The Lost Recipe for Happiness (20 page)

He smiled in that distant, Mount Olympus way. The diners lifted their glasses toward him. He raised a wine globe.

In that gesture, in the inclination of his head, she realized he was a million miles out of her league. It made the whole thing a lot easier, somehow. Of course she had a crush on the emperor—who wouldn’t? The only foolishness would be in expecting anything to come of it.

She rocked forward on her toes, smiling. “We hope you’ll all make the Orange Bear a new favorite when you visit Aspen, and to that end, we’ve prepared a tasting menu for you. Patrick and Ivan will begin serving momentarily, and you have a menu beside your plate. If you have any questions, I’d be more than happy to address them after dinner. In the meantime, please enjoy.”

Giving a short bow, she left them, her heart pounding. Her cheeks were burning hot as she returned to the kitchen. “Okay, get going,” she barked.

Patrick patted her shoulder. “You were great, Elena.”

“You were,” Ivan agreed, picking up a tray full of exquisitely beautiful plates of tamales, the green, blue, and red husks split open to display the tender masa within. “They all wanted you, sweetheart. Even me.”

“Go,” she said, shaking her head. “Serve.”

They got the tamales out and Elena watched through the door, listening as Ivan charmed them in his bear’s voice, and Patrick poured a full-bodied Spanish red into glasses as thin as jellyfish.

Beautiful, she thought, smiling in satisfaction. Spanish guitar tumbled softly from the speakers. Candlelight shone over the hammered tin and with more fierceness over silver cutlery. The pink and orange gave a sense of warmth to the cold autumn night, and the little candy skeletons proved irresistible to the diners, who were arranged like flowers themselves around the long, heavy table. The scent of the food rose, spicy and welcoming, and with great satisfaction, she watched as face after face transformed at the first bite of Ivan’s exquisite duck and elk tamales, the surprise and delight of expecting one thing and getting something so much better.

The girl, Katya, stood beside Elena, looking at the diners. “Look at their faces,” she said quietly. “They love this food.”

Elena flashed her a grin. “Yes, they do.” Katya had been very good tonight, showing a rare intuitive gift for knowing what needed to be done, facilitating the work of the others. “Do you work for someone in town here?”

“My mom does housecleaning,” she said. “Sometimes I help at parties.”

“You like it?”

“Not really the serving.” She rubbed her skinny arms. “I’d like to learn to cook. Like you. That would be really cool. But my mom says it’s not a great life.”

Elena inclined her head, thinking of the challenges, the losses, the fight to be taken seriously. “It’s not easy,” she said, “but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” She gestured back to the diners. “How many of us get a chance to make people feel like that?”

Katya nodded. “I think I’d really like it.”

“Keep thinking about it. If you want a job, give me a call.”

“Really?”

“You have talent.”

The boys came back and they got busy filling platters with the next set of tidbits.

Two hours later, Ivan stood on the deck in the cold night, smoking. He watched the glittering crowd through the windows. What would it be like to have that kind of money? To be so perfect? The babe in the slinky halter was so exquisite she was like fresh truffles, rare and unbelievable—her skin as thin and smooth as milk, covering bones arranged like some precious sculpture, her breasts taut and high. Her face was perfect, her hair, even her long slim hands. Perfect. How could you fuck a creature like that?

A wisp of air moved over his wrist, and Patrick appeared. “We’re about finished up,” he said with that faint accent, a little British, a little Boston, a lot upper class.

“Did your parents have parties like this, Patrick?”

He gave Ivan a wary glance. “Yes.”

“Did you like them?”

“Not then,” he said, and swallowed, and in that small, small gesture, Ivan understood that Patrick had been out of place in his parents’ world, too. An Irish boy, a macho world, masters of the universe, and there was gay little Patrick, who wanted to go into the restaurant business. How could Ivan not have seen that before now?

Because he was busy with that chip on his shoulder, as usual.

“Are you cold?” Ivan said, opening his jacket, inclining his head in that ironic way so Patrick could refuse. Patrick looked up, hesitating, but Ivan willed himself not to be too ironic, and just stood there, arms open. The air bloomed hot and orange, as Patrick, abruptly, moved in and pressed into the space Ivan made for him.

For one long second, Ivan closed his eyes and stayed perfectly, perfectly still. Patrick was small and sturdy and compact, his shoulders fitting neatly beneath Ivan’s arm. Ivan closed his jacket and clasped him close, smelling the waft of soap and aftershave and gel from his hair.

Desire bled between them, sparks in the black night, and Ivan felt the air leave his lungs, felt the airlessness of wanting something so badly it nearly burned, and the fear of retribution for seeking it. Pain and hunger and resignation of loss all wound in a braid as solid as a horsewhip, and he hated himself for the way his hand shook as he lifted it to Patrick’s smooth, precisely shaved jaw. “I smell like cigarettes,” he said apologetically.

“You smell like you,” Patrick said. “I like it.”

Ivan bent and kissed him, the plump lips as tender as pastry, his mouth a hot cavern. It was a tender kiss, and sultry, and full of things that burned the top of Ivan’s skull.

“Not here,” Patrick said. “We should go. To my place.”

“Yeah,” Ivan said, his voice barely rumbling in his airless desire. “Good idea.”

Once they’d cleaned up the kitchen, Elena let Katya go home, giving her a card. “You want to learn the kitchen from the ground up, give me a call. But I’m hard-core about showing up and being on time.
Sabe?”

The girl nodded.

Now that the diners were hitting the mellow stretch, lingering in their chairs and drinking coffee and liqueurs, Elena poured a very fine Spanish red into a globe made of thinnest glass and settled on a bar stool. On a heavy ceramic plate were some of the items they’d served, held back for the pleasure of the staff. She took a tiny piece of a zucchini blossom, and slivered off a thin slice of duck tamale. Heady stuff. It made her dizzy it was so delicious.

She sipped her wine and thought of Edwin on that long-ago day in Espanola. What shape would her life have taken if he’d lived? If that night had never happened? Where would she be?

Not here.

She held the glass in her hand and looked around the expansive kitchen with its marble counters and the small squares of window over the sink that looked out to nothing very much but light and probably flowers in the summertime.

Certainly not here.

She took one tiny fragrant sip of wine, imagining Espanola. Or even Albuquerque. Maybe they would have actually made it that far, she studying food, Edwin pursuing business.

But with the perspective of adulthood, she could see what more likely would have transpired. Edwin would have hated the long hours she spent in restaurants. He would have wanted her to have children, and it would have fallen to Elena to do most of the raising. She might have found herself resenting him.

Or not. There would have been other comforts. At worst, they would have stayed stuck in Espanola, where she would have had her sisters to cheer her and he would have come home to eat, then gone out again to his friends and cousins. To play poker. To drink beers at the VFW with his uncles. To tinker with an engine in someone’s garage.

The idea of it left her lungs feeling squashed.

At best, they would have created a restaurant together, a life of good cheer and happiness, with children who would now be in high school. And a daughter who would be in college now.

Through her wine, she glimpsed Isobel moving by, just a wisp, her long hair flying through the kitchen. Elena started, realizing that she’d been feeling gratitude toward the fact that the accident had sent her life whirling in an entirely new direction. She’d risen to a height that would have been inconceivable to her seventeen-year-old self.

Guilt blasted her, cold and tasting of blood.

Putting her glass down, she realized it had been a long time since she’d seen Patrick and Ivan. She wandered over to look around the corner.

They were on the deck, looking up at the stars. Ivan angled close and bent in, pressing his mouth to Patrick’s neck. Patrick didn’t move away. His body was stiff, but swayed the slightest bit toward Ivan’s realm.

Elena sighed. “Hmm.”

“That sounds like trouble,” Julian said, startling her.

“Oh! You.”

“Who were you talking to?”

“Myself. Again.”

“You did an excellent job tonight, Elena.”

“Thank you. It seemed to go very well.”

“I think so.” He glanced toward the deck. “I guess you guys can head out whenever you like.”

She nodded. Coolly. “Understood.”

He paused a moment. “Thank you, Elena,” he said, and gave her a dismissive nod. “Good night.”

As he walked away, she pursed her lips and looked back to Ivan and Patrick. Against the silhouette of a light from below, their heads were close together, Patrick tucked under Ivan’s arm for warmth.

Damn. She walked to the doors and pushed them open. Patrick leapt away, glancing at her guiltily. “Let’s get things loaded up. We have a lot to do the next two days.”

Patrick dashed by her, but Ivan held back a moment. Ivan who was not sneering or coyly seductive, but plainly, painfully gobsmacked. He took in Elena’s stare and pulled the pieces of himself from wherever they’d gone. “Right,” he said. “We have a lot to do.”

She touched his arm. “Are you all right, Rasputin?”

He glanced toward the kitchen, where Patrick had gone. “I’m fine.”

Elena nodded. “Get things loaded up, then.”

Portia came around the corner, nearly bumping into Elena as she came into the kitchen. “Hey,” she said in a bubbly, Betty Boop kind of voice, “whatcha doing? Do you have any more of those little baby tamales? They were
so
good!”

Portia wore a slim blue dress and her long hair was looped into a simple, pretty updo. Her eyes were way too bright. “Whoa,” Elena said, putting a hand to the girl’s bare arm. “Have you been into the alcohol?”

Her eyes widened. “No!” she breathed, and a gust of tequila washed over Elena’s face. “I’m not allowed. I’ll get in trouble if they test my urine, I’ll be in big fat—ha-ha—trouble!” She swung a hand and her body nearly went with it.

Elena caught her arm. “Okay, sit right here.” She settled the girl onto a stool. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Elena dashed out to the van. “I’m going to need to deal with a little situation with the boss’s daughter, who is soused. Get this stuff to the restaurant and put it away and then give me a call. One of you can come back for me.”

Ivan looked at Patrick, who carefully didn’t look at Ivan. Thick, heavy heat swirled around them, fragrant with longing. “Will do, boss.”

“I’ll bring you my car,” Patrick said, “and leave the keys in the ignition. I’m pretty sure no one will steal it.”

He gave her The Look. The one they’d all—Patrick and Mia and Elena—used on each other at one time or another, the equivalent of hanging a scarf on the doorknob.

Elena wanted to protest. Warn him. Them. There behind them, behind the dark purple yearning, was an edging of red pain. She wanted to say,
Stop, stop stop! You’ll ruin each other!

But what did she know? And maybe people had a perfect right to ruin each other, even to choose it. She nodded. “Thanks, guys. You did a great job tonight, and I appreciate it.”

Ivan neatly climbed behind the wheel. Patrick composed his limbs in the passenger seat. Elena’s stomach squeezed and she turned away.

As she went back toward the kitchen, Elena spied a group of men out in the courtyard, smoking cigars. A fire burned in a kiva-style fireplace, providing warmth for the thin-skinned Californians. From the great room spilled the sound of women’s voices, talking and laughing in such refined ways that it was almost as if they were instruments layered over the soundtrack of the evening.

Portia was right where Elena had left her, her arms flung in front of her on the counter, her head on one elbow. She opened one delphinium eye. “I didn’t move a muscle,” she reported. “Well”—she snickered—“maybe my neck.”

“Come on, honey. Let’s get you to bed, huh?”

“No! I was doing…stuff…out. There.” She shook her head, nearly fell off the stool.

“I’m sure.” Elena draped one of the girl’s long white arms around her neck, and slipped her own arm around Portia’s waist. “You’re so tiny!”

“No, I’m so not tiny,” she said, allowing herself to be led. “My mom is tiny. Tiny, tiny, tiny.” She made a tiny circle with her finger and thumb. “She can’t even wear my clothes. How sad is
that
! The mom too tiny for the daughter’s clothes!”

At the hallway, Elena peeked around the corner and saw the Masters of the Universe were still wrapped up in their cigars. No one would pay any attention to this dark hallway.

They didn’t. Elena navigated Portia down the stairs to her bedroom. Alvin was sleeping there, on Portia’s bed. “You traitor!” Elena exclaimed.

He looked apologetic, and flipped the end of his feathery tail the slightest bit, but didn’t appreciably move. Portia said, “Aw! Look at him!” She sank to her knees on the edge of the bed and kissed his nose. He groaned softly.

“C’mon, honey,” Elena said. “Where’re your pajamas?”

“Oh, I’ll just sleep like this.”

“No.” Elena took a guess and found the pajamas on the back of the bathroom door. She held them out. “Can you change?”

Portia rolled her eyes. “Course.” She held out her hand and took the flannel pants and skinny T-shirt. At the door, she paused. “Oh, maybe my zipper.”

Elena pulled it down for her. “Careful,” she said, when Portia swayed.