to her and not to anyone else, do you hear me?”

“Jesus, man.” He scowled. “I like her. I feel bad for her. Why do you always think the worst of me?”

“I don’t,” Patrick said, and straightened. “But you’re competitive and she took the kitchen that used to be yours. You called the INS. I’m over it, but you wanted revenge, right?”

Ivan found this didn’t set off his temper. Huh. “I hate that I did that,” he said. “I did want revenge, before I met her. Before I knew her. I don’t anymore.” With an ironic little twist of his lips, he lifted his bottle of beer. “If not for her, you wouldn’t be here, now would you?”

Patrick’s mouth pursed into that pleased little smile Ivan liked so much. “That’s true.”

“Why don’t you get a backgammon board and I’ll go play some music?”

“Back in a flash.”

Ivan ambled over to the jukebox and leaned over it, his long arms folded on the top so that the light flashed over his face and chest, purple neon, his favorite color. He fed a few bills into the slot and started punching in his favorites—some Springsteen and Prince and Mellencamp for himself, some Melissa Etheridge and Toni Braxton for Patrick.