The Lost Recipe for Happiness (13 page)

“Be careful,” he said in Spanish. “You don’t want him too drunk.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” she said.

“He gets mean. And if he goes on a bender, he won’t be back to work for a few days.”

Elena thought of the poker games in her New Mexico garage. “I’ll be all right, Juan.” She touched his arm. “Thanks for worrying, but I’m a lot tougher than I look.”

His dark eyes were sober. “I’ll be here, if you need me.”

“Thank you.” She grinned. “I couldn’t run this kitchen without you, Juan, you know that.”

“No, it’s Ivan you need.”

Elena shook her head. “Ivan is the spice. You’re the meat.”

He gave her a sideways grin. “Thanks,
Jefa.”

She headed to the back and found Ivan at his locker, putting the CD away. “If you don’t show up for work tomorrow, Rasputin,” she said, “I’ll fire you.”

He looked over his shoulder. “Nice move,
Jefa.
Better win, though.”

“I’m not kidding,” she said.

“I get that.” For one hot second, she saw the resentment, the fury, in his eyes, and then it was gone. “I’ll be here.” He slammed the locker closed with a bang. “I’m going to kick your pretty ass all the way to China.”

“We’ll see.”

From her office, with the door closed, she called Julian. “Hey,” she said when he answered. “I wonder if I could impose on you for the evening.”

“Sure. What do you need?”

“I’d like your daughter to babysit my dog for the night.”

“I’m betting that will not be a problem, but let me ask her.” He covered the phone and murmured something. “She says that would be
so great.”
He spoke the words in a falsetto, and laughed, “Ow! Ow. Quit it. She wants to know when you’ll bring him.”

Elena looked at the clock, calculated what she would have to do to prepare for the evening. “Say, five? I’ll bring supper if you like.”

“Hey, now that’s a great idea. What’s up?”

“Power play,” she said. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

Portia flung open the door when Elena rang. “Hi!” she said. She wore a long-sleeved pink T-shirt and jeans, her hair swept into a ponytail. “I’m so happy you called me to babysit! Come in!”

“I’m glad you were available.”

Portia only had eyes for Alvin. “Hi, Alvin! Oh, look, how cute—do you have a toy, baby?” She laughed and reached for the grimy, once-yellow crocodile Alvin carried in his mouth. Alvin happily tugged back, his feathery tail swishing.

“He really doesn’t like to go anywhere without it.”

Portia tugged high, lifting Alvin to his back feet, and she laughed in delight.

“He loves to play chase,” Elena said. “If he lets you have it, he wants you to toss it.” She eyed the parquet floor. “Maybe not right here, though. Drop it, baby.”

Alvin, looking deflated, sat down. Portia squatted in front of him. “It’s okay, baby, we’ll play in a minute.” The dog sat down and let himself be adored, blinking happily, licking his chops every so often. “Can I take him down to my room until we eat?”

“Of course.”

“My dad has been making a CD for the restaurant. He’s in his office. I’ll take you there.”

Elena held up the bag of supplies. “I need to drop this off in the kitchen.”

“It’s on the way.” She rubbed Alvin’s head. “You’re such a good boy, aren’t you? I have a special bag of toys for you, and you can even get on my bed if you wipe your feet first.”

Elena grinned. “Alvin, don’t you start thinking you’re the king or anything.”

Portia’s eyes flew to Elena’s face. “Oh, am I spoiling him too much?”

Instinctively, Elena reached for the girl, touched her shoulder. “No, no. I’m terrible, Portia, seriously. He sleeps with me.”

“Oh, good.”

On the way through the kitchen, Elena dropped the bags of food, then followed Portia through the vast great room and up a set of stairs and over a walkway suspended over the hallway and great room. “Dad?” she called. “Elena’s here.”

At the end of the walkway was an open door where Julian appeared. His thick black curls were in disarray, as if he’d been pulling his fingers through them, and he wore a pair of wire-frame glasses that made her think of John Lennon. At the sudden, weirdly endearing sight of him, her heart gave a little jump. That nose—her weakness. Those curls.

He smiled, gestured her into his office. “Hi, Elena.”

She found herself smiling. “Hi, Julian. What have you been up to?”

“I’ll be in my room,” Portia said, and trotted back the way they came. Alvin pranced happily along beside her, his red and gold tail high and swishing.

Elena grinned. “She
really
loves dogs!”

“Yeah.” He seemed distracted, checking a piece of paper against another. “Have a seat. I’ll be done in two seconds.”

Elena looked around instead. The room was large, with cedar paneling on two sides, to give it that mountain feeling. A bank of dormers looked toward low black forest and mountains rising up blue behind on one side. French doors opened onto a balcony that presumably looked down on the courtyard. His desk was simple, heavy wood, his computer a sleek little laptop.

He typed some instructions into the computer and straightened. “You ready? I’ve been working on this all afternoon.”

“Absolutely. Go.” She sat in a chair by the desk and folded her hands.

“Oh, no,” he said, holding out a hand as the music started. “Don’t just sit there.”

“Do what, then?” The music poured into the room, Spanish guitar with a lilting and cheerful sound. She swayed happily. “This is great.”

“We can go downstairs. It’ll play through the house.” He came from behind the desk. “How are you feeling after the massage?”

“Much better.”

He took off his glasses as if to see her more clearly, and touched her shoulder. Elena noticed that he had not shaved today. Prickles of beard covered his chin, black and silver. Why was that endearing? She looked away.

“And you didn’t have any trouble over the tabloid crap?”

“Um, well, actually, yes.” She took a breath, letting him direct her toward the door. “Ivan saw it and he whipped up the kitchen pretty good.”

“Ah.” He paused on the walkway. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ve got it covered.” She moved suddenly and the height made her feel a little vertigo. “Wow,” she said, grabbing the railing. “This is cool, but it’s also pretty high, isn’t it?”

“You okay?” He took her arm.

He was so close and she felt the dizziness of being so high, and for one hot long second, what she really wanted was to press her hand to his chest. Touch his tumbling black curls, the fan of lines at the corners of his eyes. The sultry tone of the music didn’t help. He bent close, his hand on her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” she said, breathlessly.

He kept looking at her face, and lightly pushed a lock of her hair over her shoulder. Elena clung to the railing, feeling a sense of being suspended in the air, as Julian’s eyes touched her mouth, her throat. She greedily devoured details of his face, the way hair sprang away from his temple, the skin so delicate that she could see veins carrying blood to his brain and imagination. She admired the arch of his dark brow, and the moment was so strange and high and out of time and space that she didn’t even think to move away when he took a step closer, and then bent down, and—

Kissed her.

Her first awareness was a burst of scent, something spicy and dark, and she swayed under the force of it. His mouth was wide, his lips deliciously lush and slow as he angled his head to fit their noses. She clung to the railings on either side, letting him put his hands on her face. He lifted his head for a blue second, their eyes meeting in confusion and permission, before he bent again, those heavy lashes falling, his hands on her jaw making her feel tiny and beloved.

It was too much, the flavor of him. He tasted of blue water, a lazy lap of lips and tongue that made her breath catch and her back arch. Her breasts touched his chest.

It was such a vivid connection that the part of her brain that would have been screaming warnings was just awash in the green narcotic flood of him. And he, too, made a soft noise of surprise, taking a step closer to slide one arm around her waist. He supped of her lower lip, touched it with his thumb.

Suddenly she gathered herself and pulled back. He didn’t move away, but lifted his head. “Wow,” he said hoarsely.

“Yeah, but no.” She swallowed, forcing herself to take a step backward, an action that made her dizzy. He saw that and stepped toward her, but she held up a hand. “This would be just a terrible, terrible idea,” she said.

He frowned, quizzically. “It is.” He stepped backward. “I don’t know why I did that. I’m sorry.”

She couldn’t help looking again at his mouth, a sweetness like hay and morning moving through her blood. “I’m not mad. Let’s just not, okay?”

“Okay. You’re right. Let’s—uh—” He closed his mouth. “Let’s go downstairs.”

SEVENTEEN

I
SOBEL’S
R
ULES FOR
D
RINKING

1. Eat a
lot.
Then eat some more.

2. Pick one kind of alcohol and stick with it the whole night. No exceptions.

3. Every hour on the hour, drink a big glass of water.

4. Eat some more.

5. If you’re gonna do shots, never do more than one per hour.

6. When you get home, drink a big glass of water and take an aspirin.

EIGHTEEN

I
n his kitchen, Elena seemed smaller than she did at the restaurant. As he sat there, sipping a rubied merlot, watching her roll blue corn tortillas around a chicken-and-chile blend for tiny enchiladas, he could see she was no beauty. Her eyes showed signs of age, a little puffy with too much work, and she had little or no makeup on.

Around them swirled the moody music he’d chosen for the restaurant, a soundtrack as layered and rich and subtle as one of Elena’s stews or the little taquitos she made that seemed so ordinary until you bit into one and it exploded in your mouth with a dancing parade of surprises—nutmeg or saffron, or some exotic layer that one did not expect.

Into the music mix, he’d salted some Norah Jones because Elena liked her, and a little Ella Fitzgerald, that “Summertime” he loved so much, and some Alicia Keyes. The girls, a nod to the female artists in evidence at the restaurant, not only the chef, but the head bartender, and even the Frieda Kahlo thread to the decorating—Patrick’s doing, not his. Julian had also added some of the Lhasa de Sela the vegetarian restaurant had been playing the other night, with some horns and a Caribbean beat and songs in Spanish and French. There was more, some old Santana and things no one but Julian would have thought to include—a moody old cut from the Rolling Stones, and one from an old bluegrass gospel song, and a CCR song he loved. Like Elena’s spices, it seemed odd until you experienced it.

Elena worked without speaking, listening to the music, her head swinging, nodding. Sliding a tray of the tiny enchiladas into the oven, she wiped her counter. “This is very moody,” she said, finally. “The songs all have a feeling of yearning to them. Hunger.”

A splash of embarrassment filled his throat for a minute, and he could only stare at her, running back through the cuts in his mind. “I guess they do.”

“I don’t think it’s bad, necessarily—people won’t listen to it that closely, and it gives a pleasant mood—but you might want to lace in some other things, too. Some upbeat instrumentals, not too over the top, but some Segovia, maybe, some flamenco. Matt Skellenger?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“I have a CD. I’ll loan it to you. I played it the night you came to dinner at my house.”

Julian sipped his wine, smiled slightly. She leaned on the counter, wrists facing him so he could see the delicate skin there, the tracing of blood. He raised the glass. “Excellent suggestions,” he said. “I’m not sure I’ve ever agreed with anyone who criticized my soundtracks before.”

Her lips quirked. “Music got me in trouble today.”

“What’s going on?”

She settled on a stool, her arms crossed in front of her. “Ivan challenged me. It started with the photo, but it’s been coming for a while. After I got back from the masseuse, he was playing some rap that was just obnoxious, and it was deliberate.” She took a breath. “So I challenged him to a poker game.”

Julian frowned. “Poker?”

“It’s a man’s game, and that’s a very male kitchen. They all are, really, but because of the nature of the work pool in Aspen, I’ve got a lot of guys from places where women are not the boss.”

He started to express concern, but she seemed to recognize that, and held up a hand. “It’s not actually going to be poker. Ivan wanted a cooking contest, which is better anyway.” She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe. He’s one hell of a cook.”

“So are you.”

“I know,” she said without conceit. “It’ll be close.” The timer dinged, and Elena took the tray out of the oven, piled four or five small enchiladas onto a plate and smothered it with chile and cheese, and pushed it over to Julian, then made herself a plate, too. “Will your daughter eat?”

He rolled his eyes. “Not this. Maybe a lettuce leaf.” When Elena sat down across from him and dug into a truly enormous plate, he said, “You’re not eating all that, are you?”

“Oh, yes.” She grinned. “I’m preparing for battle.”

“Battle?”

“Yes. I have three things on my side with this kitchen.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “One, I speak fluent Spanish, so they can’t talk about my ass or my tits right in front of me, laughing at the fact that I don’t know that’s what they’re saying.

“Two, I really am a very good cook, with my own voice and style. And three…” She took a bite, and chewed. “…I can drink almost anyone under the table with tequila.”

She looked so small and pleased with herself that Julian laughed. “Now there’s an odd talent. There must be a story to it.”

“I was a teenager in a town where there wasn’t much to do. We drank. The boys all thought they were so much better than we were that my sister Isobel and I practiced, like a science experiment—what should we eat ahead of time, how fast could we drink shots, was there a better brand?”

“Ah—the scientific method. I assume,” he said, gesturing at the food, “that this is part of it.”

“Lots of food to start, and plenty as the evening goes by. Fat and fiber—so beans and tortillas and cheese are very good, but I’ve learned over the years to add a lot of protein, too, because it slows it all down, keeps lots of food in your stomach.”

“And the timing?”

“No more than a couple of shots per hour.”

“How do you get around that if there’s a round in between?”

“I drink water. Tons of it, and if necessary, I pretend to drink the shot, and then spit it out. Once people start getting drunk, they don’t really notice if you swallow. And there’s no difference between most brands, but some of the cheaper ones will make you feel like you died the next day.”

“You don’t anyway?” He shuddered at the idea of drinking shots of tequila all night long.

“Oh, it won’t be pleasant, particularly, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.” She dabbed her mouth, and put her hands on her thighs, elbows akimbo, as if giving herself a breather. There was a lot of food left on that plate.

He looked at her mouth. The mouth, pillowy soft and succulent, that he’d kissed.

“How are you getting home?”

“I’ll take a cab.”

Julian scowled. “Just call me.”

“Oh, no. I don’t think I need my boss to see me three sheets to the wind.”

Her boss. Boss. She kept calling him that. Putting him in his place. “I might like to see this contest. Who’s judging?”

“They’re bringing in people from the restaurant community. Chefs, servers, bartenders from other restaurants.” She picked up her fork, took another bite. “Sorry, but you can’t be there.”

“Oh, come on. I’ll be a mouse.”

“No, it has to be me by myself.” She gave him a serious look. “This is a key maneuver, Julian. I need to be the general in this kitchen, and I have to establish my authority on their terms. If you show up, I’m just another fuck.”

Her language startled him, and at the same time, he felt a deepening respect for her. The unwashed hair in a ponytail, the lack of makeup, the simple gray T-shirt that hid her breasts, the slightly baggy jeans that did nothing to enhance her curvy bottom—all of that was part of the game, too.

She was far brighter than he’d realized. But a woman didn’t rise through the ranks of high-end restaurant kitchens without a lot of guts and intelligence. Period.

Maybe
he’d
just been thinking of her as another fuck. Or something. A line of heat worked its way down from his ears to his jaw, prickling. “I get it.”

She picked up her fork. “Thanks.”

“Well, will you call me when you’re home, anyway? I’ll worry.”

Her luscious, crooked smile reached her eyes. “Yes, boss. That I can do.”

And for one long second, he saw her beneath him, both of them naked, her round white shoulder beneath his lips, his hands in her hair, a flash so hot and vivid that he had no idea where it was coming from.
Jesus.

He picked up his fork, dug with great attention into the food. “Thank you.”

Elena pushed into the restaurant at 7. Her hip and leg were starting to ache again, but she couldn’t afford to take anything for the pain. She made her rounds through the front of the house, checking to make sure it would look its best that evening, and she was once again pleased by the elegant sense of tropical joy Patrick had brought to the rooms.

Juan and his family sat at a table near the kitchen, and she stopped to say hello to them. His wife was a shy pretty girl, not much more than twenty-five, and she was quite pregnant with her third child. Their two boys, about two and four, ran trucks around their plates, taking bites of plain enchiladas every so often. Their parents conversed quietly. Spying Elena, Juan stood. “Please,
Jefa,
join us.”

She nodded at his wife.
“Hola,
Penny, how are you feeling?”

“Good.” They all spoke in Spanish. “The boys are learning their numbers. We might even have a new house!”

“Fantastic.”

“I told Penny we had to work tonight, so she brought the children to have supper with me.”

“I’m glad you’ll be here, Juan. Thank you.”

His gentle dark eyes rested on her face. “You need a day off. Soon.”

“You know better.”

“I can take care of things for a day or two. Me and Ivan.”

“I know you can, and I appreciate the offer. Once things are up and running, I’ll be happier.”

He nodded, raised one finger. “I asked my brother to send me something for you,” he said, and pulled a small bottle out of his pocket. It was a holy water bottle, with a carved plastic rose on the cap, and a picture on the front of Juan Diego and the Virgin of Guadalupe. “It’s water from the church in Mexico City. And a rosary. He had them blessed for you.”

Elena stared hard at the bottle and beads, trying to rein in her emotions. “That was very kind of you,” she said, and her voice betrayed her. A tear escaped into her lashes and she picked up the gifts. “Thank you.” She kissed his cheek.

He nodded. “Cook with the saints tonight, eh?”

Elena laughed, draping the rosary around her neck, where it fell, cool and reassuring, against her breasts. “I will.”

A half hour later, a small knot of employees had gathered, Ivan among them. He was dressed in surprisingly elegant street clothes, a silk and wool sweater in vivid turquoise, with a loop of black scarf around his neck. In his ears were silver rings. He looked like a well-to-do pirate. His jaw was freshly shaved, and he smelled faintly of some exotic aftershave.

“Hey,
Jefa,”
he drawled, eyes glittering beneath heavy lids as he looked behind her. “Where’s Patrick?”

No wonder he was all dressed up. “He’s still in Denver. Not sure when he’ll be here.”

A slight shrug. “Too bad.”

In the kitchen, a festive mood reigned. The radio played an oldies station, and bags of groceries sat on the stainless steel worktable. Juan stood guard over the bags, and behind him were the troops—two dishwashers, the three ski boys and three Mexicans who made up the line, and Alan, from the front of the house. Ivan ambled in right behind Elena. They retreated to the locker room to put on their chef’s whites and clogs.

“The rules of this competition are simple,” Juan said. “You will each make three dishes—an appetizer, an entrée, and a dessert. You need to make enough to serve twenty—all of us and the judges we have coming from other restaurants. We’ll vote and decide who is the winner.”

Ivan smiled, very slowly, and bowed toward Elena.

“Be ready to serve at eleven sharp, and you can use anything in the kitchen, but you also have to use these ingredients.” He smiled, Pancho Villa in his younger years, and gestured to the bags. “Boys, show them what they have to work with.”

“I’m ‘P’ for Peter, and I chose…” He paused for effect. “…pomegranates.”

Ivan laughed, low and happily. Elena nodded.

“Buckwheat honey,” said Brent.

“Huevos,”
said Hector, grinning at the double entendre, a slang word for testicles, as he put two dozen eggs on the table. The others laughed.

“Rose petals,” said Roberto, revealing a bouquet of fresh pink roses, just barely opening. The room roared with approval. He blushed deep red, looking pleased.

“Corn,” said Cody, smirking.

“My man,” Ivan crowed.