The Lost Recipe for Happiness (19 page)

TWENTY-FOUR

O
n Thursday morning, Julian was at his computer before the sun rose, putting the finishing touches on the treatment, a few sample pages of screenplay, and his vision for the piece. It was excellent work, some of the best he’d done in years, and that gave him a sense of mingled challenge, excitement, and fear. Challenge in the test to his skills and talents and knowledge; excitement that it had the potential to be the best work he’d done thus far; fear that Elena would find out and he’d lose her—if not to the restaurant, then to himself.

As dawn angled into the room, slanting in dusty gold through the pines outside the house, he punched the print command and stood up. Swinging open the balcony doors, he stepped outside and took a deep breath of thin, crisp mountain air and stretched his hands hard and high over his head. In a little while, he’d go for a run.

Tonight, his guests would assemble for dinner. Two couples had already arrived in Aspen, and the rest would come in this afternoon—it wasn’t a long flight from LA, after all. He’d asked Georgia to prepare several bedrooms, and she’d have a girl make sure everything was covered for this evening in terms of comfort. Someone, he supposed, to provide some of the hospitality details a wife might offer if he had one.

Not that he was particularly interested. His ex, the first wife and the third one, Ricki, would be coming, too. Their love affair had been, in a word, tempestuous, and they wouldn’t have married the second time had Ricki not been pregnant with Portia. Julian wanted full paternal rights, and he married Ricki to make sure that happened.

His second wife had been a starlet who dazzled him on the set of his first slasher picture, a beautiful girl who’d gone on to major stardom in television. The divorce had been splashed all over the tabloids, nasty and acrimonious, and in the end, even though she had been the one to leave the marriage, Julian had been forced to pay her a huge settlement, which, it turned out, she didn’t even need.

Water under the bridge. He’d been on his own for a while, then he made another movie with Ricki, who was as beautiful as ever. They were older, wiser, thought they might be able to make a go of it. This time, they dated for a year, and Ricki—who was charming and sparkling and devoted when things went her way—had grown up. She got pregnant, they got married, it fell apart in eighteen months.

But for Portia’s sake, they were adults. And in that sense, Julian thought they’d done a good job. They both put Portia first, and as a result, the girl had much better grounding than a lot of Hollywood kids; hell, a lot of American kids, period.

His fourth wife—well, they’d meant well, but it was a bad match.

Better to have a maid service and hire help to cook.

So why was he even bothering to worry about what Elena would think when she found out about the movie? It wasn’t like either one of them had any faith in the idea of soul mates. It was ridiculous that he was even worried about it—he had kissed her exactly once.

How scary was it that when he thought of a wife, he thought of a woman he’d only known a few months? Had he learned nothing?

Maybe not. But maybe he had. He couldn’t help feeling like there was something special here. Something real. Something that shifted the electrons in his body when she was around. She made him feel grounded and quiet and—happy.

With a scowl, he put his hands on his hips. He should tell her about the screenplay. Come clean before she found out some other way.

Tell her, man.

That night—Halloween night—was the tasting party with Julian’s cronies. At Julian’s house. Elena, Patrick, and Ivan had hammered out a menu and a plan, and at 1 p.m., they headed over to set things up.

Ivan whistled as they stepped out of the van. “Must be nice.”

Patrick gave the house a glance and dismissed it. “We’d better hurry.”

Ivan gave Elena a shake of the head, cocking his thumb toward Patrick. “Do you believe this guy?” He took a large pan of tamales out of the van. “Oh, I get it. You’re a prince yourself. Not like us working-class stiffs.”

The back of Patrick’s neck was red. “Leave him alone,” Elena said, carrying a load of linens brought from the restaurant.

“He knows I’m just giving him a hard time.” Ivan leaned over and made a kissing noise near Patrick’s neck, almost touching his cheek. “Don’t you, Prince Patrick?”

Stiffly, Patrick held the door, his mouth pursed. “It may have escaped your notice that this is your employer’s home, Ivan. Perhaps you should pay attention to your job.”

Ivan chuckled as he entered the house, the sound as dark as cinnamon. Winking at one of the women hired to help set up and serve, he said, “He’s hot for me.”

The woman, really not much more than a girl, softened visibly at the sight of the dandy Patrick, hair exquisitely clipped and frozen in a messy style that perfectly offset his fresh-scrubbed face. “Right down the hall,” she said, pointing. Julian was not on hand to greet them. Elena heard the sound of vacuuming upstairs.

Once they carried everything inside, she organized the tasks they had yet to do. Ivan took on the last of the cooking while she and Patrick set up the service and the tables. Patrick filled glass bowls with clear marbles dotted with just a few bright ones—turquoise, rose, lime—and put a brightly colored betta fish in each one. At intervals along the table were an eclectic collection of other containers—hammered tin and Oaxaca pottery and wooden vases, each one filled with marigolds and small pink carnations. More marigold heads were scattered loosely the length of the table, along with pink and white and yellow candy skulls. The candleholders were heavy colonial Spanish, each holding a white candle ready to be lit.

Elena admired it all happily, hands on her hips. “Wow, this is fantastic, Patrick!”

“Thank you.”

Julian leaned over the mezzanine. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, hey! I thought you must be entertaining.” Elena waved a hand toward the beautiful table. “Very well, as you see. Is the music ready?”

“It is. Anything else you need?”

“Would you like to come down and take a few nibbles of the food?”

“No, I trust you.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get showered and get ready. Guests will be arriving within an hour. If you need anything, ask Katya. She’s pretty familiar with it all.”

“Got it,” Elena said. As she returned to the kitchen, she felt stiff and—dismissed. Her temples burned as she realized that she had been creeping up on the possibility that there might be more between them than just the restaurant.

Better to know now. “Let’s get this party started,” she said. “What’s left, Rasputin?”

He flashed a sideways grin. “It’s gonna be a show,
Jefa,
trust me. We’re gonna knock them right on their asses.”

For the first time, Elena was grateful for his endless flirtations. It was impossible not to feel sexy and clever in his company. “Good man.”

Ivan’s gaze flickered toward Patrick. “You have no idea.” He winked, and Patrick bustled out of the room.

Elena put thumbs up. “Let’s dazzle them, shall we?”

By seven, the guests were mingling in the great room, their understated laughter and elegant natural fabrics filling the room with the unmistakable perfume of Money. The women were exquisite, the men middle-aged and older, some balding. Elena eyed them through the door warily, admiring the Jean Harlow fall of a peach silk halter over the narrow back of an actress who was beautiful on screen. In person, she was so luminous as to be practically unreal. Her husband, the producer, was a tidy man in his fifties, with gray temples and the granite-clean jaw of a brush shave. He wore a nubby jacket and a silk turtleneck and sipped scotch.

Over her shoulder, Ivan said, “They’re so rich they’re not even Republicans anymore.”

She chuckled. “They have their own
foundations.”

“The boss cleans up pretty well, huh?”

Patrick had paused in front of Julian with a tray of stuffed zucchini blossoms and chunks of mango on toothpicks. “Yes,” she said. Julian’s long and angular form was cloaked in a lord’s finery, his magnificent hair brushed back from the high brow, his beautiful hands gesturing. “Which one are you lusting after?” Elena asked. “Patrick or the boss?”

“Given my druthers, I’d go for the number over there by the windows.” Ivan crossed his arms easily, gesturing toward a vision in turquoise. “Excellent cleavage. Not as good as yours, but not bad.”

Elena rolled her eyes, but noticed that she didn’t mind taking top billing. Over Ricki Alsatian, Portia’s beautiful mother. Who might be aging in terms of Hollywood, but barely seemed mortal as she stood in the middle of the party. Her eyes were enormous, the irises twice the usual size, and her skin seemed to leak light. Transcendental. “That’s Julian’s ex. They were married twice.”

“You can see why.”

A sharp green tongue of envy lapped at Elena’s belly. She gave a curt nod. “It’s time to start serving,” she said as Patrick gestured toward the table.

“That’s a gorgeous table,” Ivan said, his bear voice growling. “Your Patrick is a very talented guy.”

“Tell him,” Elena said, turning toward the stove. She hauled a large steamer from the burner and put it on the counter. Steam billowed out as she took off the lid. Using tongs to gently remove the tamales within, she said, “Start splitting them.” When Patrick bustled in, she asked, “Do you want Rasputin to help you serve?”

“Yes, please. We’ll carry out the trays and set them down in intervals of three. If you will tell them about the tamales, I’ll serve the wine.”

“Ivan can describe the tamales,” Elena said. “They’re mostly his invention.”

Across the counter, Ivan paused, eyes narrowing. “It’s your kitchen,
Jefa.”

She glanced up from plating the tamales, alternating them by color—they’d dyed corn husks with green, blue, and red food coloring. Ivan wore his chef’s whites, with a bandana tied over his head and silver hoops in his lobes. For this occasion, he was cleanly shaved except the small goatee that surrounded the overly sensual mouth. The women would love him, his voice, his sultry eyes and slow smiles. “They’ll love you, Rasputin. Just do what you do.”

“They’ll want the chef,” Patrick said. “They’ll want you.”

Ivan made a sweeping gesture, palm up, toward the door. “Showtime, sweetheart.”

Elena felt faintly sick, looking from one to the other. A whirl of images tumbled through her mind, Dmitri and culinary school, the first day in Paris and how intimidated she’d been. There was Maria and Marie and Mia, her knives, and the years and years of nights in kitchens, calling out, learning, plating and creating and working. Always working so hard. She thought of Julian sitting out there, believing in her. She took off her apron, smoothed her smock. “How do I look?”

Ivan brushed back a lock of her hair.

Patrick said, “Lipstick.”

Elena couldn’t remember where her purse was. Patrick spied it, rushed over and grabbed it. She pulled out the lipstick and applied the translucent berry color carefully, using the end of the tube as a tiny mirror. Blotting her lips together, she looked from one to the other. “Better?”

Ivan dropped heavy lids. “Succulent,” he pronounced, licking his own lips.

“Go,
ma chérie,”
Patrick said. “Remember, you are a queen. This is your first audience.”

She took a breath and headed into the great room, a tumble of images rushing through her mind—hot chocolate at Angelina’s; the late, hard nights in Santa Fe trying to prove she wasn’t some gangland girl from Espanola, but genuinely
about
something; the heady rush of seeing the skyline of New York City through the windows of an airplane the first time, a thousand images of plates she’d created, menus she’d helped write, all leading—

Right here. Right now.

“Hello, everyone,” she said, tangling her fingers together behind her back. She felt small and bosomy in the high-ceilinged room, a robin amidst the pink and leggy pelicans. “My name is Elena Alvarez, and I am the executive chef of the Orange Bear, which is the brilliant Julian Liswood’s latest restaurant innovation—” She gestured toward Julian, at the head of the table.